‘It has always been chooriyan. That is all that I can remember...’

Name: Salma Mumtaz

Age: 50 years old

Place of Residence: Hyderabad

Occupation: Glass bangle worker, Activist (Home-based working women union)

‘Chooriyan (bangles), were the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. It is also the only thing I remember from my childhood’, Salma tells me as a matter of fact. ‘Bhayee’, she further reiterates and emphasizes to ensure that it was indeed this one thing that her life has revolved around.

Salma was seated along with some other women who were a part of the ‘home-based working women union’. They were present at the aurat march (women’s march) in Karachi, which has received widespread fame and recognition for reigniting the feminist movement that had been greatly suffering at the hands of dictators and Ulemas turned politicians. Since its inception in 2018, aurat march has brought together different fractions of people - demanding the state for policies that will help them achieve gender equality. But the movement has propelled forward not just because of the people that carry it on their backs, but by news channels that aim their cameras at it and by people on the other side of the screen; comfortably seated at their dining tables, secretly cursing under their breath.

‘Why would the maaldaar (rich) have the time to spare for this march? They have so much to eat that they can probably even die from over eating and we, we will die from hunger’ says Salma moving her right hand over her stomach to signify the ‘big belly’ the rich people have. At 3 pm in the Karachi heat, on the wide barren ground opposite to the Quaid’s tomb, people move around with sunglasses and faces worth of a day’s labor but Salma looks least bothered. Her eyes are wide open, unaffected by the piercing sunlight, and her voice a little blunt which is toned down by the chaaliyan she has been chewing. That must have been a snack on their way to the march. It has been a long journey.

Salma belongs to a family of bangle workers that migrated to a small town, Gujrati Para, Hyderabad after the partition of the subcontinent in 1947.Everyone in her family has always been making bangles for as long as she could remember. The craft of bangle making was passed down through generations not as an ornamental keepsake or a symbol of culture but rather as the sickle that hurts at first but then eventually feeds them. Her parents and grandparents worked in the home-based bangle factories and so are her children, and their children now. She however got to work as a maid in her twenties around the town where she went by cleaning people’s homes. She then also worked in an acid factory. That must have been a pleasant change in scenery I supposed, and she acknowledged it with a disappointed remark ‘But then I had to come back to the chooriyan after my kids grew up, telling me to stay at home’.

‘Even though we are home-based workers and people might assume it may not be that difficult, we only get to have 8-9 hours of sleep every day. The rest of the day we are just surrounded by glass. And heat’

‘Isn’t the process a little dangerous?’

‘Bhayee we get cuts from the glass on our hands, on our foot but we just continue anyways’ adds Salma’s daughter in law who had been sitting beside her all this time. She has a very polished Urdu accent which makes it easier to understand her. She introduces herself to me and then looks at the small 4/5 month old baby wrapped in her arms. This is her son she tells me. I look at the baby who appears like a pea in a yellow colored pea pod, unable to visualize his face I smile and notice how his mother is sheltering him from the harsh sunlight and heat. For how long will he have this shelter though, I seem to be asking myself. All children in families of bangle workers begin to start working at the age of 7/8 and continue to do so for the rest of their lives. ‘The more mouths that have to be fed, the more money we need’ Salma says in a low tone and then begins to look around her. She fixes her dupatta over her head and continues to glare at the people present at the march. I notice how she has started to lose interest in the conversation and seems to be free of all the worries. Maybe she likes the fact that she isn’t working today or maybe she is calculating the loss they will have to bear for the day. In both ways, I begin to realize that I have lost Salma to her thoughts.

‘Inka sachi main koi nahi hai’ (she really doesn’t have anyone) Salma’s daughter in law jumps in at this instance of silence we all could feel in the air. Salma was the only daughter to her parents - who passed away when she was very young. So, she did not have her parents, any siblings or cousins and not even a legal identity. This was because of the lack of evidence of her family history that she couldn’t even be issued a national identity card barring her from the already scarce and limited benefits of a Pakistani national. She brought up her two kids, one daughter and one son, all by herself working day and night.

‘What about her spouse?’

‘Mar gaye’ (he died) said Salma in a stern voice returning all her attention at once to the conversation. All the women sitting around her burst into laughter, covering their mouths with the end of their dupattas. Saying that your husband is dead without feeling the need to move your eyes towards the ground and clicking your tongue as if to portray your sadness was an unconventional act. Salma didn’t feel the need to be sad as she merely stated a fact. She didn’t have the time to be sad. People who struggle to simply survive in a state are not obliged by cultural niceties. She then joined all the women as they continued giggling at the very distinct use of the Urdu phrase and looked around at everyone to say ‘Yes so if he is dead then he is dead, what else should I be saying?’ The other women nodded in agreement and continued looking towards her in admiration. She was not the oldest in the group of the home-based working women that were present at the aurat march but was definitely the most outspoken and spot-on. She also stood in front of the big poster that the union workers carried while shouting the slogan ‘Azaadi, Azaadi’ (freedom, freedom) and ‘Ujrat, Tahafuz aur Sakoon’ (minimum wage, protection and peace). She shouted along, throwing her fisted hand in the air and walking briskly on the ground.

As this group of women passed by two female police officers that were stationed at the march due to the security threat that it faces every year, one of them said to the other, ‘Why do these auntiyan (old women) want freedom for? What good will it do them?’ They probably didn’t realize that they were quite audible but even if they did, they didn’t seem to care much. Having to do extra work on a hot Karachi day was enough of a hassle. And now there were these women asking for something that they might never get.

What Salma and the other women from Hyderabad wanted were minimum wages, not just for them but for all the home-based workers. Most of them hailed from Hyderabad which harbors the third largest home based industry of bangle making, while simultaneously sheltering poverty, cruel working conditions and gender wage gaps among the already meager wages. The warm and dry climate of the city makes it ideal for the production of these chooriyan, which form an essential part of the culture of this region. But while this common ‘glorification’ appraises both the geography of the country and the people who are involved in this intricate process of art – it cannot be used as a leeway for exploitation of women. On a daily basis, these women swift and sort through shreds of glass, which is then melted in big furnaces and lined onto metal pipes of different sizes in a spring like manner. After these have been cut and sorted, women working in their homes use fire to melt and close the bangles, forming a complete circle. They then go onto coloring and designing the bangles as per their contract with the vendors. The process is not only tedious but also dangerous. Many women like Salma who have spent their lives working with fire begin to lose sensation in their finger tips and their finger prints as well sometimes. What they get in return is 375 rupees for 10 torai (2100 pieces).

‘My back hurts, my hand hurts, but what is there that we can do?’

‘Have you witnessed any tabdeeli (change) in the previous years? Has anyone taken your demands into consideration?’

‘It is only us who have changed. No one else wants to change. In this age as a woman I realized the importance of coming out of my house to protest for my rights and my rightfully deserved pay. And the other thing that has changed for us is the number of meals we can afford. Previously it was three. Now it is two’. Salma went on with a consistency that she didn’t even felt the need to catch her breath. ‘Tabdeeli? (Change) is that what Imran Khan says, doesn’t he? Yes we can’t even afford lentils now, let alone meat. If I could, I would strangle him with my own hands’.

Noticing the frustration on Salma’s face and for a change of subject I ask her if there is a happy moment she can recall from her life. To my surprise she says, ‘It has always been chooriyan. That is all that I can remember. Khushi main, gham main (in happiness and in sadness) we have always made chooriyan’. It’s almost as if Salma hasn’t seen a life outside of this one circular ring and can’t see anything beyond this. She still however comes to the march every year and understands the need of having to do at least something for everyone. If not a change in policies, then maybe just venting out. Or the trip to Karachi. Anything that would break the routine. Anything other than chooriyan.

‘I want everyone to benefit from this. I want everyone to earn what they deserve. But if not me, than not anyone else either’ Salma concludes with honesty.

I look around and see many women adorned in traditional jewelry, with a lot of them wearing bangles, made of both steel and glass. I return my gaze towards Salma’s hands and see nothing. None of the women here were wearing chooriyan. Maybe they didn’t want to. It has been tied to their fate, they didn’t want them to be tied to their hands as well.