Vanishing Hands: Chronicling the dying crafts
With the story of Meena Bazar’s last mashaq wala, this series on Delhi’s vanishing trades concludes. From deed writers to embroiderers and water carriers, each fading profession reminds us that a city’s true history lies not only in its monuments, but in the quiet persistence of ordinary people who keep its daily life flowing.
At the entrance of the Hara Bahre Sahab Dargah, just beyond the bustle of Meena Bazar Gate No. 2, an old stone well stands quietly, weathered but unyielding. Its circular rim, darkened with age and rope-burn, holds memories of a city that once depended not on taps or tankers, but on men who carried water in stitched leather bags — the mashaq — across Delhi’s lanes, gardens, and shrines.
One of the last to continue this forgotten tradition is 35-year-old Mohammad Laique from Bijrola in Uttar Pradesh’s Amroha district. With practiced ease, he leans over the pulley, gripping the thick rope with calloused hands. As the bucket descends into the cool depths, the splash of water echoes upward. He hauls it back steadily, the crank creaking, water spilling over the rim, soaking his shirt and feet.
Carefully, he tips the bucket into a goatskin bag, the mashaq stitched by hand. This is the signature tool of his trade, once ubiquitous in Mughal Delhi, now nearly extinct. These traditional water carriers, known as “Bhishtis” or “Saqqe”, played a vital role in public life, especially during religious gatherings like the Friday prayers at Jama Masjid.
Once filled, Laique scoops water with a brass katora — a bowl passed down through generations — and offers it to pilgrims pausing at the dargah or heading to the mosque nearby.
A man drinks deeply, exhales in relief and silently returns the bowl. No money changes hands. Yeh to riwayat hai..(This is riwayat),” Laique, who has been serving water for the past 20 years now, says with quiet pride. “My elders did this — my father, my uncle who are now 70, are still doing it. So I do it. Inshallah, my children will too.”
Though largely invisible in the din of Old Delhi, Laique carries on — shoulder bent under the weight of 40 litres, his leather bag dripping as he walks. In a world of bottled water and water ATMs, the mashaq may seem obsolete. But for him, tradition is not about practicality, it is about faith.
“Most people just drink and go. Some give money, most don’t. But it doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “This is not business.”
For him, water is not a commodity but a blessing. To serve it freely is a duty inherited from his forefathers — men who once stood at this very well, stitching their own mashaqs from animal hide, carrying them across the bazaar.
A City Once Carried on Water
In Mughal-era Delhi, the mashaq wala was as common as the chaiwala or spice vendor. With heavy goatskin bags slung across their shoulders, they roamed the city — from mosque courtyards to bustling bazaars, caravanserais to garden walls — offering water to all.
They were fixtures of the urban ecosystem. Their work extended far beyond individual thirst. Mashaq walas watered the streets to keep dust down, irrigated Mughal gardens, supplied construction sites, and supported religious gatherings.
In the absence of pipelines or tankers, they were Delhi’s water infrastructure. Elderly residents of Old Delhi still recall how mashaq walas were once employed by the Municipal Corporation. They were called upon to clean drains and alleyways, back when the city lacked modern equipment or plumbing.
Today, that world has faded into history. Water flows through taps and pipes. Tankers serve neighborhoods. Shrines and shops rely on plastic dispensers. The leather mashaq — once indispensable — has nearly vanished. Only Laique, along with his father and uncle who still hand-stitch the bags near the dargah, continues the tradition.
Water, Faith, and Memory
On blistering summer days, Laique sometimes adds chunks of ice to the mashaq, so the water he offers is cool and comforting. The ritual remains unchanged: lowering the bucket, pouring carefully, offering water freely. Only the surroundings have evolved.
Few who drink from his brass bowl realise they are witnessing a vanishing art — a final thread connecting modern Delhi to its layered past. Yet for Laique, this service is deeply personal.
“Water is not a commodity,” he says, adjusting the leather bag on his back. “It’s a blessing. And to serve it is an honour.”
His belief is not rooted in nostalgia, but in lineage — in the memory of men who once drew from the same well, carrying stitched bags across Meena Bazar, their backs soaked and shirts clinging from the constant trickle.
The Vanishing Trade
The decline of the mashaq trade is tied directly to Delhi’s rapid urbanisation. When homes got running water and gardens were piped, the need for water carriers began to fade. By the late 20th century, they had disappeared from public view. Hand pumps and taps replaced them at most shrines.
Later came water dispensers. The tradition survived in bits — mostly through memory — until now, when only one family continues to draw from the centuries-old well. Yet even this is at risk. As city systems expand and digital payments reshape informal work, professions based on ritual and community service face extinction.
Still, Laique lowers the rope once more, the well’s shadow darkening his face. “Water will always be needed,” he says. “As long as this well gives water, we will serve it.” He doesn’t ask for recognition. Just that the tradition isn’t forgotten.