September 4, 2003

Parallel rows of cramped shops line a cobbled grey alley that angles haphazardly. Corrugated tin roofs crowd together overhead, the Levi-blue Karachi sky is glimpsed only in patches. Sunlight barely reaches the ground in Metal Market. An errant ray maybe glances off a row of iron hooks, looking like curled snakes bronzing themselves in the summer heat.

Inside the tiny metal-shops, it seems that the atomic substance of the world is grey — grey highlights in a puddle of water filming across the hard grey cement of the floor.

Workers ply their trade, handling shards of grey unformed metal with raw-knuckled fingers, lacquered oyster at the tips. Cramped stores piled high with dull steel and curved iron, waiting to be baked in a furnace that grumbles hungrily.

Rows of spikes and handles arranged on the floor, grey light dancing across them as a welder showers the room in sparks, his face hidden behind a protective plate like an iron burkah. Tissue schists of smoke quiver one atop the other, stacked like ghostly crockery. All movement smudges in this unfixed light.

Deeper in Eidgah’s thin artery, the metal-shops become interspersed with open-storefronts displaying woodwork. The lane opens up a bit giving one room to breathe.

The sun colours the intricate wooden handles in pale oranges, echoing the deep ochre inside, emitted by a small bulb that pendulums slowly overhead. Sawdust drizzles lightly on the skin. Chips of wood are rummaged through, in search for the piece that fits just right. A meticulous care paid to craftsmanship.

Further on, the lane diverts in places; forks in the road that lead to dye-shops, houses, and a madrassah. Children dressed in white and green file past, pause to stare wide-eyed at anyone who looks like they don’t belong. They then giggle and shuffle on.

The houses are all painted in bright shades of blue, standing in stark relief to their surroundings. One of the residents just got married and the newly painted walls are an expression of joy.

One wooden gate, worn through around the edges, stands open, revealing a dye-shop: large open-air courtyard with an abundance of light. Buckets full of neon colours and the hiss of metal being treated in diluted acid like an auditory edging of lace.

On the walls are fraying posters of Osama Bin Laden, looking almost Christ-like with a blond beard and flowing pristine white robes. Saintly demeanour ruined by the AK-47 slung over one shoulder.

The only graffiti in Eidgah seems to be religion-inspired; the MMA’s politics and iconography is tattooed on nearly every available space. Here too then, like everywhere else in Karachi, religion, politics, and commerce all share the same awkward space.

The ambient cacophony of traffic is barely audible this far in, replaced by the sharp clap of metal meeting metal. Absurdly, a donkey brays in the distance somewhere. Children chat casually as they move to and fro, but few adults can hardly be heard talking. Work seems to be their only concern.

Metal needs to be treated and shaped, wood cut and polished, and colours chosen and perfected. It stands in sharp contrast to the chaos of bustling traffic and carbon-monoxide hangovers that exist just a few hundred metres away. In a city driven by commerce, work needs to be done. The Metal Market breathes in iron-filings and sawdust, and focuses on its craft.

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