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

On the passing of a bookseller. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] He was gently proud of his family-run establishment, one of Delhi’s most iconic bookstores, located in the capital’s posh Khan Market. But when you chatted with him, it seemed that he would show more enthusiasm for his connections with… Nainital. To Faqir Chand bookstore’s Anup Bamhi, who died on Saturday following a heart attack, aged 64, merely uttering the word “Nainital” was sufficient to induce him to chat nonstop about the lake town—his school-days in St Joseph’s College, his walks to the Bandstand. If you were willing, he would also lists all the Delhiwale who, like him, were alumni of Nainital’s prestigious boarding schools. Anup was also a lawyer, but the