“Please wait here and I will be back soon,” said Abdul Khaleel, one of the last Urdu calligraphers of Hyderabad’s Chatta Bazaar. I had just handed him a large format copy of the photograph I'd taken two days earlier. I’d noticed him as I passed through a narrow, traffic blocked alley, as he sat anticipating customers. He agreed to be photographed and we waited patiently for a gap in the traffic before I could get the shot.
Chatta (sometimes written as “Katta" ) Bazaar is the home of Khattati, or Urdu calligraphy. It is a dying art, thought to have been brought to Hyderabad by the Qutb Shahi dynasty, who ruled from 1518 to 1687, and were responsible for much of the city’s built heritage. The practitioners of the art were known as Khattats or Kaatibs, the words from which this quarter of the city draws its name.
I had come to the bazaar to see traditional Urdu calligraphers but found that very few still worked by hand. After the computerisation of Urdu text in the 1990s, demand for hand-written work decreased, with customers opting instead for digital prints. This has resulted in many calligraphers losing their business or having to use their skills elsewhere. Abdul’s experience is an example of this. He previously worked for the Siasat Daily, an Urdu newspaper. Before computerisation, the blocks used to print the newspaper had been made from handwritten text, but technological advances meant that Abdul and many others were no longer needed and had to find other ways to make a living. This problem is not peculiar to Hyderabad as according to a 2023 article in New Lines Magazine, Delhi’s Urdu bazaar only had one working calligrapher.
“I have fewer customers these days and young people don’t want to learn the skills."
“I have been working in my shop for about 40 years now,” said Abdul, “Customers come on special occasions, particularly weddings. I charge 200-300 rupees (about £2-3) for a handwritten invitation and the customers then take it to one of the nearby printing presses for copying. There are many such shops in the bazaar. Sometimes Urdu schools and madrassas (Islamic religious education institutions) also come to me.” He was not optimistic about the future of his craft. He said, “I have fewer customers these days and young people do not want to learn the skills." He explained that there are over 200 fonts in Urdu calligraphy, and that it can take years to learn them all.
I wanted to give him a copy of the photograph and a couple of days later, I returned to the bazar to look for him. The shutters were up, but he was nowhere to be seen. Luckily, his mobile number is displayed in the shop and my guide and interpreter, Madhu, called him to tell him we were there. A few minutes later, Abdul appeared, “I was at the afternoon prayer,” he said. I handed him the photograph and after studying it for a few seconds, he touched his heart and thanked me. “I’ve been photographed before,” he said, “but they don’t usually bring a picture back.”
Abdul insisted we accompany him to a small tea shop where he ordered masala chai for the three of us. The other customers tucked into fried snacks and mutton dishes, occasionally looking over at us, perhaps wondering what we were doing in a small neighbourhood eating place. After a few minutes, Abdul pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and said, “Write your full name in English.” I did as he asked and returned the paper to him. He set off in the direction of his shop, reappeared a short time later, and handed me another piece of paper with my name beautifully transcribed in Urdu letters.
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