In Old Delhi, the inevitable disappearance of the "havelis"

Within the walls of Shahjahanabad, the fortress city erected in the 17th century on the site of the current Indian megalopolis by Emperor Shah Jahan, most of these rich and prestigious residences now look rather dilapidated: cracked facades, broken shutters and sagging balconies...

Only the tiny minority of those that have been maintained or renovated still bear witness to their former splendor: wide courtyards, carved colonnades and varnished wood.

This is the case of the haveli which today houses a cultural center called Kathika. The sun's rays pass through the windows to be projected onto sandstone arches, and musicians tune their instruments in the patio where their predecessors entertained the guests of the master of the house.

An oasis of opulence and nostalgia that vanishes as soon as you step outside, into the streets of the bustling historic district of Chandni Chowk.

The founder of the Kathika center, Atul Khanna, congratulates himself every day for having renovated the haveli that houses it, even though the undertaking has often resembled a long obstacle course.

"Heritage poses problems, and its ownership is not the least of them," he confides. "When there are many heirs, the question becomes a challenge. If the haveli falls into ruin, who will pay to renovate it?"

Inheritance law and family rivalries do not help matters, adds Mr. Khanna, who argues for lighter inheritance rules when it comes to preserving history.

"There should be a single, simple procedure for anyone who wants to protect their assets," he argues.

These legal difficulties did not prevent Vidyun Goel's family from renovating the family haveli into a magnificent hotel, with the support of generous investors.

Privately owned, these manor houses, even those steeped in history, receive no public assistance.

"Work of art"

"The renovation of Old Delhi will remain marginal without continued support and promotional efforts," she summarizes.

However remarkable they may be, the havelis have not escaped rampant urbanization. In the Roshanpura district, in southwest New Delhi, the demand for housing and businesses for an ever-growing population has spared only a few.

Ashok Mathur, 56, is not only one of their few owners but also one of their last residents. "We fell in love with this house," sums up this happy fourth-generation tenant.

Although, he admits, life there is becoming increasingly difficult.

Inside, the bill for the upkeep and renovation of his palace keeps getting heavier, he grumbles. Floors, ceilings and woodwork require constant attention.

A staunch advocate for the renovation of historic buildings, architect KT Ravindran confirms this. Even when the exterior appears preserved, the interior of the havelis is often dilapidated. "The more you step inside, the more deteriorated it becomes..."

And beyond their architecture being at risk, the entire external environment of these dwellings has been disrupted. And with it, a certain idea of ​​existence.

"Community life no longer exists (...) we live in a cocoon," laments Ashok Mathur, describing the silence that falls on his street every evening when the shops close.

Historian Sohail Hashmi recalls that, in their heyday, the havelis were part of "a much larger ecosystem of neighborhoods, trades and traditions", where the houses and the communities that inhabited them were closely linked.

As Athul Khanna laments, the consequences of the decay of these mansions go far beyond the disappearance of an architectural style. "When you lose a haveli," he summarizes, "you lose much more than a structure, because each element that composes it is, in a way, a work of art."