The Man Who Weaves Stories in Wire

The street was settling into evening. Cycle bells rang out in short bursts. The air carried the smell of kebabs and dust. Vendors called out to passersby, voices slowing as the day stretched on. I noticed him near the road, seated on a small mat, hands already at work. Around him lay coils of coloured wire, a pair of pliers, and the early shapes of small objects taking form.

I stopped without planning to. I watched his fingers move. The wire bent slowly, deliberately. Each loop appeared careful, considered. The street moved around him, yet he remained absorbed in a rhythm shaped by his hands alone.

His name is Abdul Majeed. For decades, this stretch of road has been his place. Cycles, motorcycles, small toys emerge here through wire and patience. Ordinary forms shaped again and again by hands that know them intimately.

“I have been sitting here since 1994. Every day. Same spot.”

His voice was calm. The pride sat quietly within the words.

When I asked how he chooses what to make, he smiled softly.

“I make what I see. The eyes take it in. The hands remember. People like it. Sometimes there is money. Sometimes there is none. I still make. Sitting idle makes me unwell.”

He learned this craft long ago from his younger cousin.

“We went different ways,” he said. “I miss him. When I make something, I think of him.”

He is seventy six now. His hands move more slowly.

“I make only a few cycles in a day now.”

There was a slight tremor in his fingers as he bent the wire. The movement never stopped.

“These wires are part of me. Sitting without work leaves me empty.”

For almost thirty years, this corner has shaped his days. He arrives around four in the afternoon. He stays until the market quiets. Sometimes until nine. Sometimes later. The vendors call him chahcha. A word carried with familiarity and care. Visitors still pause and ask if he is new.

He laughs then, eyes folding into soft lines.

“New? I have grown old here.”

He showed me his work. Small worlds made of wire. Motorcycles with attitude. Cycles that seem to remember narrow lanes. Baskets. Toys. Everyday life translated into fragile curves and twists.

I left the street carrying that rhythm with me. His hands. His patience. The quiet steadiness of making. For Majeed Sahab, craft moves with breath.

“The eyes see. The hands remember. Slowly, it takes shape. People smile. People praise. Praise does not feed the body. I still make. Sitting still makes me fade. This work keeps me alive.”

Find Majeed Sahab's craft on The Buraansh Finds.