Our disparate lives. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The neighbours are loitering outside their homes, making small talk about the cold weather. Soon enough, the conversation veers towards a “multi-storey society”, or as they would like to call it “society”, coming up behind their houses. It’s not really very high, but looms large because the rest of the houses seem so small here in Gurgaon’s Sector 15 in the Greater Delhi Region. These are single-room dwellings, many of them with tarpaulin sheets as their walls. “Everyone here is either a labourer or a servant,” says Savita Rajat who works as a cleaner in “kothis”. Her husband is an auto-rickshaw driver. The other gentleman, Muhammed Irfan, is a knife seller. He lives in

The mystery of a name. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Our fair city is adorned with landmarks bearing names that defy scrutiny. But you would think that David Street in Old Delhi’s Daryaganj could easily be traced. After all, the name stands out in a part of the city where lanes often are named after a tree or a profession. Or some prominent Hindu or Muslim. But who was David? Did he live in this very place? This morning David Street feels so rich in atmospherics: life here has been pursued for centuries. Though many buildings are recent, you do spot old structures here and there. Especially eye-catching is a blue door, a exquisite piece of architecture. Only a few local merchants are out

Not the famous prison, if you please. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Tihar Jail hardly needs any introduction. It is, after all, the largest prison complex in Asia, tending to thousands of inmates in various stages of “correction”. Behind its concrete walls in west Delhi you find the grim gamut of the incarcerated — from murderers and rapists to perhaps a few unhappy souls who shouldn’t be there at all. The huge prison has only been around since 1958. Meantime, The Delhi Walla is checking out something far older, wandering the rutty lanes of Tihar Village — from which the prison derives its name. It’s like any of the other 247 villages in Delhi. The lanes are lined with tiny grocery shops while

Life in the invisible city. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The place is like a kaleidoscope—the colours change swiftly. First, you are greeted by a yellow-painted brick wall. It turns pink around the corner. The next door is red. The facing wall is green. The Delhi Walla is not talking of an art installation. This is the LNJP (Lok Nayak Jayaprakash Narayan) Colony, home to vegetable vendors and rickshaw-pullers. Anyone driving down from Connaught Place to Old Delhi can spot LNJP on the right side of the road, a few minutes after passing the five-star Lalit hotel. The colony rises like a jumble of brick structures, royally snubbing conventional architectural aesthetics. I have passed by several times but never ventured in. Reading

The encounter district. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Some of the lanes leading to his home are so dark that you can’t see your own feet. The Delhi Walla's internal GPS is seriously confused. It’s way beyond midnight. The alleys are deserted, but outside the Surya Light Store we encounter a dozen men dressed in white Pathan suits, chattering away. I’m at Batla House, in south Delhi, with Sauban Ahmad (see top photo), who has gracefully agreed to tell me all about life in this neighbourhood. It is an instant friendship. Earlier that evening, I had bumped into him at the Maktaba Shah Waliullah bookshop on Nafees Road while browsing through titles such as The Ideal Muslim, Key To The Treasure of Jannah

Life in Delhi’s prettiest neighborhood. [Text by Nina Warglien and Charlotte Liebenow; photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Note to the reader: This piece is written by two young fashion designers from Europe. Nina Warglien and Charlotte Liebenow live in a monument-facing apartment in Hauz Khas Village. It has been three weeks now since we landed in this challenging city. 
Until now we have been always telling you the bright side of it. But they say never judge a book from the cover. So we enlighten you by telling about the other side, too. 
As you may or may not know, here in Delhi all the housekeeping is done by maids. They clean the floor, wash your dishes, wash your clothes, and underwear, too. They

Life in Delhi’s prettiest neighborhood. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] On a humid afternoon recently, Lal Pari, a vegetable vendor’s wife, unhurriedly walks down this tree-lined path to her village. Sometime later she is followed by Madan, a plumber’s teenage son. Next, Madhav, a carpenter, is seen. A few minutes later appears Steven Baker, an academic manager at the British Council. The Hindi-speaking English man, who has been living on and off in Hauz Khas Village for 10 years, says, "Only a very few local people know about this path. Earlier it was jungle, then it became a rough mud track, and just a month ago it was paved with these grey concrete tiles." Indicating the green iron-gates at the

Beyond the stereotypes. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] A homely Punjabi girl in west Delhi’s Rajouri Garden is dumped by her fiancé hours before the wedding. The shattered girl flies to Europe, becomes her own woman, and returns to west Delhi. This was the plot of the Hindi film, the critically acclaimed Queen. In real life, it turns out, a girl in conservative Rajouri Garden comes into her own in Rajouri Garden itself. Like most girls of this neighbourhood, the happily married 27-year-old Minakshi Kathait grew up having dahi papdi at Atul Chat Corner and buying bright tops at Incense Apparel & Accessory, both popular landmarks in Rajouri Garden’s Main Market. But unlike Queen’s heroine — a type that has been lovingly nurtured

Life in Delhi’s prettiest neighborhood. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The sun leaves the winter sky. The air empties of all sounds. The lake by the village crystallizes into utter solitude. The Delhi Walla is walking around Hauz Khas lake. Although visible from my roof, it is stirring up feelings only at this close vicinity -- the entire place is drenched in magic. The 14th century ruins of Feroze Shah Tughlaq’s tomb feel like myths in the gathering darkness. The lake’s cold surface is filling up with twilight shades. Two ducks are paddling on its orange blaze. Close by, a woman is standing alone by a shrub. The sky blackens and the partially-sunken boat ceases to be visible. Nothing seems