Delhiwale: This way to Haveli Anwar Ali

As part of our ‘Walled City dictionary’ series, that is chronicling every significant Old Delhi place.
It is s a mansion only in name. In its contemporary avatar, Haveli Anwar Ali resembles to some extent a typical Old Delhi street. Like any Purani Dilli galli, it too comprises of residences and shops.
The sole portion of the mansion that remains wholly intact—at least in the publicly accessible part—is the sandstone gateway. The darwaza is sculpted with taaks, arches and flowery patterns. Its two tall wooden panels lie detached, leaning against their respective walls. These panels are severely discoloured. One shows a faded “STD ISD PCO” sign, indicating the long-ago presence of a phone booth. Another has the haveli’s name etched in Urdu, as pointed by a passer-by.
The haveli’s more endearing aspect is Intekhab Ali. The lean sprightly gent administers a long-time stall at the doorway. Overlooking the busy market road of Bazar Chitli Qabar, his establishment lies stocked with crockery, artificial flowers, and drawing room knick-knacks, such as a glass tortoise.
A duster casually placed on his shoulder, Intekhab Ali calls himself a descendent of the man who gave his name to the haveli. “We are related to Anwar Ali.. our home too is inside,” he says matter-of-factly, adding that his retired father used to be a zardozi artisan.
Intekhab Ali goes on to give a brief history of the haveli, which turns out to be the universal history of every place everywhere. “Times changed, things changed, the old world no longer exists.” He looks more animated on recalling that “a scene of the film Ahista Ahista was shot here.” Next moment, he looks slightly crestfallen. “I have often shown this place to foreign tourists… but I’m never acknowledged.”
This afternoon, the haveli’s tunnel-like corridor inside the gateway is marinating in damp darkness. A far-flung corner houses Shanta Public School, beside which stands Magic Beauty Studio and Academy (“a touch of class”). A boy is silently leaning against the corridor’s pockmarked wall, smoking a cigarette, while men, women and children are sporadically popping out of the corridor’s discreet staircases and doors, walking out into the bazar daylight. Getting up from his stall, Intekhab Ali walks into the darkened corridor, goes along a turn, and stops in front of a scaffolded brick wall smelling of wet cement. “Everything is changing,” he murmurs.
Posing for a portrait at his stall, Intekhab Ali wonders aloud: “Despite my best efforts, I’m not able to reach where I want my life to reach. Why is it like this? What could be the reason?”