His life, like a Persian memory. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The stalemate in Iran continues to dominate headlines. In Delhi, we are geographically removed from the war’s direct reach, yet its repercussions are strongly felt. So too are the enduring traces of Iran’s cultural heritage, which lingers across India and in its capital. Just last evening, the Iran Culture House in Delhi opened an exhibition at Sunder Nursery titled Shared Epic Worlds: The Shahnameh, the Mahabharat, and the Indo-Persian Imagination.In fact, these pages have already explored some of the intersections between Delhi and Persia. Today, it is time to recall a great Persian scholar of our city, whose tenth death anniversary falls this year. A professor of Persian at Zakir

His poetic grace. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] His elegant sartorial style and measured manner of speaking made him look like a poet. In truth, this graceful man was a devoted reader of Urdu poetry, with a special attachment to late poet Mushir Jhinjhanvi. Partly perhaps because he was this poet’s son. Naseer Jhinjhanvi, a distinguished resident of the Walled City, died on Thursday after a prolonged illness, aged 63. He was buried in the same grave at the Dilli Gate Qabristan where his poet-father was buried 36 years ago. Two of Naseer’s sons live in Europe, but he spent his life entirely within his labyrinthine residence in Old Delhi’s crowded Chitli Qabar Chowk. The building, once defined by old-fashioned courtyards, terraces,

Passing of an iconic photographer. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The first instinct, when one came face-to-face with this lean, long-limbed artist, was to meet his gaze. Because Raghu Rai’s eyes carried entire histories within them. For decades, they had recorded the turbulence of our restless India: the Bangladesh War, the assassination of Indira Gandhi and the violence that followed, the Bhopal Gas Tragedy, Operation Blue Star. Yet that gaze would linger just as sensitively on more serene versions of India where, he would suggest, nothing really changes. Some of his most enduring work outside breaking news came in extended photo essays for India Today magazine in the 1980s--including the heart-touching feature on a sarus crane living with a human

Passing of a life. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The lane is full of absences. Even its name is absent—it has none. It begins with the shrine of a Sufi mystic who lost his life to an emperor’s wrath. The small shrine of Hazrat Sarmad Shahid in Old Delhi is painted red, the traditional color of his martyrdom. Sarmad lived unconventionally, known as the naked fakir. His life, or perhaps his defiance, lingers on in the street. A few steps away stood the makeshift home of an elderly transgender person who identified herself as a “kinnar.” Her name was Munna. She lived with a group of younger transgender people who called her their guru. One of her “chela”was the friendly Shigori,

Is Sundar Nagar really sundar. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] A rose smells like a rose. In a world that feels uncertain, that is reassuring. But names don’t always carry such certainty. Take a locality in East Delhi. Despite its name, Khichdipur doesn’t smell of khichdi. Delhi, in fact, is crammed with places whose names have drifted away from their literal meanings. Like a kati patang, a kite cut loose in the wind. Consider the elite Friends Colony and New Friends Colony. Are their residents friendlier than residents of other ‘hoods? Is Shadipur listed in any record book for hosting the maximum number of shaadiyan (weddings)? Is Swasthya Vihar especially known for swasthya (health)? Truth be told, the rooftops of Sunlight Colony are

Two influences coexisting in Deelhi. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The world is watching three nations locked in conflict. For Delhi, the confrontation carries an unexpected intimacy. The cultures of two of these countries are deeply woven into the city’s life. The American imprint is easy to spot. It flickers across OTT platforms through films and shows (Ross and Rachel!), lines the streets with coffee and burger chains (India’s first McDonald’s opened in apna Basant Lok!), and travels through family WhatsApp groups connecting Delhi homes to uncles and cousins in New Jersey and Silicon Valley. A village in Gurugram is in fact named after a US president. Iran’s influence in Delhi is less conspicuous but far older. The United States emerged a

Time capsule from a Delhi colony. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] It is not every day that a bound directory, printed on dull white paper and meant for hyperlocal consumption, acquires the aura of an archival treasure. Take this slim book, titled Portrait of a Colony. It was rescued last week from a pile of roadside litter. This was a publication destined for a Delhi locality in the early 1980s, but, forty years later, it has mutated into a time capsule from a less guarded city. The book is a rare record of a middle-class Delhi neighbourhood finding its groove, documenting the place with unintended frankness. Published in 1982 by the Jangpura Extension Welfare Association, the directory is essentially a listing

The mystery behind the trapped moon. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] As Ramzan approaches, Matia Mahal Bazar in Old Delhi is getting dressed up for the season. Fairy lights and decorative frills are being strung across the street. But these festive ornaments are inserting themselves into the street’s permanent attire: the looping, sagging power cables that criss-cross overhead. Together, they are making the market feel denser and more claustrophobic than ever, as though the sky itself has been pulled down into the street. The queer thing about these perilously dangling cables is their invisibility. They are everywhere—more visible, in fact, than the monuments and landmark shops of the Walled City—yet they barely register. Instagram reels ignore them. Guidebooks remain silent. Tourists

Mona's silver jubilee. [Text and photo by Maynak Austen Soofi] At the Paramount Book Store in Janpath market, the shelves are lined with bestselling titles. Amid the clutter, one slim hardbound quietly draws attention. Sealed in plastic, it is priced at a startling 10,000 rupees. Bookseller Naresh’s explanation: the book is rare and long out of print. Set in Delhi, Myself Mona Ahmed is regarded as a classic. This year it turns 25. Photographer Dayanita Singh’s book interlaces image and text to trace the life of Mona Ahmed, a transgender person in Old Delhi. Documented over 13 years, the work unfolds in Mona’s voice—on love, loneliness, and on her life within and outside the eunuch community. It is also a record of an

On a cold night's assignment. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] It is nearing midnight. The cold polluted Delhi air is growing chillier, here in the Walled City’s Chawri Bazar. The last of the boiled egg stalls lining the street-sides are preparing to wind down their operation. Scores of labourers, who work and live in the area, are lying along the length of the darkened market corridors, head to feet, head to feet—each body wrapped tight in blankets. On one spot along a pave, two white splendidly attired mares are standing face to face. Underneath the mares, three young men are sitting cross-legged on the pave, silently gazing at the market street. Shahnawaz, Saddam and Kamil are brothers. They introduce themselves as