Asadullah shades his eyes from the sun as he steps out of the Kishmish khana (place where they dry the raisins) in Kandahar, Afghanistan. It has been 40 days since the kishmish (raisins) have been hanging on ropes inside, drying to perfection. “The green buds look good,” he tells his son, Sami, “get the people to start packing them up.” Then he leaves to speak to his friend who works for a transport company in Quetta, Pakistan, to get the truck ready for loading in a few days. As he walks away from the khana, he can’t help turning to look back at it. Praying softly, he hopes that this year’s journey through Khuzdar and Mastung will be without any catastrophic events, without bandits taking away his and at least 15 other people’s only means of income.

It is late at night when he drives up to his house. As he walks in, he tells his son to get ready to travel to Quetta with the dry fruit. He explains the process in painstaking detail, telling him that half his goods will be sold to Aslam Ali, a dry fruit dealer who will receive him there. The rest will be taken and kept in their godown in Quetta for a week. “There about 20 to 25 boys will clean the green buds and other fruit, separating the bad from the good and removing any dirt; you should take part in this,” he instructs Sami.

Then another wagon will take him to Karachi where Laeeq Farhan, another dry fruit dealer, will receive him. Laeeq will transport most of the consignment to Karachi’s famous Jodia Bazaar, while Sami will keep some of it with him to sell during the next month or so from a thela (pushcart). Sami is most thankful for the reprieve from the bitter winter they are experiencing but apprehensive about his inexperience and afraid of letting his father down.

This is Nov 28. The journey goes smoothly till the final destination. Yet, many perils still lie ahead for Sami and his fellow thela vendors.

Almost two months later, late at night on Jan 15 Sami turns over on his dari (sleeping mat) and comes face to face with Jannan who is wide awake and gingerly rubbing around a deep cut on his left temple. “Are you still in pain?” he worriedly asks his friend who suffers from regular bouts of epileptic fits. Jannan nods. Both are silent.

The dull throbbing pain in his forehead reminds Jannan of what happened earlier in the night — the big dark blue car with the drunk, rowdy boys; the car swerving crazily and then the thela flying at him and the feeling of consciousness slipping away. Lying there on the sidewalk as the car screeched away, he thinks about what would happen to his goods if he doesn’t shake off the pain and get up to salvage what he can. Now feeling overwhelmed, he closes his eyes and slowly falls asleep.

With the sound of the Azaan, Sami, Jannan and their two other roommates wake up for the morning prayer. The mosque is a central part of their lives, since there is no water or bathroom where they live. After breakfast they leave Neelum Colony with so many others like themselves who occupy quarters in the same area with rickety half-empty thelas that trudge through the streets of Karachi. Some will make do till the thelas are empty while others get on the bus to go to Jodia Bazaar to get more supplies. By now this ritual has become a routine.

Sales have decreased though not as drastically as they had feared. At the bazaar, Laeeq tells Jannan that their sale has gone down from 50 crates of raisins to 20 a day now. He calculates the debt he owes to the sellers in his head. Unlike Sami, they buy all their stuff on credit. They don’t have the money to buy upfront, and calculating the interest on the credit is important.

By mid-afternoon Jannan is busy roasting his peanuts in sand. Sales have been good even though it is early in the day. He doesn’t bother to wonder why. By 8pm he is beginning to feel exhausted and his temples throb painfully. His spot in Khadda Market, Karachi, is right opposite a big shop that sells fruit along with dry fruit. There is a steady stream of customers there.

On another corner on Khayaban-i-Hafiz, Naeem Khan is furiously telling his younger cousin about the DHA wallah (the DHA vigilant committee people) who came earlier, threatening to take his thela away. His conversation is heavily punctuated with colourful invectives. A customer stepping out of a white Prado smiles and looks away. He asks for the Parachinar peanuts, khasta maghaz and a large amount of chilghozas (pine nuts). When Naeem is done, his bill is Rs3,200. “It’s too much,” the customer says vehemently, “I will give you Rs2,500.” Naeem’s face turns red. “Saen, you know and everyone knows how little the profit margin on dry fruit is, please have a heart.” They fight some more and finally settle on Rs3,100. “Really,” says Naeem, “I have 13 hungry mouths back home in Loralai; people make a tandoor of my brain.” Clearly it has been a bad day.

That night Jannan, Sami and Naeem are talking before retiring. Sami tells them that when he was wheeling his cart away from the area near Ghosia Market, Gizri, he saw another seller begging the police walas to not take his thela away. Yelling at him, for ‘breaking the law’, the policemen pried the cart from his hand and loaded it onto their van. “The Peshawari will not see any of his things again,” added Sami, “at least the DHA and Cantonment Board officers return our things.” He thinks about the words of his father, Asadullah, back home and the responsibility he was given — hoping that the police do not confront him next. One cart has goods worth Rs100,000. What would his father say?

Jannan has a restless night. He has only his wife and three children to feed but his children go to school and he wants his earnings to last at least five to six months. Naeem can only make it to two months. Both Naeem and Jannan are farmers back home. While Naeem picks apples, Jannan’s work revolves around dry fruit farming in Killi, Balochistan. Back in their quarters that night, Naeem ties the sack of mixed dry fruit tightly; what he saves he will take home to make his wife happy, while Sami takes a fistful of raisins to eat while lying down.

With the familiar smell of peanuts lingering in the still winter night, Jannan lies down on his dari and wraps himself in his blanket, wishing that the Karachi winter could last longer this year, as the meteorologists have predicted. Then he will not have to go home next month, he thinks, feeling forlorn about the dwindling cold and the annual trip drawing to a close — when the dry fruit market dries up as the temperature goes up. Every year it is like this, he thinks guiltily, every year I feel, “Thank God I am not home right now.”