The Waterman

His work earns him blessings,but hardly any money. For years,ever since he was a 12-year-old boy,Ahmed has been a Bhishti,living away from his family in a dargah on the steps of the mosque. Faith sustained him. It still does,he says. He has spent 30 years in this complex,with its red and green tombs,getting up at the crack of dawn,filling water in his goat hide sacks from a well in the dargah,and returning in the evenings to sleep in the corridors of the shrine.

Ahmed,42,lives in the dargah complex with his three brothers and his nephew Rashid,who took on the water carriers role recently. Rashid,16,dropped out of school and got into wrong company,Ahmed says. So they got him here and now the young boy,with a clear disdain for this work,often challenges his uncles. But when Ahmed threatens to box his ears,the boy retreats. He brought it upon himself. Had he continued in school,he would not have ended up here, Ahmed says.

Ahmed hadnt known any better when he was a young boy. Growing up in Gajraula,in Moradabad district of UP,he didnt go to school because his father had told him he was a Bhishti and would do what all Bhishtis did.

So when he was 12,Ahmed came to Jama Masjid,bought a goat hide from Ghaziabad and was ready to begin a lifelong vocation. I pray to the saints for health and vigour. Lets see for how long I can do this, he says.

He earns around Rs 100 on a regular day. Sometimes,his earnings double. He sends almost all the money home to his wife and four children. His wife Zareen Khatoons family gave up carrying water long ago. Now,they work on farms for little money. 

In the mornings,after he has delivered water to the few hotels and chai kiosks in the mosque complex,he sits on a little bench outside the dargah sipping tea. The days breakfast is two matthis and a cup of sugary,milky tea with cardamom. That done,he carries the water from the well to the steps of the mosque. A glass costs Re 1 now. When he had started,he got 10 paise.

After the evening prayers,the crowd begins to thin. Yet,he paces up and down. Around 9 p.m.,he walks into the dargah,hangs the hide sack on the wall,goes out again to eat dinner at one of the little shops selling kebabs.

When the bottled water arrived on the scene and the MCDs water tankers rolled in,the Bhishtis started to lose work. A few like Ahmed survived. The Bhishtis,says Ahmed,were much in demand during the Mughal reign,supplying water to soldiers.

I am the last man to do this. Times have changed. Our role is no longer what it used to be. My sons have their dreams. They talk about running big businesses. Why should I cut their dreams short, he says. My wife doesnt want our children to take this up. I understand, he says,crouching next to the dargah well.

In the olden days,Bhishtis supplied water to other households in exchange for grain,says Ahmed. Bhishti,derived from the Persian word Bhisht,means paradise. They got the title because their vocation was considered pious,says Ahmed,offering water to a couple from Andhra Pradesh who have come to pay obeisance to the saints of the dargah.

On Fridays,Ahmed doesnt ask for money till the evening prayers are over. His wages,he says,are the blessings that people leave him with. Blessings are never enough. Jitni milein,thodi hain, he says,his face breaking into fine wrinkles as he smiles.

His forefathers came to the city long ago,when the mosque built by Shah Jahan was still new. In those days and even later,before the municipal water supply reached the now crumbling havelis and cramped quarters of the old city,the Bhishtis supplied water to the households as they did in every city Kolkata,Mumbai and Ahmedabad.

Sweat runs down Ahmeds back as he pulls out bucket after bucket of water from the well. He has lost count of the refills. He staggers out with 20 litres of water slung on his back.

Outside the twin dargah of Sarmad Shahid and Hare Bhare Shah,Ahmeds elder brother Jameel sits,a frail man lost in thought. There is not enough work for five Bhishtis,he says. But the promise they made to their father bound them. The brothers take turns to go to the village during the harvest season,when they work as farm hands. That brings in some extra money.

On lonely nights,Ahmed says he has conversations with God. There is no television,no radio. From a kiosk outside selling CDs of qawwalis,music flows into the compound.

My conversations are about everything, he says. We are Allahs people.