Here’s the street of the well-moneyed. At least the street shows its wealth in name, if not explicitly so in appearance. For the word seth in Kucha Seth refers to a wealthy man; while kucha denotes a locality of people sharing an occupation.
Indeed, quite a few building façades here look grave and dignified despite their dereliction, mutely insisting on the street’s former grandeur. This afternoon, a brown dog is sleeping peacefully beside one such building, sleep coming to him as easily as money comes to the well-moneyed. In all, the street is exceptionally photogenic. Every doorway makes you reach for your phone camera. One striking relic bears the inscription Shri Mahavir Namah in Devanagari. A labourer goes past it, a huge sack on his head.
But the best of Kucha Seth lies half-hidden in a dead-end alley, where two striking residences are fronted by old, finely crafted doorways. The panels of the green one is plastered with miscellaneous posters. Even so, its beauty remains unviolated. Low platforms abut this doorway, likely meant for sitting and watching the street life. This afternoon, a bunch of foreign tourists are standing motionless before the darwaza, rapt withal.
The street’s most poignant landmark is a mansion that has fallen into ruin. The site is encircled by blue tin sheets, suggesting imminent dismantling and new construction. To peer through the gaps and see what remains triggers melancholy. Walls are broken, exposing old-fashioned lakhori bricks. Rooms lie partially collapsed. A wall cupboard has its intact panes lying open, revealing empty shelves. Another wall shows the faint impression of a vanished taak, the arched portion glowing softly like the imprint of a missing photo on the photo album.
Further along Kucha Seth, a row of locked doors and shuttered windows bears identical notices in A-4 size sheets: “We have moved to South Extension.” These words exude a feel of desolation. The feeling fades on walking further ahead, as one passes by more lived-in spaces: Kavish Pizza eatery, the Neelam Market building, the Digambar Jain Bara Mandir’s ornate entrance, the Jain Sanskrit Commercial Senior Secondary School, and a shuttered shop called Dad Sons. Soon afterwards, suddenly, without any warning, the quiet street crashes into the noise and chaos of an altogether different world. It is the hyperkinetic Dariba Kalan street.
