City Landmark - The Book Shop, Jorbagh & Khan Market

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The past, present and future of Delhi's lovable bookstore.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

In my dream, I find myself outside Khan Market's The Book Shop. I was told it had shut down two years ago and that there's a Swarovski show room in its place.

Wrong.

Here's the glass door, the racks, the new arrivals, the poetry shelf, the history section, and in the cubicle – the turbaned Mr Kanwarjit Singh Dhingra, aka KD Singh – a bookseller for 38 years. And here's one of his pretty daughters carrying a cup of cold coffee. Suddenly, the ground opens up. The books falls into the void. KD, too. A whipping wind. A blinding light. The dream ends. I'm in a Swarovski showroom!

They were right. Khan Market's The Book Shop is history.

I walk up Subramaniam Bharti Marg, through Lodhi Garden, across the Lodhi Road, into Jorbagh Market. Next to Steakhouse, where there's a small crowd, stands an establishment where there's no crowd. What's this? Could it be…? It certainly looks like it…. Here are the racks, the new arrivals and in the cubicle – KD and wife Nini.

This is no dream.

This Jorbagh bookstore, called The Book Shop, circa 1970, was the first of KD's many bookstores. But methinks that the shop at Khan Market, his fifth, was more original than the original.

During the hey days of Khan Market booksellers, people would head there for books, not shoes and sandwiches. Those who wanted tomes on current affairs patronised Bahrisons. Coffee table book lovers would spend hours in Timeless Art Book Studio. Genesis was for children. Full Circle tempted those seeking self-help and a cup of coffee. Bargain hunters hung out in Fakirchand. For literary fiction, the address was The Book Shop. Since 1982.

There used to be a joke among Delhi journos that if you wanted to interview so-and-so, hang around in The Bookshop and you would get that guy. True.

All the so-and-sos' came here – Shashi Tharoor, Manju Kapur, Bulbul Sharma, William Dalrymple, VS Naipaul, Jan Morris and Salman Rushdie. Gabriel Garcia Marquez spent an afternoon here.

Khushwant Singh once wrote he would park his car in front of the Bahrisons and shop at The Bookshop. The Peruvian ambassador of the time would come to get LPs of western classical music (KD sell that, too). When Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things came out in 1997, the only place in Delhi to find the novel during the first two months was at The Bookshop.

The sun shone for 24 years even as the monthly rent of the 480 sq feet of retail space spiralled. While KD paid Rs 20, 000, the landlord, old friend Maneka Gandhi, expected more. Things fell apart. KD left Khan Market and returned to Jorbagh where wife Nini was holding fort.

"Delhi lost a damn good bookstore," KD sighs. "The Bookshop at Khan Market can't be replaced by me or anybody else. It was at the right place at the right time."

The Jorbagh store, too, has character. Early this year it was described by The New York Times as "the coziest bookstore in the country." This is also perhaps the only store, apart from Fact & Fiction in Basant Lok, that keeps handsome if expensive classics by The New York Review of Books. Most lie unsold. "If customers can't afford them it's my bad luck," he says. "But I must give them an option."

The owner, has become a city institution. Not many know that it was KD who started the legendary Bookworm in Connaught Place (the spiral staircase there was his idea). KD also ran a bookstore at the Manor hotel in Friends Colony, besides opening a bookshop in Calcutta! They all closed down. "Our Jorbagh establishment survived," says Nini.

However, if rentals at Jorbagh go up, KD might have to close this shop, too. He's not worried. You, too, don't worry if you observe more crowds in the adjacent Steakhouse. KD has a partnership there.

Next year looks more cheery. On April 1, Rachna, KD's eldest daughter, will open her bookstore in Toronto, Canada. Compared to Jorbagh's 350 sq ft, hers would have a floor area of 33,000 sq ft.

KD may not make it for the opening. He is 67 and still busy. Each morning he drives down in his metallic blue Corolla from his Noida Sector 25 bungalow to Jorbagh. He never has lunch. Only at 7.30 pm, when he has finalised the next day's orders and made sure there are no customers lurking, does he turn off the lights and go home to a well-deserved meal.

Where Jorbagh Market (next to Steakhouse) Ph 011-2469-7102

Driver, stop!



Waiting



The Old Gentry, outside the Book Shop



KD, the Book Shop bookseller



No, that one



KD, suggest me a book



Portrait of a marriage

Muslim Talk - "Ammi was Shocked to See Half-Naked Girls in Barista"

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Chatting with two Muslim ladies in Jamia Nagar

[Interview and picture by by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Mrs Falak Khan is a young wife with two children. She lives in South Delhi at Gaffar Manzil, Jamia Nagar. The interview was done in Hindi.

Falak, what's the meaning of your name?

Aasmaan. Sky. It is an Arabic word.

You are an Indian Muslim woman. Do you feel victimized in this city, in this country?
No.

Don't you think that there are occasions when you are discriminated because of your name ... because of your religion?

Never. My daughter, Aital, is in the IVth standard. She was earlier studying at Summerfield School. I wanted her admission at KR Mangalam World School which is one of Delhi's best. Aital was a topper. She was instantly admitted to Mangalam. I know this happened because she was very good in her studies. We didn't resort to any bribe or depended on any sifarish by any influential person. Aital is a Muslim and there was no trouble.

So, you feel Muslims are not discriminated?

Mayank, in India, if you are good, nobody can stop you. Isn't filmstar Shahrukh Khan a Muslim? What about (India's former cricket captain) Azharuddin? He too is a Muslim.

Then why are Muslims so backward and uneducated?

Because they don't study much. Schools are there but they don't send their children there. They are also very poor. They are tempted to put their children into work for extra income. Since parents are not educated themselves, they do not realize that a good education could change the lives of their children.

Falak, tell me about yourself. About your family, your husband, your childhood, your education.

(Smiles) ...From where to start? Ok. I'm from Kaimganj. It is a small town in North India. Papamian, my father, is a landlord there. Our great-grand father's grand father had come from Afghanistan and had settled there.

You are from Afghanistan? Exotic!

Excuse me, I'm from India. So I was saying that there are about two dozen Pathan families in Kaimganj. India's former President Zakir Hussain too hailed from Kaimganj. We are the two most renowned families there. We are distantly related, too.

Your education?

I did my schooling in Kaimganj itself - in a girls' school there. Later, I did graduation in Political Science and Sociology from Aligarh Muslim University.

Being a young Muslim girl, do you think you had to face restrictions? How did your father let you live in Aligarh? Away from home?

There was no problem. Papamian wanted all of us four brothers and sisters to have good education. And then I lived in a girls' hostel in Aligarh. But now, when I remember, there indeed were restrictions for being a Muslim girl. There were pachaas advices of what-to-do and not-to-do. We weren't allowed to visit the homes of our girl friends there. Dupatta was very important. We just could not go out without a dupatta. Our lives revolved around it. However inside the hostel, we were relatively free. We could even wear jeans!

Your description sounds so normal. It could be the life of any Indian girl. The general impression among the non-Muslims is that the Muslim girls live behind black burqas and that their life is very tough. Perhaps you are an exception.

Well, I don't know. But yes, there are problems. Sometimes our religion comes in between. It restricts us. Sometimes there is confusion. We get scared if we could be doing anything wrong. That it might be at variance with our religion. My younger sister wanted to be a dancer. She even wanted to become an actress. But Papamian didn't allow it.

What about purdah?

It's a religious thing. But we aren't forced to wear it. My husband has no problems. I go to gym, exercise on treadmill at home, and go for evening walks. It's fine. But when we go to Kaimganj, there things are different. If we go out there, we have to wear a chaddor. However now customs are relaxing. You know what, Mayank: In Kaimganj, we do not feel comfortable outside without a chaddor...

Was yours an arranged marriage?

Yes, of course. (Laughs)

But were you consulted?

Yes, if I would not have liked Avsaar Mian, my parents would had dropped the idea and looked elsewhere. But I liked him. He is very nice. I can shout at him for ever and ever but he has never raised his voice at me. Inshaallah.

Your life is different, perhaps because you come from a wealthy family. But what about the general condition of Muslim women? Do you know, a few years ago, a magazine survey has revealed that only one in 101 Muslim women in India is a graduate?

Is it so? Very bad. But Islam doesn't stop women from doing all sorts of things. Take that famous bar dancer from Bombay - Tarannum. And then there is Tennis star Sania Mirza. And take me , a house wife. We all are Muslims. Look, it's not your religion alone that decides the life you chose for yourself.

What do you feel when you hear about terrorist attacks? It is alleged that the Delhi bomb blasts were carried by a Muslim fundamentalist group. In fact, there was a terrorist encounter right here in Jamia Nagar following the blasts.

I feel very bad. When I see all those dead bodies on TV ... Mayank, how can you distinguish a Muslim or a Hindu from those dead bodies? I feel terrible. That somebody somewhere must had been waiting for those dead people ... it is horrible.

I still remember Rupin Katyal. You know him? He was a honeymooner who was killed during the plane hijacking by Muslim terrorists. I cried when he was shot dead by the hijackers. I know if I would have been in that plane, I would have prayed, pleaded, and impressed those terrorists with my knowledge of Koranic verses and would have bought the plane back with all the passengers alive and safe. My heart still bleeds for that poor man, and his parents and widow.

When terrorist events take place, what is your first feeling? Do you think that "Oh now we Muslims will again be blamed", or something on those lines?

I just feel sick. Kasam Khuda ki. (I swear on Allah) My only plea to terrorists is to please stop all this. We are scared. I'm afraid even while going to PVR multiplex in Saket. What if something happens to my children? How could a bomb planted by Islamic terrorists know that my son is a Muslim?

[After a pause]

Everytime a blast happens, accusations are pointed towards Pakistan-based terrorists, and then it is the turn of us Muslims. Why are we accused for their actions? It's so insulting. I feel humiliated.

Hundreds of Muslims were killed in the Gujarat riots of 2002. Some people say that terror attacks were a reaction to it. Muslims were not getting justice. So they were humiliated and they took revenge by killing Hindus.

Mayank, tell me how could you imagine that I might get any satisfaction by watching the dead bodies of Hindus on my TV?

My son's best friend is a Hindu. His name is Ankush. He makes our life terrible by calling Arbaaz at all the odd hours and talking non-stop for hours and hours. Can I derive satisfaction if Ankush is killed in a bomb blast?

How could I be happy by the killing of Hindus? What sort of a question is this? My best friend till the Vth standard was a Hindu. Her name was Anita. I still remember her. We were very close friends. I even used to get her clothes stitched from our family tailor. How can I hate Hindus? How can I get pleasure by Anita's husband being killed by terrorists?

[Here we are joined by Khaleda Begum, Falak's mother, who is visiting from Kaimganj]

Falak: Mayank, here is Ammi (mother). You must talk to her. Her youth was very different.

In what way? Were you discriminated? Were the rules harsher in your time?

Falak: Mayank, she was very beautiful when young. A real diamond!

[Khaleda Begum laughs]

Khaleda Begum: Son, if my parents were not my own mother and father, I would have gone on cursing them till the end of my life. They did not let me study. All I wanted was education. But even to mention the word 'school' in front of our father was haraam.

Oh, tell me about your life. How were you raised?

Khaleda Begum: It was very bad. We were locked inside purdah. We could not go out. We had to stay home all the time. Even if we had to go to meet relatives, which was rare, we had to go in a tonga that had a purdah draped all around it. It was terrible. All we did was stay at home and talk about wedding proposals.

Did you see your husband before marriage?

Khaleda Begum: No. We were not allowed to.

Oh, that's sad.

Khaleda Begum: But he was a distant relative so I knew about him. It was not bad. I'm very lucky.

Tell me more. What did your parents think of Hindus? That Hindus are bad people? One must not sit with them? One must not mingle much with them? That they were Kafirs?

Khaleda Begum: Rubbish. Nothing like that. I never heard any bad thing being said about Hindus. My maika [mother's home] is in Lalpur. We used to live, and still live, surrounded by Hindus. We have some close relations with some of the Hindu families there.

And what is this about not sitting with Hindus, Mayank son. Aren't I sitting with you? My sister-in-law is a Hindu. Many years back I had certain silly notions about Hindus. But when (sister-in-law) Rekha came and when she started drinking water from my glass, I gave no second thoughts of using her used glass, too. Where's the difference?

Khaledaji and Falak, what do you think about the present environment? Hasn't it grown ugly? Isn't there a deep divide between Hindus and Muslims, now?

Khaleda Begum: It is all because of the politicians. They all are bad.

[After a pause]

Falak: Mayank, the problem with Hindus is they do not think deep. They think every bearded man with a skull cap is a terrorist. They do not understand that these are merely the symbols of our religion. Do you look upon every turbaned Sikh as Khalistani supporter?

No.

Falak: Then why is it with our case? Hindus just do not know anything about us. Mayank, I know everything about Hindu rituals. I'm familiar with every little ceremony in their marriages. But I'm sure that if you query Hindu women about rituals in nikah (Muslim wedding), they would be tongue tied.

Khaleda Begum: I really like some of their festivals, like Raksha Bandhan. It has nothing to do with Hindus or Muslims. It is all about heart.

Falak: If only Hindus know more about us, they may change their opinions about us.

Khaleda Begum: But Mayank son, you must also write that I don't view people as Hindu or Muslim. If I'll see a Muslim bachha and a Hindu bachha falling off from a cliff, I will rush to save both of them. I won't go first only to the Muslim. I will save them together.

Why, every time I come to Delhi I take Arbaaz's and Aital's old clothes and give it to Bhurbhuriyas [Rajasthani gypsy tribes] living in our Kaimganj farm since 5 years. They all are Hindus. So what!

Now a sensitive question: do you cheer for Pakistan, or know anybody who does so in India-Pak cricket matches?

[Both burst into laughter]
Khaleda Begum: Save us from such questions.

But really, what do you think of Pakistan?

Khaleda Begum: We are better in all the respects than Pakistan. There are so many restrictions and control on women there. India is a much better place. Allah be grateful for making me born in India.

Falak: I think their women are too much into makeup and hair-dye. Too modern.

Khaleda Begum: Falak, the place where you took me yesterday evening! Tell that to Mayank.

Falak: We had taken Ammi to Barista coffee shop. She was so shocked to see the girls there.

Khaleda Begum: They were wearing almost nothing. No clothes. No looks. And no clue about education!

But the world is changing. Your grand daughter will roam around in micro minis when she grows up.

Falak: Mayank, in Islam they say: Aurat wohi bakshi jayegi jo sharamgaho ko chhupakar rakhegi. [Loosely translated: Only those women will be rescued who will carefully hide their assets from public gaze.] We believe that those Muslim women who expose their bodies will burn in hell.

In that case I'm nervous for the afterlife of your grand children, Falak.
[We all burst out laughing]

Khaleda Begum: We Muslims say that during the time of resurrection, buildings will be so tall that just looking up will make your topi fall down from your head...

Falak: And each boy will be surrounded by four girls...

Sounds cool...

[A pause]

Let me change the subject. I see you have a Honda City car parked in your yard. You seem to be very wealthy. Then why are you staying in this locality? Do not misunderstand me please, but when I was coming here I had to cover my nose. The drains are open. It is stinking outside. You can afford to live in a better place. Why here?

Falak: I understand your point. But after so many communal riots we are just too careful. We want to live amongst our co-religionists.

My husband is a builder. Many wealthy people returning from Dubai and Saudi Arabia come to him looking for houses. Their only condition is for a Muslim locality. They have money to buy apartments in posh areas but nobody feels safe any longer.

Falak, any last word you would like to say?

[Long pause]

Mayank, I'm proud of being an Indian. I think Indian Muslims are the best Muslims in the world. We are the most forward. Our former president was a Muslim.

Please tell your readers for my sake that I do not have any soft corner for Pakistan. Neither have I any desire to go there. I love the freedom here. I love my India.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

Guest Column – The Delhi Walla is Fake

The Delhi walla's pretension in writing makes me want to lodge a bullet in his balls - Blogger Nimpipi, the woodchuck chucks
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This blogsite presents an incomplete Delhi and stereotype the Muslims.

[Text by Sushant; picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

I have been following The Delhi Walla for a long time. The blogger Mayank Austen Soofi has painted Delhi as a city of hermits, mystics, tombs, dargahs, Ghalib, graveyards, eunuchs, ghettos, sufi saints and other historical memoarabilia. It’s refreshing and informative to read about so many little wonders that we have in Delhi, that most of us usually ignore in our robotic lives of today.

But why does Mayank portray Delhi as a predominantly Islamic city, that too a regressive one? Are all Delhi Muslims skull-capped, bearded, shalvar-kurta-clad, ghetto-living people? Isn't this blogger aware that many of them have moved with time and are as progressive as any Westerner?

The Delhi of today is a melting pot of various religions, cultures, creeds, ethnicities, socio-economic backgrounds and also nationalities.

Delhi is not just about the Muslim community living in the Walled City, Nizamuddin Basti, Seelampur and Jamia Nagar.

Delhi is also about the Punjabis of Lajpat Nagar, Pitampura, Karol Bagh, Kalkaji and Greatet Kailash; the Sikhs of Rajouri Garden, Paschim Vihar and Hargobind Enclave; the Bengalis of Chittaranjan Park; the Sindhis of Mayfair Gardens; the Kashmiris of Pamposh Colony; the Malyaalis of RK Puram; the Tamilians of Mayur Vihar Phase–I; the Gujjars of Badarpur and Rajokri; the small-town students of North Campus; the expat community of Chanakyapuri; the firang tourists of Paharganj; the super rich of Vasant Vihar, Defence Colony, Sainik Farms, Panchsheel Park and Prithvi Raj Road; the pirated DVD sellers of Palika Baazar and Nehru Place; the BPO population of Malviya Nagar, Satya Niketan and Khirki.

As a self-proclaimed Delhi Walla, why has Mayank never written about them?

Jama Masjid and Nizam-ud-din Dargah aren't the only holy places in the city. There are also Bangla Saheb, Sis Ganj Sahib and Moti Bagh Gurudwaras, the Dar-e-Meher (Delhi's Only Parsi Fire Temple), Laddakh Buddha Vihar near Red Fort, St. James Church and Sacred Heart Cathedral and, of course, the Lakshmi Narayan Mandir, Hanuman Mandir of Baba Kharak Singh Marg, Jhandewaala Mandir, Maata Ka Mandir of New Friends Colony, the Akshardham Mandir and the Chattarpur Mandir.

As a self-proclaimed Delhi Walla, why has Mayank never written about them?

Food in Delhi is not just about the nahris, kormas and biryanis of Jama Masjid area. It’s also about the chhole bhature of Chachas in Kamla Nagar, the dosas of Sagar Ratna, the pastries of Wengers, the kathi rolls of Nizams, the mughlai parathas and chops of CR Park, the tandoori chicken of Galina, the chicken tikka masala of Moti Mahal, the various chaats and parathas of Chandni Chowk, the shawarmas of New Friends Colony, the hot chocolate fudge of Nirulas and,above all, the dal makhani of Bukhara.

As a self-proclaimed Delhi Walla, why has Mayank never written about them?

Instead of celebrating Delhi's diversity, Mayank projects the Capital as an underdeveloped city of a certain not-so-prosperous religious community.

I guess either The Delhi Walla is deliberately doing this, or he is a fake Delhi walla.

While Mayank constantly updated us with the goings on during the Ramzan, finally leading up to Eid (complete with some excellent pictures), I never find him talking about the various other festivals that are celebrated in Delhi by a lot more people.

He never wrote about Janmashtami; he hardly covered the Durga Puja pandals and Dussehra, and nothing about Pongal and Onam. No Easter and Christmas and no Baisakhi and Gurupurab, either.

I’m writing this piece on Diwali eve and what has agitated me the most is that Mayank’s latest piece is not on this festival, but again about a Muslim ghetto. What Ganesh Chathurthi is to Mumbai and Durga Puja is to Kolkata, Diwali is to Delhi. It would have been great to get something from Mayank on Diwali. His writing is good.

However, if Mayank loves Muslims, why not write about those progressive Muslims who have made Delhi proud: Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, sufi singer Zila Khan, sitar player Shujaat Khan, fashion designer Nida Mahmood, cultural colossus Muzaffar Ali, theater maestro Aamir Raza Hussain, disability activist Javed Abidi and Bollywood icon Shah Rukh Khan.

Instead, in this blogsite, Mayank stereotype the Muslims as hapless and medieval people, not as those who helped made the city an enigma it is.

I wish The Delhi Walla finally starts chronicling all that that makes Delhi one of the world's greatest cosmopolitan cities.

[The article has been partially edited for clarity's sake]

Special Recommendation – Time Out Nizamuddin Basti

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The soul of Delhi.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The Delhi Walla has often been accused of focusing too much on dargahs and tombs. Doesn’t Delhi also boast of actors, activists, writers, singers, museums, bazaars, malls, gardens, temples, colleges, besides various nagars, puris and baghs.

The city has all this and more.

There are suburban apartments in the east taken over by honest, hardworking tax-payers. The squalor of the west has been somewhat rescued by its first-world malls coupled with an extensive metro rail network. In the north, the young, hopeful campus life of Delhi University runs parallel to the old, sad, genteel world of Civil Lines bungalows. In the Capital’s central district, the touristy charm is ably captured by the Red Fort and Connaught Place. While everything that translates to glamour, style, and wealth falls in the kitty of the dishy crowd of the south.

But to The Delhi Walla, these are not the images evoked by the words "The soul of Delhi." The vision that arises is that of abandoned ruins, old doorways, narrow streets, rose petals, Urdu verses, evening azaan, hidden courtyards, soaring kites, veiled ladies, tandoori ovens, itar stalls, seekh kebabs, invisible djinns, quickie sex, unknown tombs, and sufi dargahs.

The Nizamuddin Basti, so often considered a filthy Muslim ghetto, is the epitome of this world. And the heart of the Basti is the Dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya – inviting, calm, tranquil and lovely.

To those Delhi wallas who have never visited this part of the city -- there are many -- the Delhi Walla recommends that they must set out immediately for the excursion.

You might have shopped in Karol Bagh, clicked photographs in Qutb Minar, performed namaz in Jama Masjid, and might have even read William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns, but if you haven’t visited Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah yet, you haven’t experienced Delhi.

Tourist spotting, in a Basti bylane



Someone's praying, in a Basti mosque



Someone's praying, in the Dargah courtyard



Someone's praying, at the shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin



Worldy talk



City of djinns, at Jahanara's tomb



Khilji Masjid, inside the Dargah



Sukoon, while listening to the Dargah qawwali

City Life - India Habitat Center as a Dating Zone

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The hangout for art-loving romantic couples.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Little did Mr Joseph Allen Stein, the architect of India Habitat Center, must have imagine that the five restaurants, four galleries, one auditorium, amphitheatre and a sprawling atrium in his well-ventilated, well-lit designed complex would be so well-exploited by Delhi's young people to schomooze with their lovers.

The Capital's cultural hub known for hosting plays, book readings, music concerts, dance performances, art exhibitions, corporate luncheons has also become a place for -- where's your partner? -- dating. The art galleries that are already booked for the next two years now freely exhibit public display of affection.

Mr Muhammad Khalid, a khadi-clad Edward Said-reading activist, prefers to meet his boyfriend on the stairs behind the Stein auditorium. "We discuss the growing communalism, trash Samuel P. Huntington's Clash of Civilisation and hold hands," he says.

Sex, of course, is universal. Playing around with a lover's body gives the same pleasure -- whether you do it behind Nehru Park bushes or behind a canvas at IHC's Visual Arts Gallery. But the aura at IHC -- created by the soft combo of sculptures, paintings, classical music concerts and dance performances -- makes the experience more sensual.

"We do not meet here just for kiss-and-grope sessions. We also get a high by watching Shovana Narayan's dance performances," says Ms Anupama Mittal, a Fashion Designing student who comes here often with her love interest. A perfect case of the carnal meeting the cerebral.

It helps that IHC is funky. Unlike the conservative members-only India International Center with its grey-haired historians and pesky security guards, IHC is indeed more youthful with its college-theatre fests and inexpensive food joints like the multi-cuisine restaurant Eatopia.

Theater director Mr Rudradeep Chakraborty, an IHC regular, has often noticed couples sitting there all day long particularly if it's a breezy, cloudy day. "IHC has a higher status than Mandi House and attracts youngsters from elite backgrounds", he says.

However, is it really the class or the cultural difference that decides who kiss at the neighboring Lodhi Garden and who lip-lock at Stein auditorium?

"Most Delhi lovers meet outside since they don't have a place but we are very different from garden lovers," says Ms Poorti Singh, who was enjoying a date in American Diner, the popular eatery in IHC. "We don't meet just to do that. We like doing other things too like visiting galleries, watching shows and eating food." It helps there are no thullas or hijras to harass. "IHC is frequented by sophisticated people and they leave couples to their coupling," says Mr Chakraborty.

On its website, IHC claims to provide a "physical environment which would serve as a catalyst for a synergetic relationship between individuals… and therefore, maximise their total effectiveness". It almost succeeds.

Dateline Mehrauli - No Fervour for Phool Waalon ki Sair

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A terrorist attack has disturbed the fragility of our multi-religious society.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Twenty-four days after the deadly bomb blast that killed a rickshaw-walla's child, The Delhi Walla goes to Mehrauli and finds that life is not rolling along as usual.

Out there on the streets, you sense little enthusiasm for Phool Waalon ki Sair, a 3-day festivity especially noted for its inter-religious character -- it begins in a Muslim shrine and ends in a Hindu temple. It was to start the next day. This is my account of how a terrorist attack disturbs the fragility of our multi-religious society.

By now, in Jahaz Mahal, a 16th century ship-shaped monument just across the bazaar, the naatak mandlis (theater companies) should have started their rehearsals. The stage should have been set up. Instead, it looks haunted. The mela ground on Aam Bagh, too, should have stirred to life with swings and giant wheels. Instead, poles were still being set up and trolleys still needed to be lifted and fixed on to the giant wheel.

“The buzz usually starts 15 days in advance,” says Mr Anuj Khattar, the owner of an electrical shop. “But this time you don’t feel that Phool Waalo ki Sair is around.” Mr Khattar then points to a crater outside his store, at the middle of the street. That’s the blast site. It’s now covered up with cement. On the afternoon of September 27, 2008, Mr Khattar’s father was one of the injured.

With his bandaged leg resting on a low wooden stool, Mr Baldev Raj Thakkar is reading a newspaper in a godown, not far from his son’s store. He betrays no bitterness.

“This year Phool Waalon ki Sair has a more pressing relevance,” says 58-year-old Mr Khattar who has lived all his life in Mehrauli. “While we are conditioned to believe that terrorist attacks would create Hindu-Muslim rift, this procession celebrating both religions will prove that no such divide has taken place.”

It’s a sentiment shared by Mr Deen Mohamamd whose saree showroom, facing Mr Khattar’s store, lies on the other side of the crater. “Look, on one side of this ghadda is a Hindu’s shop and on the other a Muslim’s,” Mr Deen argues. “That means those terrorists had no religion.”

Many people I talked to repeated the same argument. But probe deeper and fears and conspiracy theories surface.

“After the blast, many have become fearful of Muslims,” says Mr Bunti, a Khaki-dressed security guard who walks the bazaar lane looking for disturbances. Similarly, the old caretaker in Hijron ka Khanqah, a 15th century sufi spiritual retreat close to the blast site, whispers that a large number of Muslims were killed in the blast but their death was kept secret. “Yet, I’ll pray for Hindus, too, during Phool Waalo ki Sair,” he says.

Interestingly, this festival, befitting its ‘secular’ label, has very sarkari origins. It was started by a Mughal queen in the dargah of Khwaja Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki during the dying years of her dynasty. Since then, barring a few years when the British stopped it, a chaddar decorated with flowers is offered on the shrine of Bakhtiyar Kaki; the next day a floral pankha offered at the nearby Jogmaya temple. During the Raj, a British Deputy commissioner would be the chief guest; today it's Delhi's Lieutenant Governor.

However, despite the lack of upbeat mood, the Dargah has dutifully started white-washing its walls. Its eight in-house qawwals, too, are busy challenging the limits of their vocal chords. “We're ordering around twenty quintals of flowers from the mandis of Mehrauli and Chandni Chowk,” promises Mr Naseer Ahmed Hashmi, a dargah official.

I witnessed no such eagerness in Jogmaya temple, though. “No special arrangement here,” says Mr Nandu, the temple’s sevadar. “But come for the bhajans.”

A bit too quiet, the Mehrauli dargah



These qawwals have no audience



Sister, whom you praying for?



No buzz outside Jahaz Mahal



No buzz inside Jogmaya temple



Hope floats - the Hindu and the Muslim shopkeeper at Ground Zero

City Watch - Is New Friends Colony Friendlier?

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The strange logic behind the naming of Delhi neighbourhoods.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Shakespeare says, that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. The other day, I went to Khichdipur in east Delhi and could not smell any khichdi.

What difference would it have made if the place were called Biryanipur? But trust Delhi not to care for such existential questions. The city is littered with localities that have weirdly funny names.

I asked my rich friends in New Friends Colony and they couldn't say why NFC is called so. "We live in a spirit of friendliness perhaps…," said Anupama Ghosh, a resident there.

If that's the logic, then are there more shaadis at Shadipur? Are people in Swastha Vihar healthier? Are rooftops in Sunlight Colony decked with solar panels? Do people in Maujpur, near Shahdara, have more mauj than the population anywhere else? Is Gole Market gole? Uhmm...it actually is.

Another curious name is that of the Metro station near Seelampur, called Welcome. I thought that it might be Metro's first ever station in Delhi, which is why they named it so. I was wrong. Says Anuj Dayal of Delhi Metro, "Shahdara is our first station, not Welcome, which is named after a colony called Welcome." Ouch!

But the Oscar for the most creative name goes to a neighbourhood called — hold your breath — Nasbandi Colony.

Around 20 years ago, the government, in a desperate attempt to control the population, drafted a policy awarding free plots in an NCR wasteland to anyone who underwent a nasbandi (vasectomy). Around 5,000 did and became citizens of what came to be known as Nasbandi Colony.

I, too, may consider a nasbandi but the free plot needs to be in New Friends Colony.

Book Review – The Immigrant, Manju Kapur

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Delhi’s middle-class chronicler enters a new territory and fails.

[By Mayank Austen Soofi; picture credit is unknown]

John Updike once said that a critic is most gratefully regarded when he dismisses a new book from any obligation to be read. That's my privilege, today. Too bad it has to be with Ms Manju Kapur. As a Delhi writer, she can, I'm sure, find out where I live. Gulp. Her novels about 'middle-class' women are almost always risk-less, so I don't wish to risk too much offence by writing a bad review.

Now onto her fourth novel -- Ms Kapur lacks the depth of her acclaimed debut, Difficult Daughters. She also fails to bring out the fine nuances in the lives of her characters, something she so admirably accomplished in her last novel, Home.

Instead, The Immigrant (published by Randome House India, price - Rs 395) suffers from a jerky narrative, predictable plot, and dialogues as flat as two-day-old beer. Just occasionally, there are scenes of brilliance but they are too few, too far apart to make any substantive difference.

The story, set in the 70s, is nothing new, which is all right – beautiful tales can be woven out of similar plots and characters.

So, here is our heroine – 30 and unmarried. Nina is a lonely English lecturer in Delhi's Miranda House college, living with her widowed mother in Jangpura. While mamma is anxious for the marriage of her "sweet, innocent, virgin" daughter, Nina has been "chewed, mashed into pulp and swallowed" by a serial lover.

But happy days soon arrive. A marriage is arranged with an NRI dentist and Nina flies to small-town Canada, after a short honeymoon in the Oberoi Hotel. There the usual immigrant-in-a-strange-world trick: a desi woman in the land of peanut butter and cold NRI relatives. No one to talk to but the husband, and the only connect to home are the phone calls to mamma. Oh reader, sit back and pity poor Nina.

The immigrant who comes as a wife has a more difficult time. If work exists for her, it is in the future, and after much finding of feet. At present all she is, is a wife, and a wife is alone, for many, many hours.

Nina's life is only more miserable. Blame the West-stricken husband. Ananda, call him Andy, suffers from premature ejaculation -- a disorder that the author exploits to dish out sex scenes so dysfunctional that you may not like to have sex for the next two and a half weeks. Try this:

She put her arms around him, slid her hands inside his pants, and caressed his faulty, furtive organ. 'Please, darling, it will make such a difference to our marriage. Don't you want to have better sex?'

Yes, Ma'm, everyone desires that but at least in this novel, as Nina notes, one day, after browsing through a book titled Male Sexuality, "sex was another country."

The bad sex, an interesting twist however, serves as a rift to disenchant the couple from each other, and so is not the novel's problem. The trouble is there's no attempt to wade deep, really deep, into the complexities that could have rescued it from its underlying inertia.

Theoretically, the scope of Nina's evolution from being a weepy barren wife to an independent woman who has sex outside the marriage and is no longer dying to make babies is suitably sweeping but Ms Kapur is unsuccessful in adding that je ne sais quoi that could have made the transition more gripping, more satisfying.

The author who so realistically drew out the world of Karol Bagh housewives in Home fails to go beyond the cardboard clichés of the immigrant experience in North America. While her characters try peeling off their immigrant's identity – having steak, having sex with white people, Ms Kapur's own immigration to this genre fails. Unlike, say, Ms Jhumpa Lahiri, her NRIs are less flavoured, less affectionate, less complicated, less convincing.

May be Canada is too far for her. May be she should return to middle-class Delhi.

City Walk – Gali Qasim Jaan, Ballimaran

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Strolling in Mirza Ghalib’s street.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Global economic meltdown is also melting down the mood in Gali Qasim Jaan, Delhi's Stratford-upon-Avon. This street in Ballimaran is home to the haveli of Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib -- our Shakespeare, our Basho, our Hafez.

Start your tour from the open-air chaikhana (6 am to 6 pm, Sunday closed) of Mr Sharif Hassan. “Earlier my daily customers were around fifty," he says. "No longer." Shukriya, recession.

Two months ago, Mr Hassan needed 15 litres of milk daily to run his establishment. Now, it's 10 litres. Not far away is the paan stall of Mr Naeem, who hails from Darbhanga in Bihar. His spirits, too, are subdued. "My clients who would have two ghutkas or cigarettes are doing with just one," he says.

Don’t let the blues beat you down. Come back to the chaikhana. Mr Hassan's elaichi-flavoured chai, served in a proper china cup, will cheer you up. Ask for malai, no extra charge.

Since Ghalib's haveli is a five-minute walk away, this chaiwalla must be reciting Ghalib's verses on the drop of a...tea. No luck. He doesn’t know a single verse. Neither does Mr Syed Faqir Hassan, his 22-year-old son.

But, boy, Mr Faqir is a casanova. A fan of Kajol and Katrina Kaif, he has girlfriends in Pharash Khana, Kucha Pandit and Lakshmi Nagar. "The one in Lakshmi Nagar is the prettiest," he says, loaded with tashan.

Since Mr Faqir can't recite Ghalib to his girls, why does he take them to Lodhi Garden and Purana Quila? "There are other things to do," he says with a knowing smile.

Soon, a discovery: an old man joins us. Mr Ramma Babu is the authentic Ghalib guy. He walks Ghalib, talks Ghalib, sings Ghalib. For me, he sings -- “Ishq par jor nahi...” What performance. Wah wah. Museum-item, bhaijaan. Available between 11 am and 1 pm, daily in the chaikhana.

I walk ahead. On the right is Rabea Girls Public School, established by – if you really care -- some Hakeem Abdul Hameed.

Who’s he? How do I know? I couldn’t even find out who was this Mr Qasim Jaan after whom this street is named. One guy said that he was a hakeem while another revealed – “He wasn't my uncle.”

This uncle-less young man, however, is interesting. His eatery, Shafiq Naimat Kada, is known for its nahiri and paya (buffalo, not cow).

Despite his oily gravies, Mr Mukarram Ali has no paunch, no heart-problem but he has the recession problem. “Labour class make for the biggest chunk of our clients,” says Mr Ali who is pursuing a Bachelor's degree in Jamia University. “But their numbers have gone down.”

Once done licking the nahiri, it’s time for the next-door store selling American Standard Melamite crockery, Made-in-China of course. Pick anything – plate, bowl, tray, whatever – and the price is always Rs 120 for a kg.

Awwwww, a brown cat outside – under the barber’s chair. Meew.

I follow her, down the lane, and walk past a happy-looking woman ironing a long, long cloth, being held in place, not by one, but by three people. What sight.

And why so many goggle stores? I storm inside Unique Opticals and demand an answer. “Ballimaran is an old mandi for goggles and shoes," says Mr Mohammad Saeed, the owner. “We get stuff from Bombay, Malaysia, China, Korea, Italy and prices range from Re 1 to Rs 1 lakh.” Really. “But have you read any Ghalib?” I ask. “Naheen.” I repeat the same question to street vendors, including a fruit seller, and it’s always – “Naheen, naheen, naheen.”

Finally, I’m at the other end and now -- inside Ghalib’s haveli.

Though Ghalib lived in several Delhi neighborhoods, he died here. I’m excited.

But there's just a little dark museum, a little courtyard, a little verandah, a few books and, across the partition, a telephone booth! Ghalib, the master of ironies and a great boozer, must be rolling out in laughter in the heavens. I, too, giggle and come out.

A dignified-looking gentleman, sort of a Mughal-era relic, is guarding the haveli's entrance. Is he the guard? Nah. He’s the haveli’s landlord.

“Have you read Ghalib?”

“If I were that literate, would I have been sitting here?”

Pooh.

Malai, please



Mr Syed Faqir Hassan, the casanova of Ballimaran



No crowd in Mr Naeem's stall



A cat under my chair



Girls, any Ghalib? (Rabea students)



Sir, any Ghalib?



He knows his Ghalib, Mr Ramma Babu



The iron lady ironing her long, long cloth



Madam, any Ghalib?



Must be Ghalib's haveli



No haveli this



The landlord who knows no Ghalib

Photo Essay - Bihar Diary VI, Dignity at All Cost

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Losing everything but not grace.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

In September, 2008, the Delhi Walla went as a volunteer to the flood-hit districts of Bihar. Things were dire: poverty, loss, death. But the countyside was beautiful – water everywhere. Villages and farm fields had disappeared under the flooded river and the partially-submerged huts looked pretty.

But what about the people who lived in those huts?

The saddest part was meeting refugees, especially children, who appeared to be much happier in relief camps than in their homes in remote villages where there were no schools, no doctors, no food.

Hopping through such hopeless scenes, I stumbled through a heartwarming story of a love lost and recovered but it wasn’t even two days and I started missing my Delhi. My urban soul was done with the heart of darkness.

Like a disaster tourist, I also clicked bhookha-nanga pictures: hungry, crying, screaming, grieved people.

However, I also came across victims who might have lost much in the calamity but not their dignity. I clicked their pictures, too. This final post in my Bihar Diary is dedicated to them.

We're in it together



Smile helps



More smile, please



Need no pity



Vulnerable, and strong



Hard times



Screw you