Kitty's own city. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Mehvash Sattar lives with her scholar father and his hundreds of rare Urdu books; the 25-year-old is a master’s student. She has many friends. The closest is the homeless Laali, who hangs out a lot in Ms Sattar’s second-floor apartment. Laali is a cat. Earlier, Ms Sattar had “pure white” Silky, who succumbed to pneumonia last year. Another cat, Kittu, died of old age. The filmi-named Chulbul Pandey, too, is enjoying the feline afterlife. Ms Sattar’s mobile phone has photographs of all of them. The fact that Ms Sattar’s home is a magnet for stray cats doesn’t make it special. After all, it’s in Pahari Imli, which is in Old Delhi. Living with cats is

Old objects in a post-partition world. [Text and photos by Aanchal Malhotra] When I was young I never thought about the past; it barely ever weighed down on me. In fact, back then it was all about the now. The present felt absolutely delicate as if it would slip right through my fingers. The past, on the other hand, seemed heavy like concrete and despite its weight, much easier to store away and not consider. Only when I grew older, I understood that one could not exist without the other- the present rested on the shoulders of the past, and with this realization came an innate curiosity for my own past, my lineage. What was my history; my family’s history? Where did

An unusual tribe. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] It’s a lovely afternoon. India Gate gleams even in New Delhi’s winter haze. A boy with a hint of a stubble is lying lazily under a tree’s scented shade. His white vendor’s box stands next to him, waiting for the next customer. A man approaches the boy, hurriedly taking out a chip from his camera. The boy gets up and opens the box. Inside, there’s not the usual popcorn or churmure that is peddled non-stop around this monument, but a printer. The camera chip is inserted into the printer’s drive. A picture slides out fitfully from the machine. Yet another India Gate photograph — this time it’s of a couple hugging against the backdrop

Lives of rag pickers. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Ms Nisha used to wake up an hour before dawn, make breakfast for her family, and then start her workday. Accompanied by her four small children (she couldn’t leave them unattended at home), she would walk from house to house collecting garbage; her husband works in a small tailoring shop. Ms Nisha would return home by late afternoon to segregate the collection; her day always ending sooner than her work did. This was the 36-year-old ragpicker’s routine until one-and-a-half years ago. She still wakes up early to make the breakfast. And she is still a ragpicker. But she drops her children at school before heading to work, and she is home

Notes of a young mother. [By Manika Dhama] “It’s a girl." Immediately after I heard her first cry the doctor informed me that I had given birth to a girl. Perhaps I was just imagining their lack of enthusiasm at the news, but while they ran customary checks on her, I wondered how people usually broke the news of a baby boy’s birth and whether it was as solemn. A little while later they handed her over saying “Here’s your daughter.” I had to stop smiling and purse my lips into a pout so that I could kiss her cheek. Truth be told, I followed the kiss with trying to check if she had my eyes. She didn’t, and I thought, “Ah

The good earth. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] This is beyond belief. The hut stands under a shade-giving mulberry tree, beside a field of red roses. The walls are thatched and the cow-dung flooring is polished smooth. Mr Dorilal is smoking a beedi. His wife, Ramkali, is patting the buffalo. Bhu Devi, one of their many children, is playing with a plastic doll on the string charpoy. The diesel-fuelled water pump is humming. The rural idyll is shattered by the noise of wind gushing, almost like a tremor. It is a Metro train rushing past just beyond the white daisies. These fields of wheat, forests of eucalyptus and groves of marigold lie in the heart of smoggy, congested, concrete Delhi. The distant

License to sell. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Laxmikant Shukla is as much a Khan Market institution as Dayal Opticals or Chonas restaurant. Since 1972, he has been coming to Delhi’s most posh market to sell dusters and mops. The shopkeepers as well as regulars to the market are familiar with his sight, if not his name. They instinctively make way for him as he walks down the front lane, guided by his walking stick—Shukla cannot see. “The goddess of chechak (small pox) entered my eyes 20 years ago,” he says. Mr Shukla is one of the millions of street hawkers in India’s cities, towns and villages whose life is set to change. In February 2014 the upper house of Parliament

Life in a new land. [Text by Mayank Austen Soofi; photos from Marina Bang] Can a Delhi dog feel at home in the smog-free English countryside? In October 2013, The Delhi Walla described his farewell meeting with Kaloo, a former street dog who was preparing to leave our city for a new home in England. Kaloo’s parents were moving from their bungalow in central Delhi’s Jorbagh to the United Kingdom. Kaloo’s mother Marina told me: "In England, Kaloo will live in a village in the Oxfordshire countryside in a garden adjoining a paddock. Instead of Lodhi Gardens, he’ll enjoy walks beside the river Thames, and — along with many Japanese tourists — strolls through the churchyard of St Mary’s, Cholsey, where Agatha Christie is

The long walk to freedom. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] In July 2009, the Delhi High Court legalized gay sex among consenting adults. In December 2013, India’s Supreme Court turned down that progressive and just verdict, reinstating a colonial-era ban on gay sex – the same evening an impressive number of Delhiwallas who believe that fundamental rights are for every person, irrespective of her or his sexual orientation, gathered in Jantar Mantar, the capital's protest square, to express their outrage against the judgment. Many people were dressed in black; some were waving little rainbow flags; others carried placards with slogans like ‘We are not criminals’ and and ‘Nelson Mandela was on our side’. There were disappointed faces in the crowd,