Delhi 6: A Glimpse into the Heart of Old Delhi

 Delhi 6: A Glimpse into the Heart of Old Delhi

Born and raised in the narrow, bustling lanes of Old Delhi, my childhood was marked by the chaotic yet beautiful essence of this historic city. The streets were always alive with the sounds of vendors, the aroma of sizzling street food, and the energy of people from all walks of life. Even today, the memories of the culinary delights of my youth are etched into my senses.

The food in Old Delhi was like nothing else. From the sweet and tangy fruit chaat, dahi papri, to the spicy, lip-smacking golgappa, every dish was a symphony of flavors. There was something magical about the food here—eaten right from the makeshift stalls along the dusty roads, surrounded by the sounds of honking rickshaws and the chatter of passersby. Hygiene was hardly a concern for the vendors, but the spices they used, passed down through generations, made every bite unforgettable. The fact that it was so imperfect—served in the heat of the moment, with the street air mixing in—only added to the charm.

And then, there were the sweets—oh, the sweets! From the rich, golden jalebis to the delicate khoya, every corner of Old Delhi had something to satisfy your sweet tooth. The variety was endless, and each vendor had their own unique twist. I could always tell when I was nearing the famous lane where the sweet shop was because the smell alone was enough to make my mouth water.

Living just a few minutes away from the grand Jama Masjid, I’d often find myself walking through the narrow alleyways that led me there. The majestic mosque stood as a silent witness to the city's daily hustle, offering a moment of peace amidst the chaos. The journey from my house to the majestic red sandstone mosque, winding through the crowded lanes, was nothing short of an adventure.

Old Delhi’s diversity was also reflected in the rich cultural fabric of its lanes. As I strolled towards Chandni Chowk, I would pass a gurudwara, a temple, a mosque, and a church—all standing in close proximity, sharing the same space and time. This coexistence of religions always fascinated me, offering a glimpse into the unity that could be found amid the cacophony of city life. Along the way, we would sometimes stop by Fatehpuri Masjid before heading to my maternal grandparents' house, which was another world altogether—quiet, serene, and nestled in the heart of the city’s most vibrant area.

In those days, getting around the city was an adventure in itself. We didn’t have the convenience of modern-day cars or taxis. Instead, we relied on cycle rickshaws or tongas—horse-drawn carts that added to the charm of Old Delhi. If you didn’t catch a ride, the alternative was to walk, and walking through those lively lanes was an experience like no other. The sheer density of people, the colors, the sounds, and the smells were overwhelming yet strangely comforting.

On weekends, my parents would take me to eat at one of the local restaurants near Lal Quila (Red Fort). It was a different experience, more formal, with tables and chairs, but it still carried the essence of Old Delhi’s vibrancy. The food was richer, the ambiance grander, but the soul of the place—the flavors, the energy—remained the same.

Old Delhi, with its contrast of the old and new, its chaos and its tranquility, has left an indelible mark on my soul. It’s not just a place; it’s a memory, a feeling that’s still alive in the streets, in the smells of street food, in the buzz of the crowd, and in the quiet sanctity of its ancient monuments. For me, Delhi 6 is more than just a location; it’s a chapter of my life that I’ll forever carry with me, no matter where I go.

Reading Expands Imagination

 

Reading Expands Imagination

I come from a traditional family where reading was never seen as a habit worth cultivating. Books were considered either academic necessities or indulgences with little value. Growing up, we had barely any access to books at home, and even in school, whether middle or high school, the library was limited. The few books available were closely guarded, and strict rules made it difficult to borrow them freely. Reading for pleasure wasn’t encouraged; it was something to be controlled.

Living in a joint family, however, offered its own secret windows to the world. Some of my older cousins would sneak in forbidden literature—detective novels, cheap romance books, thriller magazines—the kind of content adults whispered about disapprovingly. As a child, I was strictly forbidden from even glancing at them. But curiosity has its own stubborn nature. I would quietly peek into these pages when no one was watching, my eyes wide with excitement at the unfamiliar stories and wild characters.

Those secret moments felt like rebellion, but more than that, they sparked something in me. They stretched my imagination beyond the four walls of my house and beyond the expectations of what I was "supposed" to read or think.

I was fortunate, though, to have one steady influence, my mother. She was a schoolteacher, and she understood the quiet power of books. I still remember, vividly, the day she gave me a set of comic books and illustrated storybooks for my sixth or seventh birthday. That gift changed something in me. I read those books again and again, until I had nearly memorized every word. They weren’t just stories; they were portals. To other worlds, other voices, other possibilities.

Looking back, I believe it was these early, scattered, sometimes forbidden experiences with reading that expanded my imagination and planted the seeds of a lifelong love for books. I didn’t have the luxury of a rich library or literary mentors, but I read whatever I could get my hands on—textbooks, pamphlets, old magazines, school books, even the back of cereal boxes.

That hunger has never left me.

Years later, when my daughter was born, one of the first things I did was fill her world with books. Picture books, storybooks, and poems, we read together, laughed together, and imagined together. Through her eyes, I rediscovered the joy of reading. It became a shared ritual of learning, relearning, and unlearning—a constant process that continues to shape both of us.

Reading didn’t just entertain me; it transformed me. It taught me to think beyond what I was told, to question the world around me, and to dream of what could be. It taught me that imagination is not a luxury—it’s a necessity.

Today, my curiosity has only grown. I find myself drawn not just to fiction, but to philosophy, history, political theory, science, and gender studies, across disciplines, across perspectives. I feel an insatiable desire to read not just books, but entire libraries. Because I know that every book holds a new lens through which to see the world—and every lens expands who I am.

Bulldozing Humanity: The Rise of Extrajudicial Power

 

Despite a Constitution that promises equality and social justice, a culture of discrimination, marginalization, and state-sanctioned violence continues to flourish in India. For over seven decades, institutional bias and bureaucratic apathy have persisted. Today, this toxic collaboration between a bureaucratic elite ("Babudom" or Kafkaseque bureaucracy) and political power structures ("Babadom" used by Partha Chatterjee in 2004 in the Politics of the Governed to depict the cult of leaders where thousands of people blindly follow one person), now armed with bulldozers, is systematically bulldozing not just homes, but humanity itself. The Constitution, the rule of law, justice, rationality, and dignity are being razed in the name of order.

Bulldozer Politics Is Not New

Article 21 of the Indian Constitution guarantees the right to life with dignity. The Supreme Court, through landmark cases like Olga Tellis v. Bombay Municipal Corporation (1985) 3 SCC 545, affirmed that this right includes the right to livelihood. In that case, the Court recognized the socioeconomic realities of pavement dwellers and ruled that evicting them without proper rehabilitation amounted to violating their right to life.

The Court declared, “There can be no estoppel against the Constitution,” emphasizing that constitutional provisions serve public interest and human dignity. Despite this jurisprudence, courts have not always upheld such humane interpretations. (See Municipal Corporation of Delhi v. Gurnam Kaur, (1989) 1 SCC 101. Also, Sodan Singh v. NDMC (1989) 4 SCC 155)

 A notorious precedent occurred during the Emergency in 1976, when Indira Gandhi’s government forcibly demolished homes of poor Muslim residents in Delhi’s Turkman Gate (See Engineer Asghar Ali (2007) The Minority Votes, DNAIndia.com, August 13 https://www.dnaindia.com/analysis/main-article-the-minority-votes-1115376.) The demolitions were accompanied by brutal police firing and a broader authoritarian agenda that included slum clearance, forced sterilizations, and curtailment of civil liberties (Raza Danish (2015) Tragedy and Turkman Gate: Witnesses recount horror of Emergency, The Hindustan Times, June 29, https://www.hindustantimes.com/india/tragedy-at-turkman-gate-witnesses-recount-horror-of-emergency/story-UD6kxHbROYSBMlDbjQLYpJ.html). The political strategy was armed with four major tactics moves that include compulsory sterilization (nas bandi), slum removal, police firing and curtailment of civil liberties (Wright Theodore P (1977) Muslims and the 1977 Indian Elections: A Watershed? Asian Survey 17(12) 1207-1220). The bulldozer, then as now, became a symbol of state repression.

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New India, Same Bulldozers

Today, decades later, the bulldozer has returned—not merely as a machine but as an extrajudicial instrument of state power. The targets remain eerily similar: the urban poor and Muslim minorities.

Despite laws that require due process—such as serving eviction notices and offering appeals—these procedures are increasingly ignored. Demolitions are often sudden, violent, and unaccompanied by any plans for resettlement.

Take the example of Khori Gaon, a 50-year-old settlement in Delhi with nearly 100,000 residents. In the middle of a pandemic and monsoon season, the settlement was demolished without warning. The residents were labeled as “forest encroachers,” and the court ordered their eviction without considering the humanitarian crisis. “We don’t want these Covid excuses,” the court stated. No hearings, no relief, no compensation—just brute force.

The state deployed heavy police presence, and residents—men, women, and children—were subjected to violence and trauma. No notices were served, no rehabilitation was planned, and no temporary shelters were provided. The very people who build and sustain cities were treated as disposable.

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The Politics of Slum Clearance

Slums are not a problem of illegality—they are a consequence of systemic failure. Displacement, poverty, lack of affordable housing, and urban exclusion force people into informal settlements. Often, these slums are not only known to state authorities but also unofficially sanctioned or even encouraged.

Yet, instead of addressing root causes, the state responds with violence. Slum clearance becomes a euphemism for class cleansing. Policies prioritize erasure over inclusion, and the poor are vilified as “encroachers,” “rioters,” or “illegal occupants.”

Forced evictions disproportionately affect women and children, causing generational harm—malnutrition, school dropouts, lost livelihoods, and increased vulnerability. Urban planning continues to ignore these costs, and the idea of humane rehabilitation remains absent from public discourse.

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Criminalizing and Dehumanizing the Poor

In places like Khori Gaon, Jahangirpuri, and Shaheen Bagh, homes are bulldozed under the pretext of punishing rioters or reclaiming land. But these demolitions function as collective punishment—used not to enforce law, but to signal power and reinforce prejudice.

By using bulldozers as punitive tools, the state legitimizes a narrative of criminality around the urban poor. Rehabilitation schemes, when they exist, are narrow in scope and exclude most affected families. The selective nature of demolitions—often targeting Muslim and marginalized communities—deepens social divisions.

This pattern reveals an alarming trend: the bulldozer is no longer just a machine. It is a weapon of majoritarian assertion, a symbol of control, and a tool for the dehumanization of the “other.”

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From Constitution to Control

The use of bulldozers today reflects a broader erosion of democratic values. What we are witnessing is not just the demolition of homes, but the systematic dismantling of constitutional rights, especially for the poor and minorities.

By bypassing legal safeguards and justifying state violence in the name of law, the bulldozer has become the face of impunity in “New India.” It is no longer about removing structures—it is about erasing people, otherizing them, diminishing their rights, and voices that do not fit into the state’s vision of urban order and cultural conformity.

True justice demands that we rebuild not just homes, but the very foundations of compassion, equality, and lawfulness that are being flattened under the tracks of bulldozer politics.

 

She is a girl; she has a right to survive with dignity

Shalu Nigam 

21 June 2022

She is not a commodity to be traded 

Hope that the moment you downgraded her could be faded 

She is not an object of your desire

She has dreams of her own to aspire

She is not a burden to be discarded 

She is a human to be accepted 

She is not a property to be owned 

She could imagine a world of her own

She is not a source of your free labor

Respect her rights and her worth, she is stronger

Because she is a girl, a woman 

She needs no permission

Her body her life and her future belong to her

Don't bring in your stereotypes, traditions or your repressive culture 

Your world is brutal and discriminatory 

But she dreams of a world that rests on equality

Where everyone has a right to survive with dignity