The fakir anthem. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The jagged folksy sort of a song is effortlessly streaming into the evening darkness, here on a sidewalk in north Delhi. The lyrics appear to be in Bengali. But who is singing it and where? Just then a passing car throws its beam on five men huddled beside a wall. One of them turns out to be the singer. He immediately quiets down on spotting The Delhi Walla. “We are all disabled, as you can see,” he says, switching into Hindi. Submerged in shadows, the men look like figures from some renaissance-era painting. One of them says, “We are fakirs.” The man, who was singing, interjects, saying enigmatically, “We make our own songs... the one you

Living on the road. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] A pavement on Central Delhi’s Mathura Road recently received two new residents. Shera has a long white beard and is always dressed in black, while Raja is a light brown pup. A homeless wanderer travelling from one city to another, Shera confesses that he has not much attachment to the world except for his Raja. All day long they sit on the footpath, with Raja tied to an eye-catching pink leash. “When he gets too close to the road, I pull him back by the lagaam (leash),” says Shera. “The poor boy is just three months old, what does he know of life and death? The traffic is so dangerous…” Shera found Raja in

Hidden living. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Here’s a fine example of how an urban expanse that looks desolate can be lush with life. At first glance, there’s not much going on around here. Tucked away between the National Science Centre and the Old Fort, the grassy grounds seem almost deserted — right here in the heart of Delhi. But, as usual, the human condition offers far more than meets the eye. There’s only one bus line here, featuring an erratic service. But under the bus shelter, somebody’s found refuge. He’s snoozing. Nearby, The Delhi Walla spies a guy sitting cross-legged plugged into Wi-Fi. Is it his day off? Another person nearby is blankly gazing at the unceasing traffic on the adjacent Bhairon

Big city dreams. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] It’s another cold morning in a city bazar, where a thousand bricks stacked in a by-lane somehow need to be hauled to a construction site nearby. A crew of young labourers stand by as one of them builds a “twin tower” out of 24 red bricks. He then ties them with a frail jute rope and lifts the load onto his back. The sight is astonishing. His back is curved into a C-shape as he hobbles to the site where a new building is under construction. Now another guy builds a similar tower and staggers off, prompting the obvious question: “Doesn’t it hurt?” “No, we’re used to it,” says a worker, looking bemused. “We do this

Fakir’s priceless possession. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Offhand The Delhi Walla can’t recall how many times I’ve spotted this cheerful fakir seen wandering around Sufi shrines across Delhi--and with a pretty bowl called a karsa hanging around his neck. It’s often filled with banknotes and coins he’s received from pilgrims. But this afternoon the bowl is serving another purpose altogether: Brimming with veggie biryani that Mohammed Basheer is quietly enjoying. He’s amused by my astonishment. “It’s my eating bowl, too,” he says. “I have no real possessions except for rings on my fingers, amulets around my neck and this karsa.” I'm reminded that fakirs are Sufi Muslim ascetics who follow a life of poverty, renouncing possessions. A fakir like Mr Basheer

Soulmate melodies. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This impressive radio resembles something our grandfathers might have owned and cherished. It comes complete with a frequency display and a rexine cover. In fact, the unit is only around 10 years old, explains its proud owner, rickshaw mechanic Abdul Kayum. “It still works so well!” says Mr Kayum, who bought the radio at his native village in Bihar. “Never any problems!” We bumped into him the other day at a chai stall, his beloved radio by his side. He clearly adores it. And he shows us something we didn’t expect in an aging apparatus: a USB port. Plucking a pink pen drive from it, he explains: “This is my memory! It has all my

Private treasures. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] On a cool central Delhi evening, The Delhi Walla is drinking tea with businessman Madhav Shriram and his wife, Divya, at their park magnificently enhanced by a Seeta Ashok tree. But the park and family bungalow on Sardar Patel Marg are not only graced by the Ashok. There’s also a glorious pine on the driveway — a rare sight in the nation’s capital. “These two trees are like members of the family. The Ashok was planted by my mother,” says Mr Shriram. “The pine goes way back. My father planted it in the 70s, so we’ve been able to chart its progress over the years.” Pine trees are generally found in the Himalayas but seldom anywhere

Notes from a kitchen. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The other day, The Delhi Walla ran into Somwar Kumar encamped on the pavement in central Delhi. He’d just eaten his homemade lunch. He had cooked aloo gobhi and roti in a chulha (earthen stove) that he built just yesterday — the sort of stove you find in villages across India. “But why are you cooking on the pavement?” I ask. “I sleep here, eat here,” says Mr Kumar, looking outraged. “Where else can I cook?” I enquire about his profession. He shrugs his shoulders, eyes cast downwards. He slaps mud paste into the stove, which is how you clean it. “I built this chulha just yesterday, and it took one whole night for

A baby goat's life. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] It stands to reason that you’d want to bundle up your baby goat on a cold morning in central Delhi. It’s also obvious that The Delhi Walla would love to have a word with babe and mom, but as far as I know they wouldn’t grasp my babble. The animals live with a homeless family that includes a young girl who says: “I gave the baby my old cardigan because his legs were trembling so badly.” The babe was born parson raat (the night before yesterday), she continues, and his shaky legs aren’t just the result of morning chill: Little Chhotu is trying to figure out how to walk. The girl says that her

A life extraordinary. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Like any unwieldy metropolis, Delhi is full of extraordinary lives, but how many of those do we know? Take Muhammed Waseem, a homeless man who used to spend all his waking hours in a public library. The Delhi Walla was quite friendly with the frail, elderly Mr Waseem. Six days a week — Monday to Saturday — he was found without fail at the Ghalib Academy in central Delhi’s Hazrat Nizamuddin Basti. Dedicated to poet Mirza Ghalib, the centre’s first-floor library is open to all. But my sightings of this man stopped a few months ago. Busy in my own life, I didn’t dwell much on it. Last week, the man who sits beside