The Walled City encyclopaedia.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Poet Mirza Ghalib spent his life’s last decade in a haveli that has mostly vanished from the face of the earth. Some remains remain. The story of those remains being reduced to a coal store has long been part of Delhi’s literary folklore. Whatever, that historic house of literature stands in Gali Qasim Jan, one of the many narrow lanes that crisscross the Old Delhi neighbourhood of Ballimaran.

Ballimaran is said to take its name from the ballis, the wooden poles that were used to anchor boats in the Yamuna. Another less convincing explanation also exists. A book on Delhi describes Ballimaran as the “lane of cat killers,” deriving the name from billi (cat) and maran (killing).

Now consider the contemporary aaj ka Ballimaran. The congested locality is crammed with shops selling spectacles, or chashma. In fact, Ghalib’s Ballimaran today reads like an optical catalogue: Thakur Optical beside Saurashtra Optical beside Mahavir Optical, each storefront extending the pattern. The exceptions too stay in character. Prince Optics gives way to Opticraft, interrupted only by a similar shop that drops the optical theme in its name, calling itself… now this is poetic—Eye Things! The neighbourhood is so associated with eyewear that it even has a landmark named Chashma Building.

Of course, this early morning, all the chashma shops are lying shuttered. (The homeless citizens are sleeping right in front of the shutters.) Only a few street-side establishments are active at this hour, including Azam’s Tea Stall, see photo.

Another prominent landmark in Ballimaran is the centuries-old Sharif Manzil. It is home to the elegant Masroor Ahmed Khan. His drawing room, lined with portraits of his ancestors, resembles a museum. His balcony has a view: it overlooks Ghalib’s haveli, which today functions as a museum dedicated to the poet.

Some of us may remember Ballimaran for its many carrom clubs. All are gone. One was close to Sharif Manzil, operating from a darkened musty smelling basement. It would be lit by low hanging lamps that would cast an orange glow over the boards. The players, always men, leaned nimbly over the tables as white and black carrom men would slide in every direction. The air would carry the smell of boric powder (used to smoothen the plywood boards). Whenever a piece dropped into a corner pocket, shouts of “wah” and “bahut khoob” filled the room. Just as, in the old days, poetry lovers would cry “wah” and “bahut khoob” at a poet’s clever lines.

Talking of poetry, Ballimaran is so intensely linked with Ghalib that we often forget its connection to another celebrated writer. Years ago, the neighbourhood was home to the dada ji of none other than Salman Rushdie.