The Walled City encyclopaedia.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

This is a strange street, one that almost seems unsure of its own name. Only a single signboard identifies it as Ram Richhpal Street—the faded board of Orion Public School (“Recognised English Medium”). Other establishments disagree. The signage of Blue Diamond Hotel and Dr Ahmad Mian Homeopathy Clinic both label the place as Gali Prem Narain, a lane that in fact lies just outside this one (and has already been chronicled on this page).

The street is short and contains only the three establishments already mentioned. This afternoon, the school’s gate is closed, and the lane carries the stillness that often settles after schoolchildren leave. The next-door hotel stands with blue stripes painted across its façade. Its plastic curtain is firmly drawn, perhaps to ward off the afternoon heat. The homeopathy clinic is open. From the street, the shaded clinic looks almost cave-like compared to the blinding glare outside. The waiting room has a notice in English, Hindi, and Urdu saying, “Patients are requested to contact through WhatsApp message only.” Ensconced inside his darkened chamber, the elderly doctor is attired in a white kurta pajama. His table is busy with a stethoscope, a blood pressure measuring machine, and a couple of very old books. An extremely polite gentleman, the doctor says that the street has a couple of houses as well, and he himself lives in the house upstairs. Talking of the street’s name, he shakes his head. “Ram Richhpal must have been a well-regarded man of his time. But who was he? That must be such an old tale.”

The most striking feature of the street is a set of stairs tucked at the end of a narrow corridor. A young man is sitting silently on the topmost step. On spotting a visitor, he rises and begins descending. Without introduction, he launches into a monologue in fluent English.

“This is a secret staircase,” he says. “It once led to a grand house. That house no longer exists. Now there is only garbage up there.” He pauses briefly. “Look at Old Delhi. People call it the Walled City—but there is no wall! What we have plenty of is garbage littering our streets.” He pauses again before continuing. “I worked in a printing press, but…”

The man keeps talking, drifting from reflection to confession, speaking about aspects of his life that he does not realise are too private to share with a stranger. After exhausting himself with the monologue, he returns to the top of the staircase and insists on being photographed. “Make it go viral,” he orders. He then rises and goes further up, disappearing from view. The street is again left deserted, until the aforementioned hotel’s plastic curtain is drawn apart and a man emerges, curious about the source of the chatty sounds in the street.