Viceroy Minto’s memorial.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The blue sky is smudged with puffs of clouds, and with dozens of birds.

This scene is painted across the underpass ceiling.

Originally named after a British viceroy, Minto Bridge rail underpass links Connaught Place to New Delhi railway station—and beyond to GB Road red light district in the Walled City. Although rechristened after Shivaji, most Delhiwale continues to call it Minto Bridge. (As Rajiv Chowk continues to be Connaught Place.)

Despite being just another aged infrastructure utility, Minto Bridge is special. The brick masonry edifice is a symbol of the exasperation that Delhiwale feel for Dilli. Every time it rains, the underpass gets flooded, triggering handwringing, and tweets, from frustrated citizens. The bridge’s penchant for water logging is not seen as a mere rainy day bottleneck. It epitomises the city’s perceived failure to serve basic services to its honest hardworking tax-paying citizens. Some mornings ago, however, the notorious bridge made history. It witnessed “smooth traffic movement” during the heavy showers.

Built in 1933, the underpass enjoys a more favourable existence in the city’s legends and memories. Falling on a route that connects the historical Old Delhi to the British-built Delhi, it finds fond mentions in scores of city memoirs. (In the long-gone days, tongas would tiktok from Chawri Bazar to Connaught Place through this bridge).

This dry rainless afternoon, on stepping into the bridge’s tunnel-like underpass, the first notable sensation is of the sound. The roars of buses, cars, autos and bikes collapse into a single muffled roar, softly echoing off the bridge’s painted walls. The red coaches of the Hyderabad-bound express chugging on the tracks above adds to the aural experience.

Once upon a time, a liquor joint was perched beside the bridge. Splash Bar was a place to dunk down beer with butter naan. It wasn’t universally loved. A local guidebook cribbed about its “unwiped tables, tired upholstery, unsmiling waiters and forgettable Hindi film songs from the 1980s.” An international guidebook was kinder, describing it as “quite a civilised bar with food and reasonably priced beer, and quite often dance parties.”

The other bridge-side joint used to be Blue Star. It would host three cabaret shows in the evening—at 6, 8 and 10.30pm.

Long after Splash’s closure, its forlorn gate, decked with a concrete installation of cup-and-saucer had continued to stand in place. Today, all that is gone. The entire vicinity is densely green with grass and vines. No sign of bar or cabaret, but the bridge does bear a giant clock. It is showing correct time.

Meanwhile, Lord Minto lies buried thousands of miles away in a Scottish village. Considering that his name is invoked in Delhi so frequently, and with so much passion, his truer memorial has to be this bridge.