The mist enveloped me as I backtracked through the narrow, damp streets of the Churiwallan Galli. My nose hairs curled at the smell of freshly butchered chicken, while I narrowly avoided a puddle of what I hoped was water. To my right appeared a brightly painted orange-red door, framing a sinister grinning face beckoning me into the katra. “This could end in one of two ways,” I apprehensively thought to myself.
The cold fog of January 2015 found me in one of the last places in Delhi I wanted to be. I was to spend an entire semester documenting the streets of Shahjahanabad, from building heights to façade details. The Old City had never appealed to me because of my slight (read: extreme) claustrophobia. The dingy alleyways were places where “the sun don’t shine”. I expected danger around every corner; certainly a mugging on account of my then-platinum blonde hair. My only weapons: a camera, a well-used notebook and a few pencil stubs.
The chaotic metro ride that morning was a precursor to what I could expect from the city. As I stepped out of the Chawri Bazar metro station, the sudden assault to my senses made me realize how sheltered my life in Gurgaon really was. Everywhere I looked, my senses were over-stimulated, and I was in desperate need of a coffee break.
The chance appearance of the signal-red door was my welcome reprieve. I was certain of my impending doom. Instead, I walked into the most Tetris-like arrangement of houses, and beyond these, a blissful moment of open air and greenery in a superlatively dense city.
A throng of kids with big, toothy smiles, encouraged by the grinning man from the door, escorted me into their urban playground. They led me through crumbling rooms with half-fallen red sandstone ceilings. And then I saw it.
The sky, a Lakhori-brick building, a Neem tree. The brown-and-red color palette of the city slowly dissolved into the blue-green of the courtyard’s sky-ceiling. A few kids paused their game of cricket to gawk at me. The musty stench of puddles ceased and made way for smells of sun-baked earth, ghee and sugar. The muffled sound of scooters was still in the background, but was overpowered by the kids’ giggling.
The rest of the day was a sun-streaked blur of hide-and-seek and stories of the old school. The simplicity of the place and the stark contrast with labyrinthine alleys around are etched indelibly in my memory.
The assignment I was there to do was based on the ideas of Multiplicity of Memory of Shahjahanabad. For me, it was more of a Shift in Expectations. After a veritable meal of elaichi chai and fresh nan khatai I was ready for the further onslaught of experiences the city had to offer.
Four years have passed since, and my memories of that anomaly in place and time have only grown fonder. I don’t know how the families of the Lal Darwaza School are faring now, but I can only hope that they continue to treasure their little patch of Eden in the historical city. I now know that the world can be pleasantly surprising, if only I look for the signs — a red door, in some cases.
Written by Avtar Sahgal
Week 4, January 2021
