The Walled City dictionary.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Despite the sunny noon, the tiny grocery is submerged in semi-darkness. Musty and cold, it is the only grocery in Katra Bala Mal.

The quiet Old Delhi neighbourhood, close to Chawri Bazar, is a hotchpotch of beautiful but derelict doorways and cobwebby windows. Every building here appears to have been standing on its assigned space for hundreds of years. Same is the impression exuded by this grocery.

The grocery in fact used to be a telephone booth—“STD,” says the seated gent in blue sweater. The elderly Jai Shankar gazes out from behind the shop counter, discoursing in a slow melodious tone of voice on life’s unexpected patterns. “My grandfather was a clerk in the post office, my father was a pandit at Hanuman Mandir in Jumna Bazar, I run this dukaan, and my son is a car company manager.”

The conversation eventually shifts to the locality. “I was born in Katra Bala Mal.” His residence, he says, is on the floor directly above the shop.

Next moment, a figure in cardigan and shawl appears at the grocery’s door. Respectfully gesturing towards the kind-looking lady, the grocer says: “When I grow tired of sitting at the shop, my wife takes over the counter.” Omvati rests her arm against the grocery’s door, saying: “When I get tired, then your uncle again takes over”—suddenly, a child shoots into the grocery like a bullet. One hand of hers reaches out to what appears to be a candy jar; the other hand keeps the cash on the counter.

After a spell of silence, the grocer again speaks. “When I was a child, our locality had many more families than it has today.” The lady says: “Many families left for other parts of Delhi, our son moved to Rohini.” The couple frequently visit the son and his family in the faraway locality. She says: “Our good son wants us to live with him in Rohini, but all our friends are here.” He says: “If we settle outside, how will we pass our time, to whom shall we talk?”

They look towards the door, outside into the daylight. The lane ahead is ending into a courtyard ringed by scores of houses. “That is what a katra is,” quietly remarks the grocer. “Katra is a courtyard surrounded by houses of people sharing the same occupation.” The lady says: “Lekin in our Katra Bala Mal, everyone has a different occupation.” The grocer thinks that the katra must have been named after some notable figure of its long-ago past. “Today, only his name lives.” The lady nods, repeating her husband’s words, slowly and thoughtfully.