The remarkable Delhi instant.

[Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi]

He was writing.

One afternoon The Delhi Walla came across a rickshaw puller in central Delhi’s Jangpura. He was seated on his rickshaw’s backseat. It was humid. The man had rolled up his grey trousers as well his white vest. He was writing on a yellow piece of paper with a blue Reynolds ball point pen.

Perhaps the rickshaw puller was writing a letter to his wife. Perhaps his wife lived in a village that was a two-night train journey away from Delhi. Perhaps he was inquiring about her health, and about their children. Probably the rickshaw puller would post this letter later in the day. It would reach his wife by next week, and one late morning soon the village postman would stop outside her home, ready to hand over the precious envelope… but as I came closer to the rickshaw puller, I discovered that he had simply written the following: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0.

Looking up, he grinned. It was a heartbreaking moment.

A letter never written

1.

2.

3.

4.