The Walled City encyclopaedia.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Despite this being the monsoon season, a luminous sun-filled afternoon is shining upon the noisy street. But it is grimly dark inside the silent atta chakki. Shyam Bansal is ensconced deep within this neighbourhood flour mill, eyes closed. On perceiving a visitor’s presence, he stirs. Soon, the darkened interiors fill up with the mill owner’s murmurings.

Shyam administers the chakki with his brother Hem. It was set up 70 years ago by their father, Deen Dayal “freedom fighter.” Lazily snuggled into a chair, the venerable figure in blue denim jeans says he is much advanced in years, and has been living in Chandni Mahal since his childhood. He was born in this very street, he says, its name meaning moonlit palace. Shyam is unable to expound anything more on the onomatology of his street. “Our Purani Dilli has many galiyan ending with the word mahal—Sheesh Mahal, Kala Mahal, Rang Mahal, Matia Mahal…”

Meanwhile, the street-life outside appears to be closely following its daily patterns. Abdullah Bukhari chai wale is grinding a sprig of ginger at his tea stall. Sherbet seller Nafees Khan is sleepily gazing at the ice slab floating in his cauldron, filled to the rim with his rose-flavoured drink. At Zubair Star Dry Cleaners, the gentleman by the counter has his palm slumped against his forehead. And, oh yes, even more grime has colonised the hoarding of Dr. Alvi’s Dental Clinic. The bottom right corner of the richly illustrated metal board bears the calligraphed signature of Shakeel Artist; the signboard painter’s work graces almost every street of the Walled City.

Inside the darkened atta chakki, Shyam continues talking of his street. “All the huge havelis have gone… many businesses too gone—Manohar Lal dhobi’s ironing stall, Ram Lal’s tea stall, Shambhu Dayal’s rashan ki dukan, Ram Dayal halwai’s mithai shop, Kashi Ram halwai’s mithai shop, our family had a coal depot, it too gone.. many families that were living in Chandni Mahal for generations left long ago for newer parts of Delhi.”

Looking about his cluttered flour mill, Shyam gets up from the chair, and leans over to pick a heavy metal platter from behind a trunk. The platter originally formed the base of a hand-operated atta chakki. “Our mataji, Premvati Devi, would use that chakki in her kitchen. Its main parts are lost, we have preserved the platter to respect mataji’s memory.”

Shyam now falls silent, arms folded on the chest. His face visible in the flour mill’s severely corroded wall-mirror.