He goes through the neighborhood singing a song: "I make a knife sharp. I make a knife sharp."
As with other vendors his voice resounds off the steep, vertical surfaces of the concrete buildings. The local junk dealer passes by too at least twice a day yelling "Bikyah!...Bikyah!" It is a shortened version of the word for trash or in my translation: 'junk.' When the man comes by with his cart full of natural gas cylinders, he simply bangs three times on an empty container and hollers: "Haat! Haat!" Meaning something like: 'bring it, bring it.' The knife sharpener pushes around an apparatus with a fan belt wrapped on a flywheel about the dimension of what would be found on a bicycle. His contraption provides him a wooden place to sit while he operates a pedal, which turns the wheel moving his grinding stone. The rest of his gear consists of scraper blades, odd tools and lubricants, hanging on a makeshift superstructure adorned with plastic flowers.