Shahjahanabad

The customary winter drafts blew through the crowded streets of this part of Old Delhi, bringing with it the aroma of spiced meat being cooked and the smoky smell of coal being burnt in the tandoors. Behind us the minarets at the centuries’ old mosque blared the Azaan, the name of God reverberating around us, echoing through the clogged up streets. We make our way through the intricate network of channels and manoeuvre through the throngs of people clad in kurta pyjamas, responding to the call for prayer who are rushing towards the masjid in one direction while we simultaneously walk in the opposite.

The sun above us shone hazily, its rays hardly reaching the surface to provide us enough warmth. Old men with their thick beards burnt old newspapers and pieces of wood to keep themselves warm. Little children huddled around the fire, throwing in pieces of paper and laughing as the fire rapidly engulfed all that was thrown in with much haste.

This part of the walled city never rests. The eateries are open till late in the night, feeding hungry stomachs from near and far. Array of shops line both sides of the road, each shop living its own separate life. These shops which were once a part of the Sultan’s bazaar, continue their trade well into the night, when the lights overhead dangle in the cool winter breeze. The winding streets are lined up with numerous restaurants and stores on either side, catering to the locals and to the tourists.

The smell of Biryani and freshly baked naan emanates from a nearby restaurant as we pass by the old streets of Shahjahanabad. On the other side of the street, a baker takes out a tray of freshly baked biscuits and keeps it on the counter to sell to hungry customers. One bakery after another is piled with blackened baking trays. Some seem to be doing good business but others look more worn down.  The aroma of warm butter and caramelized sugar diffuses into the air, as we walk on by.

Our street reaches a small junction, where it widens and accommodates bigger shops. A butcher in a small shack sits in front of us, kneeling down on his dead animal, cutting it into small pieces. Few dogs keep him company, as he throws a few pieces every now and then to them. Two blocks ahead of the butcher, sits a large, round man in a white skull cap, who is angry at his worker who is washing a big degh. The man’s eyebrows are furrowed and his words are lost in the cacophony of the bazaar but his hands move animatedly. Behind him, in the low lit shop hang several spoons, spoons so long and heavy looking that they make us wonder about the person who gets the job of stirring the Haleem.

Dressed in an ill fitted and shabby kurta pyjama, the worker hums an old 60’s song playing on the radio kept inside his shop. Listening to it ardently, he keeps rubbing the insides of the huge pot with a some pieces of stone and iron furnished into a form of brush.

In a small shop in front of the cleaner, sits an old man, his long beard flowing in the wind. His red hair peeks out from the cap he is wearing, as he chuckles and starts humming the song. He owns a small shop selling whole betel nuts. Stacks after stacks of betel leaves are arranged in a pattern on a table, their green so vibrant after being sprinkled with water that they shine like emerald in the sunlight. A middle aged man is standing beside it with kattha soaked lips making conversation with the paan-wallah. The paan-wallah calls out to potential customers in a weird yet attractive manner, as people walk past him.

A few paces from the paan-wallah, different spices are displayed on a white chadar on the road, being sold by a man rather shabby in his appearance; he invites people to his small makeshift shop but he is rivalled by bigger ones, concrete ones. Untethered, he keeps shouting out prices and offers to attract customers.

Walking on ahead, we notice a  small dingy shop tucked between two others, where three silver coloured tiffins are hanging on display. They look dusty but are intricately carved and look beautiful, too beautiful to be tiffins.

A few yards from the betel nut seller, the street widened up yet again, now accommodating small houses on top of the eateries and shops. Esoteric window panes with arched fluorescent windows adorn these houses. Spiral winding staircases led people up to these rooms. The walls had large cracks in them; but the houses stood robust. From one window we see a young woman and her child, overlooking the crowded streets down below; one has a long money plant hanging out of it, the window now overflowing with creepers and weeds.

There’s a small brown door to a house, it is wide open. A narrow set of stairs are visible beside which a green coloured scooter is parked. Suddenly, a kid rushes down the stairs with notes clutched in his fist, presumably to run some errands. Most houses have their doors open with some members sitting outside on a chair, soaking in the afternoon sun.  The whole mohallah  is connected; their children growing together and passing through generations in the same house.

The sun now moved and took its position directly above our heads, its rays still cold and rusty. A few meters ahead, more shops were lined up, all of them selling sweets. Under a small shop covered with green tiles, a young man sits wearing a T-shirt, a towel draped around his shoulder. A small weighing scale is kept in front of him, where he weighs the sweets for his customers. The front of his shop is adorned with jalebis, laddoos and barfis, covered with mosquito nets. The sugar beckons us and we respond to its call as if it were the Azaan. We stop by to try out his jalebis, which he sells at Rs. 10 for 100 gms. The orange colour of the jalebi is identical to that of the sheermal but it is crisp and drenched in sheera. The shopkeeper sells more of his jalebis to small kids and other people, while we rejoice the taste of it.

Other shops nearby sell a huge variety of things, and this is what makes this place stand out. A city in itself, its people can survive without having to get out of this place. From vegetables, to meat and spices; from everyday household items to electronic stores; from expensive crockery shops to bakeries; from clothes to eateries; one can find everything here. A magnanimous city in itself, it still gives off the essence of an esoteric and archaic civilization. The winding streets and the bazaars take you centuries back when this city was walked around by Sultans and Shahenshahs of Delhi. The people of Shahjahanabad welcome you with arms spread wide and smiles on their wrinkled, old faces like their ancestors welcomed the Sultan. It just takes a visit to blend in and experience this city within a city.

As we turned back we felt affected by the old world charm of Shahjahanabad, its people, food, buildings, the different aromas that waft through the air and reach every nook and corner. However, as we passed the congested lanes it made us wonder if we as visitors romanticise the lives of people living in Shahjahanabad because at the end we are only mere onlookers. These narrow lanes must get suffocating, the rubble of crumbling buildings greets us at every turn. The tangled mess of wires form a canopy as we walk beneath their unwanted shade, garbage greets us at every turn and its foul stench often mingles with that of Biryani. Most shops look empty, the shopkeepers only watching T.V. with no customers in sight; some gaze at us expectantly as we pass by. The arcane walls, the arched windows are all elements of architecture that are slowly disappearing, just like the city itself.

From what it was and what it has become now, Shahjahanabad is fading. It’s history, it’s people, it’s narrow streets and lanes, it’s numerous bazaars, are all part of a narrative that has been lost in years of political turmoil and negligence. The city itself is falling apart, brick by brick, taking away years of history from Delhi and its people. In the recent decades, the continued negligence by many has led to the inevitable destruction of the city.

The whole city is now defined by its many stores and store-keepers. The old shop owners resemble the old buildings of the city; wrinkled and weak, facing their inexorable end. These store-keepers open up their shops everyday, without fail, expecting customers even if they never arrive; just like the city throws itself open to its hundreds and thousands of admirers, waiting patiently to be resurrected.

With each sunrise, the city gives birth to nascent hopes of revival. As the sun sets down, covering the city with a blanket of darkness, the hopes of the residents of Shahjahanabad, too set, only to be born again with more conviction and faith.