In the narrow and busy lanes of the famous Chitrali Bazaar of Peshawar, the beats of a tuneless Tabla echo from a small shop.
At this moment, some of the traders are dropping their shops’ shutters for a break to offer Jummah prayers. Others are already returning from those mosques where prayers are offered early.
Rahim Mujtaba Ustad, a 45-year-old man clad in a shabby sweater is quickly rubbing a black mixture of iron powder on the puri – the head of a Tabla, which is made of animal skin. He checks the sound of the instrument with a stroke of his finger and then adds some more from the mixture. He has to have the instrument ready for a costumer who intends to collect it soon after the Friday prayer break.
His shop is strewn with scores of broken and new pairs of Tablas. A number of Rababs (stringed instruments) can also be seen in his 8-by-8-feet shop. It is a small but busy place in the Mohalla Shah Burhan part of the bazaar. For music enthusiasts and professional Tabla players, this little shop is one of the very few places in the city where their beloved instruments can be repaired and tuned by professional hands – like those of Rahim Ustad.
Rahim Ustad hails from one among the last families of Peshawar who have been carrying out the job of repairing Tablas. It is a job that is regarded as a “sin” in the community. His younger brother Mohammad Ali runs a separate shop next to Rahim’s shop - but he has left for the prayer break.
Once upon a time, they attracted a clientele from far beyond Peshawar, or even Pakistan.
The younger brother, Mohammad Ali, has his own shop. Together, they provide essential services to musicians from a large geographical region
“People are scared of Peshawar,” he replies when asked about foreigners’ visits to his shop in search of a proper Rabab or Tabla. “They used to visit often - but before 2001,” he says, referring to the religious fundamentalist militancy that torn the region apart, particularly the city of Peshawar. “We have seen dead bodies here and have rescued people in bomb blasts. The lawlessness scared the foreigners. They are yet to return.”
He is a master craftsman, but times are hard.
Despite being a noted professional when it comes to handling musical instruments in the city, Rahim hardly makes a few hundred rupees a day - and sometime he returns home empty-handed. Tabla and Rabab last long and don’t need frequent repairs. So our customers are few and very specific. They may come here all the way from Afghanistan and far-flung districts of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa, just to repair their instruments.”
But a lack of money is not something that bothers Rahim and his brother Mohammad Ali! What they find heartbreaking is the attitude of people who think so little of them and their profession.
“I wish I could do something else, other than this job - but I have no skills other than this,” says Rahim. “People say that the sound of the Tabla is haram!”
In a society that has taken a turn for increased conservatism, even his immediate family can be harsh critics. “The children of a Tabla player decry him for the awards he won as a musician.” he points out
“We are brave-hearts – that is how we are surviving here in the Bazaar,” he laughs, adding that people sometimes condemn them and their work when they start tuning a Tabla in the market and its sound echoes with their finger strokes.
“It would be better if I had learnt sewing a jacket or waistcoat” he complains – referring to the main business of the Chitrali Bazaar, which is famous for manufacture and sale of the iconic Pakol cap (aka Chitrali cap) and waistcoats. “I could have earned a dignified living,” he says, adding that he has kept his children away from the occupation of his forefathers because of the stigma associated with the job.
“My family are the last professionals left in the business and we persist just because we have no education to get a job and no other skills to switch from it.”
Already, one can no longer find professionals to work on Harmoniums and Sitars in Peshawar. Rahim and his brother can only hold out for so long. Some day the city will lose its professional Tabla-makers.
“Then musicians will have to take their instruments to Lahore for repairs like they do for their Harmoniums,” he says.
Rahim’s brother Mohammad Ali has kept drums in his shop for potential buyers along with Tabla, Rabab and Daff (tambourines). Drums are regarded as “dignified” compared to the Tabla, which is why young people prefer to learn to play drums rather than trying to learn Tabla.
With the improvement in the law and order situation, these professionals have been able to resume business activities, compared to years gone by – when Peshawar was being hit hard by terrorist groups. But their customers have not increased and Rahim is clear on why that is: there appear to be some specific stigmas associated with the Tabla.
“We keep Rabab and drums in our shops to attract customers - although we don’t actually make them. For that, they have separate professionals,” he explains. In fact, the Rabab sells more. It appeals to a younger clientele and has less stigma attached to it. “We are limited to replace the puri (head) for professional Tabla players – very few of whom are left anyway!”
When asked if the government can do anything to help, he says that the Culture department of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa province should provide a separate space for professional makers of musical instruments, where their customers could easily visit them. “Ideally, it needs to have facilities to park cars and motorcycles. But above all, we need a place where we need not hide from the eyes of disapproving people!”
