A perfect Delhi instant. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Both Guddu and Chuck are brown. They have the same flappy ears and exactly the same size. They must be twins, no? “They are step-siblings,” says Dinesh. “They have the same papa, but their mummy is alag alag (different).” Guddu and Chuck are dogs. Dinesh is a human. He is holding on to Guddu’s leash. Chuck’s caretaker is another human, SS Rawat. This afternoon, the four folks are briefly lying in a public park in Gurgaon's Sector 15 in the Greater Delhi Region. Dinesh and Mr Rawat are otherwise walking the dogs as part of their job. The dogs live with their employers, a human family, in a house nearby. “They are

Connections to village and to the city. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] They are some of the faces that are changing the face of our metropolis. This morning, the three construction labourers are quietly enjoying the gently warming sun, perched on the upper floor of a building-in-progress, here in a bylane shooting off the main road in Gurgaon’s Sector 14 in the Greater Delhi Region. Kamlesh, Sunita and Bipnesh hail from different villages, in different regions, but introduce themselves as longtime friends and colleagues. “We have been working together for about ten years,” says Kamlesh (of Bharatpur, in Rajasthan) in a loud, hoarse but affectionate voice, as she struggles to make herself audible to this reporter, standing on the street. The air is

A poet's heart. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The Walled City of Old Delhi was home to great poet Ghalib. More than a century after his death, the historic quarter continues to nurture a few men (and, in one instance at least, a woman) so passionate about poetry that they might as well believe that poems are enough to cure any ailment. One such sophisticate is poet Ameer Dehlvi—tall, handsome and very frail. He is 90, and one is naturally inclined to worry for him in the ongoing coronavirus pandemic. Indeed, it has proved to be particularly fatal to the elderly. One thing to fear in particular: getting some other illness that might necessitate to leave the sanctuary of home for

Long time, no see. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Repeated hugging. Cries of delight. And now, click-click-click of group selfies. Three friends of childhood are finally meeting after a gap of nine long years. Sheetal Gurung is from Kathmandu in Nepal, Alina Joo is from Srinagar in Jammu and Kashmir, and Afreen Banu is from Lucknow in Uttar Pradesh. They have gotten together in a central Delhi fast-food outlet. “We were all studying in a Kathmandu school, back then,” informs Ms Gurung. Today she is studying engineering in Delhi. Ms Joo is pursuing architecture in a college in Kashmir and Ms Banu is a graduate student in Delhi. But aren’t such meetings awkward, when old friends catch up after such a long time?

Remembering a loved one. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The graves are arranged neatly about a red brick structure here in the small Parsi Cemetery in Central Delhi. No other visitors at the moment. Gardner Manoj Mishra is working on a flower bed. His shy colleague, Kuldeep, is scrapping off the weedy grass growing beside a very small grave (perhaps it belongs to a child). The Delhi Walla is looking for Villy Sorabji’s tombstone. Earlier in the day her son, a reader of my work, had messaged an unusual request on Instagram from his home in California. He wondered if I could place his mother’s favorite flower at her grave—a rose. It’s the tenth year of her death, he confided, informing

Family values. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] On this chilly night Mathura Road has emptied of traffic. But a flame flickers on this Central Delhi pavement—home sweet home for a family of five living under an orange tarpaulin. There’s a sixth member, too—a brown dog. At this very moment husband Feroze is rolling out rotis, while his wife Sakina is cooking them, one-by-one, on a sooty girdle—as their three hungry children expectantly loiter by. Feroze, 30, is well aware that the men of the house are not always expected to work in the kitchens of Indian households. “I’m a beldar (daily wage labourer), while Sakina is a kaam-wali (house maid)… we both earn money, so we both work equally at home… we

Music of the street. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Here’s a ho-hum central Delhi pavement, complete with a snoozing dog and a free public urinal, unexpectedly bursting into live classical music. Certainly not something that happens every day. In fact, car driver Subhash Kumar Das, 36, is regaling passersby with his bansuri (flute). Some pedestrians stop in their tracks to listen. He is perched on a parked rickshaw. “It’s Raag Bhupali,” he says after concluding the brief performance, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone as if it is perfectly normal to come across live instrumental music by the roadside. Hailing originally from Cuttack in Odisha, he works as a chauffeur for a railway officer, “a job which is good enough to give me

Pre-TV days. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] He was glued to the radio, his eyes focused towards the instrument as if it were a mobile phone screen. One Sunday morning, rickshaw puller Manta Ram Sisodia was lounging in a central Delhi bazaar lane. Plopped up on the passenger’s seat of his vehicle, the elderly man was lightly holding onto the old-fashioned grey radio that seemed to have weathered many seasons. With the antenna drawn out to its full length, the rickshaw puller’s channel of choice was loudly playing an audio drama. The walls on both sides of the empty street were resounding with the play’s overtly dramatic dialogue deliveries. Mr Sisodia was so involved in the unfolding plot that he would not

The memorable instant. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] It takes them the better part of one hour to arrive home by bicycle after their long day as public park gardeners. Malti Devi sits on the back carrier while her husband Naresh Kumar does the peddling. But, an obvious question. Isn’t this exhausting for a man in his late 40s? Mr Kumar shrugs. “It’s been our routine for 10 years, and I’m used to it.” This may well attest to his fit figure. The longtime couple arrived in New Delhi a decade ago after working as field hands for rich farmers in their village in Jalaun, UP. “We wanted to improve our situation and raise our three children in a land of opportunities,”

The memorable instant. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Can you survive daily life without friendship? Not having even a single friend? Prakash Swami can. “I have no friend,” he says in a friendly tone. In his early 40s, Mr Swami is a driver working for a bazaar shopkeeper “seven days a week, morning to night.” He informs matter-of-factly. Resting in a Gurgaon park in the Greater Delhi Region for a brief break from “load transferring” work, Mr Swami assures that he is not a cynical person without faith in humankind for dependable friendships. “Frankly, it is very difficult to make friends in big cities,” explains the Rajasthan native. “I’m not into dosti (friendship) line and I just don’t get time. I work like a horse during