The dream palace of a doctor. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] An elderly man is patiently looking out into the street through a curtained glass window. He is dressed in a three-piece suit, complete with a tie. The 63-year-old Vinod Kumar Jain—MBBS, Gold Medalist—awaits his next patient. The Delhi Walla meets Mr Jain, a “general practitioner”, one evening in the hotel district of Paharganj. His clinic, opposite the now-closed Imperial cinema, is soaked in the ambiance of a previous world. The wood paneled walls date back to 1953 when the clinic was set up by Mr Jain's father, Sumer Chand Jain. The Senior Jain, too, was a “general practitioner”—he had named the clinic after his father who was a hakeem in

A trip to Kashmir. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] If you throw a few stones standing somewhere south of Khan Market, you might not hit many Delhiwallas under a certain age, but you are likely to hit many who’ve heard of Chor Bizarre—a fixture on any write-up to do with the Capital’s fine- dining scene. Now past the grand old age of 25, Chor Bizarre is more familiar to visitors and expats than to the locals. Its mystique remains intact. On a recent evening in Hotel Broadway, which houses the Kashmiri cuisine restaurant, a professor from Italy was giving a woman from Delhi a quick tour of the place. The restaurant occupies a unique location—it stands at the point where New Delhi

The portrait of a marriage. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] A lone customer steps in. Miles Davis is gently filling the hushed corners. The doorman stands erect at his post in a brown safari suit, and an elegant woman sits at the counter. She is surrounded by books—on shelves, in display cabinets, stack after inviting stack. This is The Bookshop, an institution as genteel as its posh address. Jor Bagh Market is that rare place in the Capital that shunned the rat race to become a bazaar. Urban freneticism is not allowed here. Big cars glide over speed breakers. Presswallas iron clothes under giant trees. The stillness is broken briefly by laughter from the Sarvodaya Vidyalaya school nearby. The surrounding bungalows stand

A star is born. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The place is as sparse as Hemingway’s prose. There are tables and chairs, to be sure, but no unnecessary furniture. It is, however, too early to draw conclusions. This is still a first draft in process. There will soon be more staffers, more laptops, more lunch bags, and more tables. The Delhi Walla is in the office of the brand new Juggernaut Books, launched by publisher Chiki Sarkar. The colonial-era building looks like a snug cottage that won’t be out of place in a Jane Austen novel. Its location in the atmospheric Sujan Singh Park in Central Delhi situates it just across the road from Khan Market, which, of course, is

The Prime Minister's flower. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Both Jawaharlal Nehru and Babur shared a passion for the rose. The first Mughal emperor not only composed a poem on gul, Persian for rose, but also made sure the word was part of his daughters’ names. The first prime minister was democratic enough to spare his family—he just tucked the flower into the third button of his sherwani. Nehru started wearing a red rose in the 1940s. A representation of one such flower can be seen (see the top photo) in a glass display case at Delhi's Teen Murti Bhavan, Nehru's last home, which was converted to a museum dedicated to his life and work after his death in 1964. “The iconography

The original photoshop. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Not a moment to spare. A constant stream of customers through the door. Some wanting to get their portrait done, others their photos developed. Some inquire about cameras. Maharani Gayatri Devi and painter M.F. Husain have been seen here. This is Mahatta & Co., the legendary photo studio in M Block, Connaught Place. That was how it used to be in the 1980s. This year (2015), Mahatta & Co. turns hundred. The founder, Amar Nath, died 30 years ago. His son Madan was the most famous of the Mahattas; he died last year. Madan’s sons—Pavan and Pankaj —run the show now. They will release a hundredth anniversary commemorative book this August; they will also

The withdrawn address. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Note down the address: 26, Alipur Road. Get off at the Civil Lines Metro station. Walk past the Oberoi Maidens Hotel. The house is on the left. The gates are painted black. The lawns are brown; no flowers. Inside, there are hundreds of sepia toned photographs of Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar. This was his home; he died here in his sleep some 60 years ago. On a recent steaming afternoon, The Delhi Walla was the only visitor tiptoeing from one room to another at Dr Ambedkar National Memorial. My solitude was not unusual. “Some days I see just two people, and some days eight,” says the elderly guard. “There are days when nobody steps

A family tradition. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] He is the iron man of Nizamuddin East. Actually there are six of them in this central Delhi neighourbood. Radhey Shyam lords over C Block, which is home to writers, politicians, (retired) bureaucrats, artists, journalists and other power brokers. “I get customers from C 17 to C 45,” Mr Shyam tells The Delhi Walla, referring to nearby apartments. Picking up a crumpled blue shirt, he modestly says, “I iron more than 100 clothes daily.” Mr Shyam commutes everyday from his home in east Delhi's Lakshmi Nagar. He reaches Nizamuddin East at 9 in the morning and leaves after the sunset. Mr Shyam is not a rarity. At least one ironing man can be

Space and the city. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] There is a rare bungalow on Tolstoy Lane, a pedestrian-friendly street in the colonial-era business district of central Delhi’s Connaught Place. Nobody lives in the house. The only inhabitants are a couple of unwieldy trees. “The family left long ago” – the deserted building seems to say to the onlooker. It looks severely weather-beaten. The windows are broken and the paint has peeled off the walls, exposing the bricks beneath. The boundary wall is overrun with wild creepers. The porch is buried under fallen leaves. A couple of high-rises stand behind the bungalow. The old building is now being demolished. A high-rise is to be built in its place. After

Surviving, for now. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This bookshop is a great spot for another Starbucks. (Connaught Place has just two Bucks so far.) The display counter will take over the left-side book shelves. The Classics corner will become a table for two. The poetry section will be a sideboard. The place will feel less bookish. There will be real life scenes of lovers, loners, and backpackers, with occasional sightings of book lovers. The coffee crowd will have no idea that this place used to be Amrit Book Company. The store was founded in 1936 by a former railway clerk named Amrit Dhar. Today, his son Prem Sharma sits at the cashier’s desk. Prem Sharma’s two sons, Puneet and Sumit, handle