SRINAGAR, Match 9: As the first faint light of dawn spreads across the sky and most of Srinagar remains wrapped in sleep, Abdul Rehman begins another day of relentless struggle.
The narrow lanes of Saderbal near the Hazratbal area are still silent when the 40-year-old quietly steps out of his modest home. The early morning air carries a sharp chill, and the streets remain empty except for an occasional stray dog wandering through the shadows.
In his hand, Abdul Rehman grips a long iron hook—his essential tool for the day’s work. Slung over his shoulder is a faded, worn-out sack that will soon be filled with the city’s discarded waste. For him, the sack represents far more than garbage. It carries the fragile hope of survival.
For Abdul Rehman, every morning begins the same way—with determination overshadowed by uncertainty.
He begins walking through Srinagar’s bustling markets, residential lanes, and roadside dumps, searching for what others have thrown away. Plastic bottles, crushed cans, broken metal pieces, discarded cardboard boxes—items that most people consider worthless.
But to Abdul Rehman, every piece of scrap has value.
Each plastic bottle means a few rupees. A bundle of cardboard may fetch enough to buy vegetables for dinner. A handful of scrap metal might help pay for his children’s school notebooks.
Carefully, he lifts each item using his iron hook and drops it into the sack strapped to his back.
“I cannot afford to miss even a single day,” Abdul Rehman says quietly. “If I don’t work, my children don’t eat.”
A Home Filled with Hope and Hardship
Abdul Rehman lives with his wife and three children in a single-room house in Saderbal. The structure is modest and fragile. During winter, dampness creeps into the walls, making the room unbearably cold. In summer, the small space turns suffocatingly warm.
Despite the difficult living conditions, the room carries signs of hope.
Near the door, two school uniforms hang neatly on a nail. In one corner, a small stack of schoolbooks and notebooks is carefully arranged.
Abdul Rehman’s two sons—aged 11 and 9—attend a nearby government school, while his youngest child, a six-year-old daughter, has recently begun learning to read.
Watching them study fills him with quiet determination.
“I never had the chance to go to school,” he says, his voice softening. “I started working when I was very young. But my children must study. They must have a better life.”
Keeping them in school, however, is an ongoing challenge.
On a good day, Abdul Rehman manages to earn between ₹500 and ₹800 by selling collected scrap to local junk dealers. But such days are rare.
When waste is scarce or market prices drop, he may return home with barely ₹250 in his pocket.
From this small and uncertain income, he must manage household expenses—food, school supplies, clothing, and occasionally medicine.
“It is never enough,” he admits, lowering his gaze.
A Day of Exhaustion and Humiliation
From early morning until late afternoon, Abdul Rehman roams across different parts of Srinagar, carrying his ever-growing sack of scrap.
The work is physically draining.
He spends hours bending over garbage piles and roadside bins. His back aches constantly, and his hands are often cut by sharp glass shards or rusted metal hidden beneath layers of waste.
The smell of garbage clings stubbornly to his clothes.
Sometimes people pass by without noticing him. At other times, they stare with visible disgust.
“There are days when people treat us like we are not human,” he says quietly. “Some shout at us to move away, as if we are the garbage.”
Yet he continues working.
Because stopping is simply not an option.
Winter Makes Survival Harder
The challenges become even more severe during Kashmir’s harsh winters.
When icy winds sweep across Srinagar, Abdul Rehman’s work becomes painfully difficult. His fingers grow numb while sorting through wet waste, and the cold cuts through his thin clothing.
Still, he pushes forward.
Because missing a day’s work could mean an empty dinner table.
Invisible Workers of the City
Across Srinagar, hundreds of scrap collectors like Abdul Rehman quietly perform an essential yet largely unrecognized service.
Every day, they gather plastic, paper, metal, and other recyclable materials that would otherwise accumulate on the city’s streets and landfills. Their work indirectly supports the recycling industry and contributes to waste management.
Yet their own lives remain invisible.
They work without protective gloves, masks, or safety equipment. Their income depends entirely on how much scrap they can collect each day.
For them, the city’s garbage is both a workplace and a lifeline.
A Father’s Dream
As evening approaches, Abdul Rehman slowly makes his way back through the streets of Srinagar.
His sack is now lighter, emptied at the scrap dealer’s shop. But his body feels heavy with exhaustion after a long day of walking and lifting.
When he turns into the narrow lane leading to his home in Saderbal, a familiar sight often awaits him.
His children run toward him with bright smiles.
In that moment, the fatigue of the day begins to fade.
His sons sit beside him and show him their school notebooks. Sometimes they read aloud what they learned in class that day.
Abdul Rehman listens attentively, even though many of the words are unfamiliar to him.
Still, he nods proudly.
“These books are their future,” he says with quiet conviction. “If they study well, maybe they will never have to search through garbage like me.”
Dinner in the small home is often simple—just rice and tea. Yet the family sits together, sharing laughter and stories from the day.
Before going to sleep, Abdul Rehman carefully folds his empty sack and places it near the door.
It will be needed again tomorrow.
Because before the sun rises over Srinagar, Abdul Rehman will once again step out into the silent streets.
Once again, he will search through the city’s discarded waste.
Not because he chooses to.
But because somewhere among those crushed bottles and torn pieces of cardboard lies the fragile hope of building a better future for his children.
