The Walled City encyclopaedia.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The cramped street is marooned in afternoon quietude. All the house doors are shut. Old Delhi’s Chhatta Aaga Jaan appears to have only a single non-residential establishment, named Best Tailors. Its shutters are open. Tailor Zaid is busy over a piece of light-blue cloth, making a pair of pants.

He is simultaneously discoursing on the street-name. “Begum Aaga Jaan must have been a lady from some hi-fi family living in this lane in the era of badshahs,” he mutters, a long inch tape garlanded round his neck. “Now nobody knows anything of her…or her husband.”

The shop floor behind Zaid is littered with scraps and shreds of many coloured clothes. One of the sewing machines is half-buried under piles of fabrics. The tiny TV in the corner is playing on mute, beaming scenes from war-torn Ukraine.

Immediately outside the shop counter, a somber-faced bearded fellow is lying sprawled upon a stationary scooter, legs up. Shrugging his shoulders, Zaid says he has been administering his establishment for 30 years, and that he was born in this same street. Much has changed in the world over the decades, he remarks. “Our India has made atom bomb… our lane too has progressed.”

Fellow on the bike nods.

The tailor patters on. “Earlier people here lived in small houses, now we have bigger houses.”

Perhaps the recent constructions erased the street’s original architecture, which must have contributed to the first part of its name. For chhatta traditionally comprises a lane that has series of chhat, or roofs, spanning over it at different places. This lane bears no such element. Zaid shrugs, choosing to talk of his life instead. He says he didn’t follow the path of his late father, who was an attendant in a Chandni Chowk shop. Nor does he expects his school-going children to take his profession. He hopes they will grow into “educated” citizens holding a “private or sarkari naukri.” Daughter Shayana is a student in 9th grade, son Hasan is in 8th.

The attention shifts to the man on the bike. Asif also lives on this same street. He describes himself as a plumber. He quit working a “long time ago” due to ill-health, he says. “My maa-baap are gone, my bhai-behen are gone, I’m totally alone.” The tailor nods.

Carefully scissoring the fabric at hand, using two measuring scales, Zaid notes that “customers come to me from Kucha Faulad Khan, from Daryaganj, from Dilli Gate…. this pant is for a customer from Kala Mahal.” He falls silent, devoting his entire attention to the job.

Meanwhile, ex-plumber Asif remains motionless, and Chhatta Aaga Jaan continues to stay quiet.