Life of a lane. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Tak tak tak tak. An elderly man in an extra-maheen white kurta pajama is walking extremely slowly into the narrow gali. His metal walker is tap-tap-tapping the dusty ground strewn with discarded plastic packets. The street is choked with eavesdropping walls and windows. A black dog is asleep, curled into a ball. The gigantic door to the first house is ajar, revealing a long straight flight of stairs going up to a landing illumined in fuzzy orange. Gali Chamre Wali used to be a locality of people employed in the chamra, or leather, trade, mutters the man, his voice like the soft clanging of two tiny copper chords. “Most of