First day in the new Central Vista. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This Sufi shrine tucked in the Central Vista lawns, close to Janpath Road, used to be a little island in the pond. Circled with trees, it had four graves. Following the vista’s redevelopment, it has altered but slightly. It is no longer an island. This is perhaps a good thing because you no longer have to risk a fall by jumping across the slippery rocks on the pond water. A tiled track connects the pathway to the gentle mound that makes up the dargah. And yet, the shrine continues to feel as secluded as before. This evening the place is cloaked in solitude. A painted sign on

A temple with sound. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Tnnnnm. The sound at first has a sharp tone, and then wafts around the air, growing softer and calmer, passing along like a light breeze. After that it rushes out into the noisy bazar lanes, and fades. In all temples, bells must create the same pleasing effect. But the bells here have something most haven’t — the temple is named after them. Mandir Chaurasi Ghanta, in Old Delhi’s Seetaram Bazar, has chaurasi ghante, or 84 bells, affirms a visitor. She says that all the bells are linked together by a single chain “so that you can ring all the 84 bells at once.” The mandir consists of a hall with its entire roof studded

Commemorating a legend. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This should start with one of his paheliyan, or riddles. “Invisible, but they call it tender Feels bad, but it evokes laughter” A tickle! Today is the 718th Urs — or death anniversary — of genius, fervent and playful poet Amir Khusro. In Sufism, a death anniversary is celebrated, not mourned, and the celebrations began last night in central Delhi’s Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah, where Khusro’s grave lies. A special prayer is to be offered at the shrine’s courtyard at 11 am today. Belonging to 14th century Delhi, Khusro died at 72, shortly after his beloved mentor Nizamuddin’s passing. He was buried across the courtyard from the Sufi mystic’s grave. Today, the dargah’s tradition expects a pilgrim

A barely known temple. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The scenes outside are passing in a blur. All you can see are lights flashing on the glass window. It’s like sitting in a super-fast Shatabdi. But this isn’t a train. It’s a small, little-known temple in Old Delhi’s Daryaganj. The lights are flickering on the glass panes that protect the niches, enshrined with idols of gods. The effect is surreal — you stand still and watch the moving lights, including the reflection of buses and autos wheeling along the road outside, and you feel like you are moving. This afternoon, Pracheen Shiv Mandir is empty. It is difficult to spot the temple from the pavement outside — the entrance consists of a

Sacred green. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This small Hanuman temple stands in a sprawling yard, here in south Delhi. A peepal tree’s sharp-tipped leaves make a jungle of shadows on the temple’s back wall. But the compound has another peepal, a larger one, and more luscious, in the front. Its branches soar above the fourth floor windows of adjacent buildings. It would take at least three people to embrace the trunk completely. This morning the yard is empty. A woman enters. She is wearing a green sari, and an orange mask. Her head is modestly covered by the sari’s pallu. The woman takes off her slippers and, instead of heading inside the temple, she turns towards the front yard peepal. She

A world in pandemic. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The forever-optimistic Nashir Ahmed Khan in gloom? Impossible, you would think. But the second surge in the coronavirus pandemic has changed everything. “I’m badhal (in bad shape),” he says, “everyone here is badhal, everything is down.” A biscuit seller outside the imposing Jama Masjid in Gurgaon’s Sadar Bazar in the Greater Delhi Region, Mr Khan, 71, is talking on phone. This late morning he is standing by his two carts, he says, waiting for the few customers who might drop by. During the ongoing lockdown in the Millennium City, shops in this part of Sadar Bazar are allowed to function from 6 am to 11 am, he informs. In the final week of

A shrine's best-kept secret. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] It’s one of the lesser known shrines of the capital and it is tucked within… oh well, another lesser known shrine. The historic graves of Hazrat Sarmad Shahid and Hazrat Hare Bhare Shah lie just outside Old Delhi’s Jama Masjid, and yet aren’t visited by many tourists, nor many pilgrims. Until recently, the shrine was identified by its red and green colours. Red symbolises Hazrat Sarmad, who was executed by Emperor Aurangzeb, and the green, or hara, commemorates Hazrat Hare Bhare. But as part of an ongoing renovation that began during the coronavirus-triggered lockdown last year, the shrine’s signature tiles are being gradually replaced by white marble from Rajasthan. This week, the

Faith in green. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The temple is immersed in utmost quietude, so much so that you feel that if you concentrate enough, you might hear Devi Durga breathe. Attired in an orange fabric, her idol faces the door. Hidden in a narrow alley of Old Delhi’s Galli Choori Wallan, Hara Mandir has the hushed remoteness of rarely frequented pilgrimage sites, like those found in the snowy reaches of the Himalayas. You rarely see visitors here. Its exquisite beauty remains largely untouched. Its name derives from the wall outside, painted green, or hara. Inside, the most striking feature is of the chessboard floor. The walls are sculpted at various places with taaks, or arched niches, a disappearing

A wayside shrine. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This is the Capital’s super-congested heart, next to the New Delhi railway station. Outside, the road is clogged with cars and autos and the pavement packed with purpose-filled masked humans. But Shiv Prajapati Mandir is as tranquil and empty as the wayside shrine of a remote countryside. As if it had withdrawn into a much-desired quarantine. Yet, every day at the same afternoon hour, Hari Prasad, who runs a snack stall just outside of it, on the pavement, enters to clean the temple floor. “Out of devotion,” he says in a low voice, glancing towards the gods and instinctively touching his heart. The temple walls are pink. On one side are the sacred idols.

Souvenirs of Christmas. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Encountering a collection of decorations after the event they were meant to celebrate is over presents a poignant sight. Like, the morning after the wedding. Or the day/s after Christmas, here at the Free Church in south Delhi’s Green Park. The Christmas decorations in the prayer hall are looking fresh, untouched. The gaze first goes to the church’s many ceiling fans. These humble, everyday instruments have been turned into works of art. One fan has paper bells hanging from it. Another has red circular orbs. And then there’s a fan that seems to have a shiny tarantula clinging to it, as if they were two friends frozen into a tight embrace. The walls