Old home glossary. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Suburb-like flats are taking over Old Delhi’s traditional makaan, or houses. Here’s a glossary of domestic spaces soon to be lost to legends. This afternoon, building material merchant Fareed Mirza and his generous family give a tour of the house his pardada (great-grandfather) built 150 years ago on Bazar Shah Abul Khair Marg. It possesses many of the aspects of a quintessential Walled City mansion. (The tenses pretend that all these features are still in use, but they aren’t, reflecting alterations in architectural styles, and in social etiquettes.) Devri: Narrow corridor connecting the outer door on the street to the door opening into the residence. Mardana Kamra, or Baithak: Room for visiting mard, or

The vanishing rain shelter. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] It is raining hard on the terrace of an 18th floor flat in Gurgaon’s Golf Course Road. Monsoon is giddily beating down on this multitude of high-rises. Yet, it feels like a draught—to a connoisseur of the barsati. Stealing its name from the Urdu for rain, barsati was a tiny room with a large terrace that went on to spawn a bohemian Delhi civilisation. Holed up high in these airy bubbles, eclectic migrants from small towns came of age in style and sensibility. Many barsatiwallas became famous. MF Husain had a barsati in Jangpura. William Dalrymple, who lives in a farm house, spent early 1990s in a Golf Links barsati. Pankaj Mishra,

A deserted home. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The metal gate is splotched with red dots of rust. The pane-less windows on the first floor stare out like open wounds. Cobwebs are hanging from window grills. It is said you can see the world in a grain of sand — in the same way, you may see your teeming city in an empty house that once was full of life. Such as this deserted bungalow, somewhere in Delhi. No need to know its GPS. You’ll find versions of this scattered across the city. Such residences lie in this state because either the owners are living elsewhere, or due to a host of other reasons. The point of this story is

Inside an artist's studio. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Dayanita Singh lives amid moving walls of her books. This afternoon, at her second floor studio in Vasant Vihar, the artist appears by sliding away one of the walls. These moving things make the space as full of possibilities as a kaleidoscope. The hall’s fixed (brick) wall is equipped with four sliding walls. As Ms Singh pushes away one, the chamber behind —her archive room—slowly comes into view. It’s like a two dimensional panorama gaining its depth. On the other side stands another book wall, leading to her printing room. “These are two of my books,” says Ms Singh, referring to these walls. “This side is File Room, and that side

A new house. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The mattress is spread across the floor. The cooking gas cylinder is in the kitchen, already connected to the double-burner gas range. Two plastic buckets are in the bathroom. All their clothes are still inside the suitcase, though. The couple moved into the new house some hours ago, with their infant daughter, here in Old Delhi’s Chitli Qabar Chowk. Tailor “Master” Javed Iqbal is 34. His wife, Rubina Khan, is 26. Their daughter, Rida, was born in August last year. It is evening. The baby is asleep on her mother’s lap. The mother is sitting cross-legged on the mattress. The father is standing in the corner. The first-floor room is filled with sounds

A woman's house. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The evening is mildly cold. Abida and Raja are at home, sitting by the fireside. Raja has their month-old son, Piraili, on his lap. Wrapped in layers of woollens, the baby is asleep. “He was born here - at home, not in the hospital,” Raja says. Abida nods. The couple live in central Delhi, under the Oberoi Hotel flyover. Their house comprises a small white tent, with a roof so low it is impossible to stand up straight. “That’s why we sit outside when awake,” explains Raja. The rush hour shows no sign of slowing down. The beam of the headlights from passing cars are occasionally falling on their faces. The vicinity is home

A home for the houseless. [By Mayank Austen Soofi] The floor is of plywood. The roof appears to be of white tarpaulin. The walls, too, are of the same white material. There are no windows. This is a home to many men, including Sanjay, Danish, Jawed, Hasim, Asif, Satish and Ameeruddin. These are actually some of the names that were jotted down last evening by the caretaker in the entry register of this night shelter for the homeless. It is 2pm and the place is empty, here in central Delhi. It permits free admissions only for the night. Although one person seems to be fast asleep on a bed. “He works here and is resting,” explains Ankit Sharma, the caretaker attending to his afternoon

Dwellers in a posh neighbourhood. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The daughter of the last nawab of Rampur resides in this neighbourhood. Author Vikram Seth has an apartment here. A neighbouring flat belongs to former Jammu & Kashmir chief minister Omar Abdullah. A stone’s throw away is filmmaker Mira Nair’s apartment. Celebrated social theorist Ashis Nandy lives nearby. So does hotelier Aman Nath. Hazrat Nizamuddin East is also home to Muhammed Mintullah. A rickshaw puller in his 60s, he has been a resident of this central Delhi locality for 40 years. “I always sleep on this same spot,” says Mr Mintullah, sitting on a pavement in the neighbourhood’s market, which primarily comprises of a cafe, a boutique, two salons, and a

Housing on the pave. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] They literally live in the shadow of the Jama Masjid. Right under the Mughal-era monument’s west-facing wall, towards which the attendees inside the mosque offer their prayers. This late night, the men are lying — head to feet, head to feet — on the pavement that runs along the mosque’s boundary wall. Only one man has his eyes wide open. He is sitting on a low wooden chest, staring expressionlessly at the road in front. “We are 200 people,” says Nizamuddin, 52. Dressed formally at this late hour in pants and full-sleeved shirt, he informs that “we are mazdoor”. The generic description doesn’t give justice to the specialised skills that distinguish these

So open, yet secretive. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The doors are locked, their wood rotting. The window jaalis are cobwebbed. The balconies are blocked with bricks. The weather-beaten building must be empty inside. Yet, it shelters very many people. Outside. Those people are nowhere to be seen this late afternoon but their residences are as visible as daylight. Their possessions—all the essential stuff that makes up a house—are laid out in a great display across the length of this building, on the footpath, here in central Delhi’s Ansari Road. One of the doors is clipped with a string on which are hanging shorts, pants, a pithu bag, and a hand bag, which has a white banian (vest) coming out of it.