The Walled City encyclopaedia.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Many streets in Old Delhi bear something of their character in their very air. Some streets smell of milky chai from their numerous chai stalls; others of samosas frying in oil, or kebabs on skewers. In the dawn, certain lanes carry the scent of halwa-poori. While every morning from seven to ten, Chitli Qabar Chowk smells of fish, owing to vendor Parvez, who stations his cart at the centre of the crossing. There are also some streets in the historic quarter that are less pleasant, scent wise. But let us confine ourselves to those that are not.

Among them, Katra Buddhan Rai street stands out for its striking scent. This afternoon, a tiny portion is smelling of perfume. The source is a small shop toward the far end, where Hafeez Ahmed sells ittar. For more than a decade, he has run his business from this dim lane of the Walled City, though he lives nearby in Lal Gali (that street has already been profiled on this page). Inside the perfume shop, shelves hold bottles labelled Chocolate Musk, Blue Ice, and Emirates Gold. Each bears the same claim: “free from alcohol.”

Looking out through the glass door, perfume trader Ahmed observes that the lane remains dark for most of the year. The buildings lean close, blocking the sun. “The katra stays cool even during the heatwaves,” he says. “I do not feel the need for an AC, or even a cooler, during the summer.”

The conversation turns to the street’s name. A katra, Ahmed confirms, is a residential cluster built around a courtyard, traditionally inhabited by people of the same profession. Indeed, the Katra Buddhan Rai lane does open into a courtyard. This afternoon, it is the only place here receiving some daylight. Residences ring the space. The yard is empty except for a tethered goat, its head bowed. A door creaks. A tiny white Pomeranian steps out. From inside, a voice calls, “Jimmy, Jimmy.” The dog retreats.

If the street’s earliest residents shared a profession, that unity has faded. Today the professions vary, Ahmed says. As for Buddhan Rai, the long-gone man after whom the street is named, no one can offer more than conjecture. (The perfume seller is sincere enough not to offer even a conjecture.)

Now, Ahmed steps out of the shop, and walks down towards the mouth of the street. He stops at the establishment of Rehmat Ladies Tailor, who has worked here for two decades. The tailor’s desk faces the street; he is measuring a length of cloth, an inch tape draped around his neck. From his jacket pocket, Ahmed takes out a small perfume bottle labelled Opium Black, and cordially dabs a drop or two on the back of Rehmat’s palm (see photo). The tailor lifts his hand, inhales, and nods.