Delhiwale: Investigating past summers

The summer of 2024 will soon pass into memory for Sharif Manzil. The historic residence in Old Delhi’s Ballimaran has withstood the passing of too many summers. 304 summers to be precise — the house came up in the year 1720.
This afternoon, Sharif Manzil’s patriarch is ensconced in his upper-floor drawing room. If you open the door behind the sofa on which Masroor Ahmed Khan is seated, and step out into the balcony, you will have a direct view of Gali Qasim Jan. That street is the address of Ghalib’s last haveli — the home of the great poet is a stone’s throw away from Sharif Manzil.
“The haveli there belonged to us. Ghalib was my great-grandfather’s father’s kiraedar,” Masroor Ahmed Khan says matter-of-factly. Indeed, the soft-spoken gent’s illustrious forefathers claim a substantial portion of his drawing room walls (see photo). The sprawling house is peopled elsewhere with his wife, Saeeda, their children and grandchildren, and the housekeeping staff.
For the moment, the air-conditioned drawing room is immersed in a comforting darkness. The casual afternoon chitchat gradually turns to the ongoing shift in season (and almost unconsciously to the climate crisis), prompting Masroor Ahmed Khan to recall what he has heard of the long-ago summers that his grandfather experienced in the Delhi of the 1930s.
“Hakim Muhammed Ahmed Khan, my dada-bawa, was the nephew of freedom fighter Hakim Ajmal Khan. Dada-bawa would spend his summertime days in the hall downstairs, from the time after his lunch till five in the evening. The hall was the place to receive friends and to host mehfils, mushairas and mujras. During the peak summer of May and June, the floor would be covered with a three-inch thick layer of Yamuna’s cooling sand. A giant silli (slab) of ice would be installed on one side of the hall. A pedestal fan would be placed behind the ice. The fan’s cold blast would blow straight towards the masheri (teakwood bed) on which dada-bawa would sit with his books. He had thousands of books and very many rare manuscripts.”
A drawing room door creaks open. Attendant Noor Alam enters carrying two glasses of ice-filled nimbu pani.
“Dada-bawa died in 1937…. some years ago, I handed over all his books to an institution in Lucknow.”
The surface of the lemon drink glass is getting increasingly doused with condensed water droplets.
“The summer this year was the harshest in my living memory, it is truly becoming impossible to survive without an AC.”
Meanwhile, the hall downstairs is now used for storing household things that aren’t in daily use, he says. “Nobody sits there any longer.”