Mission Delhi - Kareem Khan, Nehru Place

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One of the one per cent in 13 million.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Sitting beside his second-hand books, Karim Khan, 52, lights up a Goldflake cigarette. In the evening’s gathering darkness, the surrounding office skyscrapers of Nehru Place are looking like sleepy giants. I’m meeting Mr Khan after two years. I would come to this commercial complex, famous for its computer hardware workshops, to buy books from his stall. “I’m no longer only a bookseller,” says Mr Khan.

The bookseller, who would draw charcoal sketches of people on the pages of his worm-ridden books, has become an established painter. The man who once found it difficult to pay his chaiwalla now sells his paintings priced between Rs 30,000 and Rs 1.5 lakh. Mr Khan has moved up in life. “I think we all move... forward, sideways. I must not get boring. I must experience different things in life. I must show my age and experiences in my paintings. I must draw the journey that took me to become what I became.”

But where is the Mr Khan I knew? That man who was not so polite. Talking to the painter, I miss the bookseller. Every evening I came to Nehru Place to check out what’s new at his stall. One evening I found a book on the origins of Jazz music. Another day I got a catalogue of the Prado museum. Every day, we’d quarrel like fishwives over an amount as little as Rs 5. Mr Khan called me names. I abused him back. Once, he accused me of not paying the full amount of a rare set of Time-Life cookbooks. He would set goons on me, he promised.

Two years have passed since that incident. This evening, we are talking like civilised people. Mr Khan says I wear better clothes. I note that Mr Khan has started trimming his beard. His shirt has no crease. “You have to be compatible with the changing circumstances. Now I’m invited to parties. I have to look clean.”

A native of Silchar, Assam, Mr Khan was a college dropout who came to Delhi in 1989 “to find out what art is all about.” He ended up selling second-hand books in Nehru Place. During the day, he would halfheartedly hard-sell best-selling novelists such as Dan Brown and Chetan Bhagat to the area’s software professionals. Bless the man who came asking for directions. Mr Khan would destroy his self-esteem by throwing one acidic glare. Often, he was seen drawing portraits of shoppers. Sometimes sad, beautiful women would spend hours in his company. In evenings, Mr Khan had his durbar of painters and book lovers who would talk on life, sex and Tolstoy. I was never admitted to the coterie. “Because you were so silent.”

In 2008, Mahesh Bansal, a businessman who has a sanitary showroom in suburban Noida, came to Nehru Place, spotted Mr Khan, liked his way of talking and started visiting him daily. “I would find him making these wonderful sketches but he would throw them away and stray dogs would pee on them. I had this empty commercial space in Noida and I decided to turn it into a gallery to showcase his work,” Mr Bansal told me on phone.

In 2010, introducing his first solo exhibition, Beyond the Obvious, critic Alka Rahguvanshi wrote, “A deep melancholy hangs over Khan's works. Like fine mist it envelops them in an invisible net that draws the onlooker into its lair like a gossamer web, almost forcing them to linger. The metaphors are urban, the inspirational mainstay emerging from imagery that is almost European in style and content.”

As offices starts shutting off their lights, Mr Khan invites me to his friend’s place in Gautam Nagar in south Delhi. Our auto breaks down in Uday Park. We walk to a Punjabi eatery. Over dal makhani and butter naan, I recall my past evenings with Mr Khan. He talked on Manet’s impressionism, Chekov’s stories and Shakespeare’s sonnets. “Will you move to Europe?” I ask. “No, I’m a hardcore Delhiite.”

Waiting for more naans, Mr Khan suddenly starts on a Russian novelist. “If you read Dostoyevsky, you feel you are looking at modern art. His novels are not very straight. Freud went into psychoanalysis after reading Dostoyevsky.”

After our meal, Mr Khan will return to his studio and paint. In the morning, he will take the auto to Nehru Place and sell books. “People come to me when they need novels with strange-sounding titles. They have all sorts of faces. And since I’m into figurative art, I draw their portraits on the back of my books with my charcoal pen.” True, things have changed; yet nothing has changed.

[This is the 20th portrait of the Mission Delhi project]

It was a long journey (Mr Khan with one of his works)



Not just a bookseller



Look, I've struggled



Such is life



Artist spotting



His sweat story



Mr Khan's admirer



New painting in mind?



Thinking of the lost time?



Present perfect

City Food – Lassi, Chandni Chowk

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The cool yoghurt drink.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Delhi has no copyright over the sweet-tart lassi. The cool, creamy, frothy yoghurt drink is delicious nourishment across India, especially during the summer. It is simple to make - whip in yoghurt with sugar and it is done. Add malai (clotted cream), it is heavy. Throw in some ice, it becomes light.

Highway eateries in Punjab are said to prepare great quantities of lassi by whisking yogurt in washing machines! For the most memorable lassi experience in Delhi, go to the tail end of 17th century Chandni Chowk bazaar in Old Delhi. Two lassi joints – Amritsari Lassiwalla (circa 1974) and Meghraj (since 1900) – stand across the red gateway of Fatehpuri Masjid.

Meghraj’s lassi comes without any trappings. A mix of yoghurt, sugar and nothing else, the lassi is so thick with malai that it is served with a spoon. The adjacent Amritsari lassi stall has an equally fulfilling option, but in a variety of flavours – mango, rose, banana, saffron, cumin, often garnished with chopped almonds.

Of course, such drinks are served in expensive south Delhi restaurants also, but the settings there are too sanitised. In Chandni Chowk, as you take the sip, the chilled milky relief of the lassi calms the tired nerves that inevitably come with an excursion to the Walled City. And the sights and sounds of Fatehpuri Masjid’s crowded T-junction – one lane going to Khari Baoli, the other to Lal Kuan and the third to Red Fort – is forever preserved along with the memory of the sweet tanginess of the lassi you are sipping. Later all that you will need to evoke Old Delhi in your mind’s eye will be the remembered taste of that yoghurt drink.

Sweet 'n' cool



Sense of the Place, Fatehpuri intersection



That's Amritsari Lassiwalla



Meghraj's simple lassi



Lassi drinkers



Cool comfort



More lassi please

City Kitchen - Julia Child in GB Road

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The great chef's life in Delhi.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Meet the Julia Child of GB Road, Delhi’s red light district. A sex worker, Ms Child lives on the rooftop of Kotha no. XX, an establishment that is home to half a dozen women. Ms Child has no TV, no furniture, no crockery and no gas range. She does have a stove and a vanity box. Every night at 2 am she dresses up in a flashy costume, puts on the make up, and goes down to the street to solicit customers. She returns home at dawn. And yes, Ms Child cooks. Here is the recipe of her 'Egg Bujiya Curry':

Actually this recipe is my own creation. Nobody taught me cooking. I learnt it myself. Today I want to make egg curry but for that you will have to boil the eggs and I can’t wait that long. So, we’ll be having Egg Bhujiya Curry instead.

3 tablespoons mustard oil
4 eggs
3 sliced onions
2 sliced tomatoes
2 sliced potatoes
Pinch of spices
Methi seeds
A tablespoon of garlic and ginger paste each
Salt to taste
I glass water

Heat the oil in a karahi (wok) over medium heat. Add methi seeds. When they start crackling, add onions and saute till they turn brown. Add a pinch of ginger and garlic paste along with dry spices such as garam masala, haldi and mirchi. Sprinkle on salt. Stir till the oil starts coming out. Add sliced tomatoes and continue to saute. Add sliced potatoes and water, and cover the karahi. If you smoke, do that in these five minutes. Are potatoes tender? If yes, quickly pour in the beaten eggs. Stir for a minute and turn off the flame. Sprinkle freshly chopped coriander leaves on the curry and serve it with rice.

Also see:

Julia Child in Jorbagh

Julia's empire



Peel, peel, peel



Slice, slice, slice



Action starts



Smoking break



Now add the eggs



It's done



Curry is served

City Locality – Middle Lane, Connaught Place

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It's not loved.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Its curved passage is empty. The stone floor uneven. The wall disfigured. The plaster is chipping off. This short passage connects the Outer Circle corridor to the Middle Lane of M-block in Connaught Place (CP), Delhi’s colonial-era shopping district, which is being given a major facelift in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games.

Most showrooms and restaurants in CP line its Inner Circle. Since the opening of the Rajiv Chowk Metro Station at Central Park in 2006, newer cafes, fast food outlets and an increase in footfall has brightened the otherwise dull Outer Circle too. It’s the Middle Circle that remains drab. Drabber still is the Middle Lane that links the Outer Circle to the Middle. The stylish crowd is rarely spotted here, despite its proximity to watering holes such as Q’ba, @live and Blues.

“I’m running this shop here since 1978,” says Anup Kumar of Rameshwar Das, a stationary store that is one of the only two shops in the passageway. “While Inner Circle has undergone a makeover and Outer Circle is being renovated, the Middle Lane hasn’t changed at all.” Outside, the wall’s whitewashed layer has peeled off exposing large patches of blue. “Sometimes I get my side of wall painted,” says Mr Kumar.

An attempt at the corridor’s beautification was definitely done in the past. Of the two side lanes to the passageway, while the one towards Kumar’s shop is cemented, the one on the other side has a marbled flooring in chessboard pattern.

Office goers, salesmen, young couples and shoppers walking in the Outer Circle corridor rarely throw a peek into this gallery. Its other end opens into the Middle Lane. On the right are five auto spare parts shops. Upstairs is something rarer — private residences.

Sanjeev Gupta has been living in his second floor apartment for 47 years. His terrace has a lovely view of the Outer Circle Road and of high-rises such as Statesman Tower and Gopaldas Building. “Outer and Inner Circles are being redone. The Middle Circle may be the next,” Mr Gupta says, hopefully.

Next, The Delhi Walla calls Anand Tiwari of New Delhi Municipal Council (NDMC), the agency renovating the area. “Our focus are Inner and Outer Circles,” Mr Tiwari says. “In the Middle Lane, we are setting up tunnels with service ducting for electric wires and cables, water and sewage. There won’t be any new-look Middle Lane.”

So, while the Georgian architecture of CP’s Inner and Outer Circles have started shining, the Middle Circle will remain as it always has.

Not everyone minds this status quo. Painter Karim Khan, who feels “the presence of a sea beach whenever he is in Connaught Place”, says, “I will always prefer the Middle Lane over the Inner and Outer Circles. For me, a beautiful woman who is dead is nothing compared to an ugly woman who is alive."

Almost forgotten, Middle Lane passageway



Much loved Outer Circle



Not much life, Middle Lane



This too is CP, Middle Lane



Another view, Middle Lane



Mr Gupta's home, Middle Lane



Mr Gupta's terrace view, Middle Lane



CP renovation, Outer Circle

Mission Delhi – Ram Swaroop Sharma, India Gate Maidan

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One of the one per cent in 13 million.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The roti seems to be a few days old. Packed in a mud-stained handkerchief, it is broken into small pieces. With no sabzi or even a smidgen of pickle to go with it, these dry and crumbly remains of the staple Indian bread are the entire breakfast for Ram Swaroop Sharma. The Delhi Walla found him one summer morning lounging on the grassy grounds adjacent to Rajpath, the broad avenue that connects Rashtrapati Bhawan to India Gate. The area is popularly known as India Gate maidan.

Surrounded by leafy trees, damp grass and untrimmed hedges, Mr Sharma, 45, looks like an Indian avatar of Henry David Thoreau, the American naturalist who celebrated a life devoid of materialism. “I’m living here for eight years,” he says in a low voice.

Mr Sharma is not a natural talker. His words are few and far between, punctuated with long pauses. He often raises his head and moves his lips as if about to speak… but the words don’t come. The eyes, however, say much more than his speech, animated by some seemingly chaotic feelings. When I ask how he makes a living, Mr Sharma struggles to reply. Minutes pass, but no answer comes.

I persist.

“It’s so hot. How can you wear a jacket?”

No answer.

“What will you have for lunch?”

No answer.

“Do you sleep in the maidan every night?”

A nod.

Encouraged, I continue.

“You are not scared of the insects and snakes here?”

A shake of the head.

“Well, where are you from?”

“Rajasthan,” he finally speaks.

I make a note of everything Mr Sharma says in the next few minutes to my queries:

“I was born in Kerala, Trichur.”

“Last night I had a roti with green chillies.”

“I did diploma in mechanics from Madhya Pradesh.”

“I have two brothers.”

What brought him to Delhi? Why must he live under the open sky? Where does he get his rotis from? Why can’t he return to his family in Rajasthan? How does he make a living?

Mr Sharma, it seems, tries to address all these queries but his mouth does not open despite his best effort.

Since he will not talk, it is difficult to gauge if this is a life of choice or of compulsion. But at this moment, Mr Sharma owns all the essentials of life. His roti is in the handkerchief. His plastic water bottles are full. His clothes are stuffed in a bag. For reading, he has the old opinion pages of The Times of India.

Not far from where Mr Sharma is sitting is the office of the Prime Minister of India. Behind him is the building of Udyog Bhawan, which houses the ministry of commerce and industry. Also visible is the palatial residence of the President. These establishments exist to improve the lives of millions of Indians like Mr Sharma. However, Mr Sharma himself appears to have transcended the boundary within which anybody has the power to affect his life.

If terrorists attack the Delhi Metro, if the price of arhar daal skyrockets further, if the government falls, or if India becomes the world's richest superpower, Mr Sharma will probably still be sitting here, unmoved and carefree. He is no longer connected to this world or so it seems.

[This is the 19th portrait of the Mission Delhi project]

Mr Sharma's address



Lost in thoughts



Roti crumbs for breakfast



Other lives go on



That's Rashtrapati Bhawan



One man Vs Udyog Bhawan



Mr Sharma's backyard for eight years



See you, Mr Sharma

City Food – Number Walli Kulfi, Old Delhi

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The sweet game.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

If you want to taste summer-time Delhi, grab a kulfi, the Indian-style ice cream that comes in flavours like pista, rose, cardamom and saffron. Unfortunately, eclipsed by brightly lit ice cream trolleys, kulfi-wallas have become rare, and the ones with something called game-carts still rarer.

Gone are the days when children would run at the first sound of the kulfi walla’s ghanti (bell) to wake up mothers from their afternoon siestas and pester for a rupee. So don’t let the opportunity go if you see a kulfi cart fitted with a desi-style roulette wheel. Drop a coin in the spinning wheel to win as many kulfis as the number on which it comes to rest. If it is the pinball game instead, pray the kancha (small glass ball) lands into the highest value square. So if it's number five, you'll get five kulfis.

One hot summer afternoon, The Delhi Walla discovered such a game-cart in a Bulbuli Khana bylane in Old Delhi. The neighbourhood’s children had surrounded Mr Sumit's cart to play pinball. They were hitting the kancha by pulling a spring attached to a wooden block. The kancha would shoot up, strike the boundary wall and roll down into an array of pins where it might fall into one of the spaces marked with numbers.

Amidst much shoving, I too gave a coin and waited. My kancha reached close to a square that was numbered four but then it refused to move. The kind Mr Sumit discreetly pushed it inside and produced four kulfis from his wooden ice-box. The winning trophies, dipped in milk, were cool, creamy, and sugary. I felt like a champ.

Three times delight



Who will play?



What's your lucky number?



Taking out the trophy



All eyes on the kulfi



My smile is sweeter



And for the sister?



Mr Sumit, the kulfi walla



And one for you