Time ticking on one stalled second.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

What’s the time, bhai?

It is six something, sir, but can’t confirm the exact minute. Can’t even tell you if it is six in the morning, or six in the evening. Be assured though, the time here will always be six something. Such is this place, here time stands halted.

Just when one imagines to have explored every hidden nook and crevice of good old Connaught Place (CP), something outrageously dramatic pops up in the area, of whose existence one had no idea. Delhi’s colonial-era shopping district is dense with history, but its ever-evolving restaurants and cafés show CP to be super-sensitive to the present, constantly altering to the expectations of the moment. This place in CP is an exception. The stilled clock stands at the periphery of CP, on its outermost circle, close to the fire station, behind Super Bazar bus stop.

The unnoticed half-hidden clock lies like a perfect city secret in the city’s heart. It ought to be visited by every citizen who aspires to be a student of Delhi’s timeless monuments and landmarks. It is an object of utmost beauty, despite being in a severely derelict state (or perhaps because of it!). Consider the clock this instant. The crystal case of the dial is gone, the minute hand is gone, the second hand is gone. All that is left of it is the hour hand, which is stuck between 6 and 7. The hours are indicated on the dial in elegant Roman numerals, even though the surface of the dial is thoroughly rusted. The clock undoubtedly bears the patina of years and seasons, bruised by alternate cycles of heatwaves and monsoons.

(On a more careful study of the clock, you will disocver that a part of the dial is continuing to hold on to its crystal cover. The fragment of the broken glass resembles a slice of the moon’s crescent.)

The ravaged clock is part of a deserted building. The building’s windows—tall and elegant—are broken. The paint on the outer wall has peeled off, exposing the underlying bricks. Two men sitting on chairs beside the deserted building say that it used to be the office of the government’s telephone department. While the office is functional in an adjacent building, they say, this particular building was vacated some decades ago. One of the men says he has been working in the said office for decades, and that until 20 years ago, the clock would tick along, always showing the correct time.

Meanwhile as seconds run into minutes, and the evening rush hour begins on the facing road, the unchanging clock in the ever-changing CP continues to mutely revel in its timelessness.