The Man Who Weaves Stories in Wire

The evening street had its usual rhythm — the clang of cycle bells, the smell of kebabs, vendors calling their last bargains. I noticed him there, by the road on his selling mat, hands busy. Around him, loops of colorful wire, a pair of pliers, and the beginnings of little worlds.

I stopped a moment, just to watch. His fingers bent and twisted the wire slowly, carefully, as if each loop held a memory. The market buzzed around him, but he seemed wrapped in a quiet rhythm of his own making.

He is Abdul Majeed , and for decades, this street has been his corner of the world. Cycles, motorcycles, little toys — all born from wire and patience, ordinary objects made alive by hands that have known them for years.

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

His voice was soft, steady, carrying pride without needing to announce it.

When I asked how he decides what to make, he smiled faintly:

“I copy what I see. Whatever comes to the eyes, the hands remember. People like it. Sometimes there is money, sometimes not. Still, I keep making. If I sit idle, I feel sick.”

He learned the craft from his younger cousin long ago.

“We drifted apart… I miss him. Every time I make something, I remember him.”

At seventy-six, his hands have slowed.

“I can only make a couple of cycles a day now,” he said. His fingers trembled as they bent the wire, but they never stopped.

“These wires… they are part of me. If I sit doing nothing, I feel empty.”

For almost thirty years, this corner has been his life. Every day he comes around four in the afternoon, works until the market quiets, sometimes nine, sometimes later. The street vendors know him as chahcha — uncle. A word of warmth and respect. Yet strangers still ask:

“Are you new here?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling.

“New? I’ve grown old here.”

He showed me his pieces. They were tiny memories made of wire: motorcycles full of swagger, cycles whispering of narrow lanes, baskets, toys. It’s life, in fragile loops and twists, ordinary yet full of stories.

I left that street carrying a little of that quiet rhythm with me. Majeed Sahab’s hands, his patience, the steady pride in the small worlds he makes. Craft for him is breath.

“The eyes see, the hands remember. Slowly, it takes form. People smile, they praise, but that does not fill the stomach. Still, I keep making. If I sit still, I’ll wither. This craft… it is my breath. Without it, I fall ill.”

Find Majeed Sahab's craft on The Buraansh Finds.