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.