Eyes in the Dark Lanes of Old Delhi

One night, much later, I witnessed a scene that stayed with me.

It must have been around 3 am. By Old Delhi’s orthodox mindset, women were not expected to venture out at such an hour. 

The lanes were quiet, the shops shuttered, and the streetlights cast long, uneven shadows on the road.

Yet I noticed a group of women—young and old—walking together, returning from a wedding reception. They were clad in dark but elegant burqas, the fabric unmistakably expensive. 

They moved confidently, chatting softly among themselves, unhurried and unafraid.

For a moment, it challenged my own assumptions about Old Delhi—about tradition, restriction, and the quiet spaces where customs bend without announcing themselves.

Most weddings in Delhi take place in the weekends. These are considered to be the expensive weddings of Delhi. People in Quraish Nagar are wealthy businessmen and they don't mind spending a little more to flaunt their wealth.

The residents of Quraish Nagar are not liberal in the strict sense of the word. That was why the sight amazed me.

Young, petite women walked together, their faces covered, only their eyes visible beneath their hijabs. There was a glint in those eyes—alive, expressive. As they moved down the empty lane, they giggled and laughed, their voices soft but unrestrained.

Freedom at midnight? I wasn’t sure how to define it. Yet from their gentle confidence and light-hearted conversations, it was clear they were enjoying the rare pleasure of the night—together, unaccompanied, and at ease, without male companions.

During my three-year stay at old Delhi, I've seen these women step out late in the night and mostly in the weekends to attend marriage functions. I was unable to fathom about this odd timing. 

I used to fall back on Zaki, the caretaker of the house. "It is like this only. Marriages take place quite late in old Delhi. So most of the jenanas would reach late at the functions, gossip and then have their food," he quipped.

Zaki, 35, has been staying in this house at Idgah Road since 1986. So he may know a lot more about Quraish Nagar residents than me. 

Short, clad in a lungi, Zaki would always opened the door for me at late night. But he used to give me a frown look. I'm sure he used to hate me for waking him up at that late. He would murmur. But surprisingly, soon he became used to my erratic journalistic schedule.

Zaki came from Dharbhanga district in Bihar as a cheap labourer in the mid-eighties. But he soon ended up looking after this small room at Idgah Road after his employer found him to be honest and dedicated at his work. His change of duty meant that he was destined to enjoy all the luxuries in life: less work, more rest. 

No wonder then without his owners' absence (who mostly stayed in Lucknow), it became a sort of luxury for Zaki whose favourite past time was to lit a Howrah bidi and then switch on the 14" b/w TV.

When Delhi Paused to Breathe

Delhi looked unusually clean—almost glossy. The empty roads during the CWG reminded me of photographs of pre-Independence India. 

There was breathing space everywhere, a rare absence of crowds. Buses ran smoothly. No dhakka-dhukki. The police were tolerable, even helpful. Citizens seemed more understanding.

For once, Delhi presented a calm and composed picture.

During my daily drive to the Yamuna Sports Complex in East Delhi, I was elated by the sudden change in public etiquette. 

People were polite, law-abiding, and above all, eager to project a clean image of a city that had, until then, been battling controversy after controversy. And suddenly, everything felt smooth—almost rehearsed.

At Connaught Place, I felt as if I had stepped into London’s Trafalgar Square. The filth and grime were gone. The white colonnades stood freshly painted, and the smell of new paint lingered in the air, sharp and unmistakable.

Lutyens’ Delhi brimmed with confidence as it acquired a new identity through the Commonwealth Games 2010.

Almost overnight, the so-called “rudest” and most aggressive Indian city—at least as portrayed by outsiders—seemed to stretch out its arms with warmth, respect, and courtesy. 

For once, Delhi gave its critics reason to pause. It felt like the right moment to silence those who constantly mocked the city while choosing to live in it, raise families in it, and benefit from its opportunities.

Believe me, Delhi is different.

Few Indian cities have endured what Delhi has—devastating invasions like that of Nadir Shah, or the unspeakable trauma of Partition. Its history is scarred, yet resilient. 

Known for its tenacity, Delhi has repeatedly absorbed shock and emerged altered but unbroken.

The Commonwealth Games became another such moment. Against doubt, controversy, and relentless scrutiny, Delhi fought back—and went on to host one of the most successful international sporting events ever held in India.

Finding My Feet in Delhi 6

I didn’t come to Delhi to be a historian. I left Calcutta to find a job. My journalistic journey had brought me to India’s capital. 

It was a difficult decision, but a quick one—I needed a job to survive. And so, from my residence on Idgah Road, my quest began.

The initial days were tough. I woke up to a dialect that Bollywood has now popularized, but hearing children, fathers, and friends exchange expletives early in the morning was a shock. At first, those words petrified me. Coming from a city known for its rich cultural refinement, I felt slightly dejected.

But soon, someone explained that the people of Quraish Nagar were not as coarse as outsiders assumed. The expletives were simply part of daily life. “Don’t take it seriously,” a well-wisher advised. Gradually, the Purana Dilli dialect—and even the occasional swear word—became part of my world. I realized it was neither obscene nor abusive in the way locals used it; it was just their rhythm, their way of expressing themselves.

My daily routine soon fell into a pattern. A walk down to the Sadar Thana rickshaw stand, then onward to the Paharganj bus stand. I preferred the DTC buses—they didn’t stop unnecessarily and reached Barakhamba in record time. From there, I navigated the media offices at Barakhamba, KG Marg, and ITO, becoming increasingly familiar with the pulse of the city.

Protest at Shahi Idgah: Voices from Delhi’s Meat Trade

Much later, after I had settled into my residence near Idgah, I began to understand the true importance of Delhi 6. 

For most outsiders, the term “Delhi 6” barely existed until the Abhishek Bachchan–starrer film released in 2009.

That first tonga ride had dropped me right into the heart of Delhi 6. Idgah and Sadar Bazar mark its two extremes, the neighbourhood brushing against New Delhi itself. Idgah—my home for the next three years in the capital—has rarely been explored by historians in any serious way. 

The Shahi Idgah, from which the area takes its name (the place where Eid namaz is offered), is a monumental structure built during the Mughal period, often attributed to Aurangzeb. 

It stands imposing and austere, watching over the locality.

The area around it is inhabited largely by meat merchants belonging to the Qureshi community. Hence the name Quraish Nagar, also known as Kashapura.

Predominantly Muslim, this locality is unlike most other Muslim neighbourhoods in Delhi. The residents here are affluent, and it is not uncommon to spot sedans—or even the latest models of Mercedes—parked in narrow lanes. 

Most families are engaged in the meat export business, with outlets in posh markets such as Khan Market, INA Market, and other parts of South Delhi. For decades, they have been the undisputed kings of Delhi’s meat industry.

But thirteen years later, that hegemony began to face serious threat.

The Idgah slaughterhouse was sealed, triggering widespread discontent. Hundreds gathered at the Shahi Idgah roundabout to protest. 

The two-century-old abattoir—one that had provided livelihood to thousands across generations—was shut down and replaced by a high-tech slaughterhouse at Ghazipur in East Delhi.

Tempers flared by afternoon as dozens of small meat traders and distributors from Paharganj and Karol Bagh converged at the historic prayer grounds, protesting what they saw as the systematic uprooting of their livelihoods.

“I used to save money because the transportation cost from the slaughterhouse to my shop was negligible,” said Shahbaz Khan, a meat vendor from Karol Bagh.

“The mandi at Ghazipur is much smaller than this one. How will it accommodate so many workers?” asked Mohammad Mubarik, a meat vendor from Paharganj.

Tonga Ride To Old Delhi

November 1, 1996.

It was early morning when the Janta Express rolled into Kanpur. 

There was a nip in the air, and passengers began pulling out shawls and blankets from their luggage as the cold crept in. 

Just as we were settling down for a cosy sleep inside the train, a crackling announcement blared through the barely audible speakers of Indian Railways.

“Janta Express will not go further. Passengers travelling to Delhi are requested to deboard and take a connecting train.”

It was a frustrating moment. Most of us had struggled to get tickets during the Puja rush from Calcutta. True to its name, the Janta Express served the janta. 

It halted at virtually every station in Bihar—Jharkhand didn’t exist then—and was running hopelessly behind schedule. When it finally reached Kanpur, the railway authorities decided to cancel its onward journey to Delhi.

Chaos followed the announcement.

“Gomti Express from Lucknow will arrive at 7. All Delhi-bound passengers are requested to board the train,” announced a harried ticket examiner on the platform.

As the train pulled into Kanpur Junction, there was a maddening rush to get inside—everything for a seat. Luck was on my side; I managed to grab a window seat.

The train finally reached Delhi at 3 pm.

Old Delhi station was as crowded then as it is today. Tongas, three-wheelers, and cycle-rickshaws jostled for space outside the station.

“Room chahiye? Accha room milega,” touts from budget hotels called out, chasing after me.

“Nahin chahiye,” I replied, walking away.

Avoiding the crowd near the exit, I climbed onto the rear seat of a tonga.
“Idgah jana hai,” I told the tonga owner.

The horse looked fit and healthy. It broke into a gallop, pulling away from the station smoothly. 

The ride was wonderful. We cut through the dense station area and then into the bustling lanes of Sadar Bazar. From the tonga, the view of the sprawling market—one of Asia’s largest wholesale hubs—was simply outstanding.

The tonga finally reached Idgah Road.

That would be my address in Delhi for the next three years.