This is about the time I should warn my readers, that taking notes down became a little difficult management of time and weather became seemingly impossible during this first trip. During my days in Delhi , I tried organising and making schedules but the cold always manages to get the better of you. At the end of the day catching a minimum three hours sleep became my priority. I apologize for the discrepancy in time line for the remainder of the narrative.( For journey one)
The stories will although take a reader through specific events of a particular day, although anachronistic.

The next sequence of events describe the depressing site in front of the Jama Masjid. I remember rapidly running, evading the auto rickshaws, cycle rickshaws and jumping over heaps of garbage, and swaying to avoid being hit by goods vehicles.
The steps you take , seem like jumps, trying to evade piles of garbage or dirt; at all times , the monument's silhouette seen through the dried up trees, and heaps of dust .

But there are certain spots within the site , which have exhilarating views , all around , to one side , through the deciduous and lovely trees you can see the Red Fort while to the other side  you can see the mosque, one cannot explain the pulchritudinous sight of such monuments in words.

THE JAMA MASJID 'S NEIGHBOURHOOD AT 10:00am, (December last week), The beautiful gateway and the marble clad dome seen in the distance.
Picture taken by Shankar Roshan Valiathan

At each point you imbibe the smell , the malodorous and the ones with awesome scent, each one tells a story. I took my sketch book and entered the temporary shelters put up , to the north east of the Jama Masjid, and about 80 metres from the mosque, penning down notes , and standing in filth, I jotted down notes, and sketches of the method of construction, and the worries of the families, who were going to be evacuated from the site precinct. The surprising thing was that few of them were in complete agreement with it and infact wanted to move away, and restore the monumental precinct. The families were poverty ridden, as they famously say the poor and the destitute. These people made their living making clothes , selling handmade ( and stolen) toys. After spending about an hour asking different families , who live together under modular constructions of around 20 metres by 6 metres, I walked out, again into filth , this time my eyes caught hold of a small boy , leading a group of kids, ordering them around. I slowly moved toward the enthusiastic kid , to ask him about 'the neighbhourhood' he stays in. He replied curtly , saying "Bilkul bakwaas hain bhaiya"( Its completely useless)

Malodorous : The picture says it all;
By Shankar Roshan Valiathan 

With a consolatory smile , I let him continue with his game, and started pacing towards the main slum area. This one had a few anomalies to other slums. In terms of a micro- urban planning system within the neighbourhood, the slum had a few open spaces, which you cant call courtyards, these read as small ''breathing shafts"( thats the name I gave these open spaces). The patterns of the temporary and permanent structures within the slum , were quite haphazard, and extremely unsanitary. Sewage had become part of their lives, it seemed like. But for a person like me , who had not experienced such intense foul smelling environments for more than 2 hours, it was quite arduous. Audacious, as all Delhi-ites are, the owners soon started staring and moving in packs in my direction. By then I had ventured into the dingiest areas of the slum. It seemed like these was no end , although at every point, the mosque was visible, atleast portions of its sillhouette, stood out. After a few minutes of explaining my origins and where exactly I belong , I was given the freedom to interact with a small set of people. They again , explained their dire straits, and
also went on to explain the temporal activities within the site , and what precisely happens within the slum. This helped me gauge the conditions to an intricate level of detail , including the architectural history. I thanked them for their time, and scooted, to the main axis of Jama Masjid;
In many ways the precinct is a microcosm, a small universe where lives are scripted everyday by the public. The axial street leading to the mosque , is one which is filled with temporal bazaars and is a motley.

The ebullience of the people , and the rapidity of activity is one that sort of defines this linear space. But one look to the left , and you can see bare grounds. A park that is rarely used. A deserted place it seemed like , abutting a space exuding vibrancy. An immediate thought hits your mind;Why and how can you accommodate, history, socio-economic culture, convert desuetude to resourcefulness?

Metro construction at site.( Jama Masjid)
by Shankar Roshan Valiathan

What function would actually remove the surfeits from the precinct? What can be economically and historically viable here?

Urdu Park , standing right beside the main axis.
by Shankar Roshan Valiathan

My photographs , collages and dialogues, all transformed into a cohesive thought process. It was finally relieving, to derive something out of absolute chaos. Yes, art, and history never dies. One can try to demolish a place, but an architect or an artist of some kind will finally decipher the hidden transcripts, and discover the true spirit, or the 'genius loci'( Quote: C.Noberg Schulz). This is the exact merge I was searching for, one that finally standardises an architectural and urban solution, and through micro and macroscopic derivatives resolves the conditions to a fine level of detail.
A heavy but late lunch, kept my energy levels high for the remainder of the evening. After a walk through the narrow alleys I came out , in front of the Delhi gate , the southern historic entry point into the city. The time was nearing six thirty. In winter, Delhi shuts early. As soon as the sun sets , you will notice the sudden reduction in population as well as traffic density. Being a newcomer within the southern parts of Old Delhi, I suddenly found myself lost, although I still managed to keep the journalist-surveyor traits, and kept clicking pictures, alternating with a few sketches and interviews along the way.
In a matter of half an hour I was lost. There was no reference with which I could identify my location. The words of the policeman echoed in my head( The one I met , on my second day in Shahjahabanad). An acute sense of fear gripped me. For the first time I experienced the 'Maze of Old Delhi'. On the crooked pathways I noticed temples, mosques, churches and all kinds of buildings. The societal diversity was immense. Eunuchs, to fanatics, to vendors, to workers. But on the roads, they just formed their circles and exchanged stories and gazed at me with a sense of 'territory'. I just scurried past everyone, finally ending up after forty five minutes of breathless running and scrambling , on a dimly lit street. ( yes all others were barely lit by the ambient light from the residential part of the buildings.).
After walking for a while longer , studying the night culture this time, I sat with few men, who were around a bonfire, again exchanging stories, but this time , it was about the fantastic tales from the past. What the city actually reveals in dozens of layers of architecture, of mansions, of society, of richness, of art?
That , for me was the most inspiring part of the journey for the day, one that I eagerly noted down in my notebooks, listening to 'memories' , I finally found a new belief, a one that was triggered by 'want', of the public. I was doing the project for the public. Thus , the project's intent grew bigger and my attitude towards it became one fueled by fervour.