Lane of doorways. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Standing outside an archaic blue doorway, a man in blue (see photo) is singing a tragically worded lullaby, pleading for alms. He pauses, stands silently for some time, and walks away, going past a pink doorway, similarly patterned, past a green doorway, similarly patterned, past… oh well, this Walled City lane is extraordinary for being full of arched doorways. Each is an intricately detailed piece of art, many revealing a skeletal frame of slim narrow lakhori bricks, the building material of yesteryears. The only structure in Gali School Wali that looks contemporary—meaning, as grey and featureless as any building—is the municipality-run school from which the gali gets its name. On a more considered

A street with an unusual name. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] It feels like Vladivostok. Just as remote, as isolated from the crowded and familiar world. This silent Old Delhi street, on the slope of Pahari Bhojla, is the side-lane of a side-lane of a lane. On this cold windy afternoon, most doors and windows are shut closed. The plaque bearing the street’s name is partly hidden behind a loopy tangle of black cables (see photo). The name is extraordinary--Gali Ghisi Int, the street of worn-out brick. The only open door is that of a silversmith’s workshop. The young owner’s family has been living on the street for generations, but he cannot shed any light on its name. He instead points to

A street of the bell. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Lazy but punctual, it comes back every hour to mark the passing of time. Sometimes its sound is so muted by the daytime blabber of the streets, and one could imagine it has stopped. But there can be no confusion at night—the sound spreads in ripples, its prosaicness distilled out of a reservoir of poetry. Or rather, that is how it must have been like, for it no longer exists. That almost mythical grand bell—It was believed to have adorned the mansion of a silver merchant—that gave its identity to a street in Old Delhi, on the slopes of Pahari Bhojla. Today, the only ghanta in Gali Ghantewali is in

A street of the interiors. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Walking down the Walled City galis is comparable to chase scenes in James Bond thrillers in which the hero is running after the anti-hero through a variety of constantly changing backdrops. Take Gali Gondni Wali. The scene changes drastically at every turn. The lane is packed with picturesque doorways, groceries and chai shops. This afternoon, a veggie seller is encircled by four cats and a dog. Just before the gali peters out into a doorway, you pass by an opening on the right that looks like a private corridor. It is actually a roofed alley of the same gali, very badly lit, in which the atmopshere is silent and dark, and

Lane of Saturday people. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Place-names in Old Delhi make sense. Gosht Wali Pahari is nestled along a pahari and has shops selling gosht. Pahari Imli had an imli tree. Gali Akhare Wali had an akhara. Gali Mazar Wali had a mazar. Gali Jagat Cinema Wali had Jagat Cinema. Gali Dakotan had dacoits. Not true—this bit about Gali Dakotan. The error is borne out of an unfortunate symmetry of words. The pronunciation of ‘dakotan’ is so easily confused with ‘dakait’, or ‘dacoit’, that many Walled City residents buy into the false narrative. Including Gali Dakotan wale themselves, or at least these two residents chatting this afternoon at the street’s dead-end. The women are shocked that their

Lane of ghosts. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Bitter cold. Not a mouse stirring. All is silent and dark. Gali Bhootni Wali in Old Delhi gets its name from ghosts, but no such bhoot is to be seen or sensed tonight. As the third lane off the neighbourhood of Kucha Mir Hashim, the gali is narrow and straight, punctuated by a sharp turn, and at one point it passes through protruding walls, before climaxing into a doorway. Two men surface in this dark silence—Nadeem and Ubair (see photo). Speaking fearlessly in a bold voice, Nadeem confesses of never having personally seen a bhoot, but has heard his elders talk of the long-ago days when the ghosts would be commonly sighted along the

A place-name in the Walled City. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The suburbs are wild with five-storied housings, dwarfed by even taller multistories. But this five-storey is looming Everest-like in Old Delhi’s cramped, narrow Ganj Meer Khan, where it came up some years ago. Oddly, the modern-day stalagmite looks rooted to the centuries-old neighbourhood, its ground level hosting the services of a butcher, a cook, a pharmacist. Some distance ahead the street-side debris of an old house, which locals say fell some years ago, too looks rooted to the land, a part of the texture of Ganj Meer Khan’s daily life. This afternoon, passers-by are passing by with no one looking at the surreal sight of an entire house in heap.