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A Walk Through Tughlaqabad: Heritage, Haze, and the Strange Comfort of Continuity

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It was during a birthday celebration for a senior colleague that the conversation inevitably drifted to Delhi’s abysmal air quality. Amid complaints about AQI, someone turned to me and asked, “Aren’t you the one who posts about heritage walks in the city?” It was an amused, almost affectionate observation. The history enthusiast in me, forever trying to nudge colleagues into discovering the layered stories of Delhi, felt seen.

The next question followed immediately: “Are the walks held even in this pollution?”
I nodded. Yes. Many of them, I said, lead us to some of the city’s most extensive green patches, pockets of nature where Delhi briefly remembers the ecology that once supported its many empires.

Returning to Tughlaqabad

This weekend’s INTACH walk took me to Tughlaqabad, one of Delhi’s seven historical capitals. As I approached the massive fortifications, I found myself slipping back to another winter afternoon, possibly January 2006, when a friend and I first tried to explore Tughlaqabad. I had just bought my first car. We parked casually at the entrance and wandered inside, unaware of what awaited us.

The fort walls that day were crowded with groups of young men. There were no guards in sight. Two women alone in an unfamiliar, isolated space, we exchanged a brief glance, turned around, and left within minutes. That aborted visit stayed with me.

This time, everything was different. Surrounded by fellow history enthusiasts and led by the brilliant Ratnendu Ray, the experience was a complete reversal. We discussed everything from medieval weaponry to the economics of the 14th century, pausing often to take in the scale of Ghiyas-ud-Din Tughlaq’s vision.

Walls Built to Deter Eternity

The fort announces its presence long before you reach the gate. Even in their dilapidated state, the enormous stone walls, spanning over six kilometres in a half-hexagonal shape, retain a quiet arrogance. They were once meant to intimidate enemies, withstand sieges, and hold power. Today, they are softened by shrubs, wild grass, and the slow generosity of time.

We heard stories of the Tughlaq dynasty, of Ghiyas-ud-Din’s famously strained equation with the Sufi saint Nizamuddin Aulia, and the curse that supposedly doomed the fort soon after its completion. The palace area once had a deep baoli, a hamam, and a small mosque; the walk leader showed us older photographs, and it was sobering to see how much the site has eroded. Even thick, defiant walls cannot withstand the patience of centuries.

Haze Instead of History

We climbed to one of the highest points for a panoramic view of Adilabad Fort and Nai-ka-Kot. But all we could see was haze—Delhi’s new, stubborn skyline. Even the tomb of Ghiyas-ud-Din Tughlaq, barely across the road, was a ghostly silhouette.

On the way down, we wandered into a quiet corner where rocks lay piled along the fort wall beside a mound of used diyas. A local legend speaks of a pir, revered by both Hindus and Muslims. The fort may have been abandoned by royalty, historians, and tourists at various times, but the local community has gently folded it into their everyday spiritual landscape.

A Tomb in a Garden

Across the road, the ruler’s red-sandstone tomb sits inside an unexpectedly well-maintained, manicured patch of green. It also houses the tomb of a military commander named Zafar. With little historical detail available about him, we found ourselves imagining scenarios that could explain how a commander earned a resting place beside a king.

Driving Home With Impermanence

After more than three absorbing hours, as I drove away, a familiar thought settled in.

Empires rise, rulers command, forts stretch stone by stone toward the sky, and then, quietly, they collapse into stories, legends, and vegetation.

Power is temporary. Architecture is temporary. Even memory is temporary.

And yet, the act of walking through history, of witnessing its ruins with others who care, felt strangely grounding. In a city battling pollution, noise, and restlessness, these remnants remind us that everything is transient, but nothing is ever entirely lost.

Walking Through Memory: From Ugrasen ki Baoli to Jantar Mantar

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It began, as many good things do, with a conversation over nostalgia.

About a month ago, a colleague who had started his career with me reminisced about our old office in Connaught Place, New Delhi. That memory sparked a half-hour exchange of stories — about coffees and milkshakes, thalis and biryanis, the food at various State Bhavans, and those impulsive lunch-hour shopping sojourns.

We were in our mid-twenties then, discovering what independence truly meant. So when an INTACH walk from Ugrasen ki Baoli to Jantar Mantar popped up in my WhatsApp feed, I knew I had to join. My first five years in Delhi — and at Connaught Place — had left me with some of my fondest memories. This walk, I thought, might help me know a little more about the city that once shaped my days. And with Ratnendu Ray leading it, there were bound to be stories worth walking for.

Setting Out

The email had advised us not to bring vehicles since the start and end points were different. But, true to my contrary instincts, I drove anyway. I parked opposite Barakhamba Road, found no attendant in sight, and left the car neatly in a corner so as not to inconvenience anyone.

It was a crisp morning, and I decided to walk to Hailey Road, where the Baoli stands. The roads were largely empty — the kind of quiet Delhi rarely offers. The footpaths were uneven, sometimes absent, sometimes grimy, but the city already felt alive in its own unhurried way.

The Baoli and Its Backstories

Nestled among high-rises, Ugrasen ki Baoli is remarkably well-maintained and ever popular with tourists. Our group gathered in the soft winter sun, listening to tales of Maharaja Agrasen, the Aggarwal Samaj, and the care of Delhi’s monuments.

As we left the site, someone asked who “Hailey” was — after whom the road was named. That led to the story of William Malcolm Hailey, Governor of Punjab and Delhi’s first Chief Commissioner. His work on the Jhelum Canal, which boosted agriculture in undivided Punjab, earned him a knighthood. Interestingly, what we now call Jim Corbett National Park was once Hailey National Park.

It struck me that the naming and renaming of roads — so often seen as a modern exercise — have always reflected changing eras and ideologies.

Glass Elevators and Forgotten Doors

Leaving Hailey’s history behind, we reached the Ambadeep Building — a striking landmark and the first in Delhi to feature external glass elevators. I must have passed it hundreds of times, marvelling at its mirrored façade, yet it was only today that I noticed its courtyards, terraces, and mosaic tiles.

A little ahead, as we turned toward Janpath, a locked old doorway caught our attention. Above it hung a faded board that read Martin Burn Limited. To most Bengalis, Martin Burn is synonymous with the construction of the iconic Howrah Bridge. What I hadn’t known was that the company was co-founded by Sir Rajendranath Mookerjee and Sir Thomas Acquin Martin — and that they chose the name “Martin” to sidestep the racial bias that Indian firms faced in securing British contracts.

Sometimes, the smallest details in a cityscape open windows to vast forgotten worlds.

Architecture, Emporiums, and Echoes of Communication

On Janpath stood Jawahar Vyapar Bhavan, home to the government emporium. I’ve always found the building intriguing, but I learnt that its design blends Japanese “Metabolism” architecture with Mughal influences — reflected in its material and rhythm.

Just ahead loomed the ageing MTNL building, its façade dulled by time, and in front of it, the bust of Rafi Ahmed Kidwai — India’s first Communications Minister. Today, when we take overnight deliveries and instant communication for granted, it’s easy to forget that Kidwai was the one who introduced night mail flights between Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, and Nagpur — an innovation that once shrank the country’s distances.

Further down, Eastern Court stood in quiet resignation. Once, along with its twin Western Court, it had housed legislators. While the Western Court still serves as an MPs’ hostel, the Eastern Court was converted into offices for the Post and Telegraph Department. The building’s fading grace seemed to mirror the slow decline of the postal era itself — a reminder that communication, too, has its ruins.

Temples, Protests, and Time

Our next stop was a small, almost hidden temple of Batuk Bhairav, located behind Jantar Mantar. It once formed part of the same complex. We often forget that the land the British chose for their capital wasn’t empty — it was dotted with villages, shrines, and habitations. A sizeable portion belonged to the Maharaja of Jaipur, which is why this temple is still maintained by the Rajasthan government.

As we neared Jantar Mantar, the sound of chants grew louder. Protesters were gathered near the monument, many nibbling at roadside snacks between slogans. I’ve always wondered how this spot became India’s favourite protest site — perhaps that’s a story for another walk.

At Jantar Mantar — and Beyond

Jantar Mantar itself needs no introduction. The site, once neglected, was restored by the British. Its sandstone instruments, though outpaced by modern technology, remain astronomical marvels — precise, poetic, and quietly monumental.

The walk ended, but the city’s spell didn’t. I decided to take a slight detour to buy shoes. After trying several shops, I discovered that none had my size — everything was meant for larger feet.

So much for the saying, “Good things come in small packages.” The package, alas, still needs shoes.

Epilogue: The City as a Companion

Delhi often feels like a living palimpsest — each layer of its architecture, every old signboard, a trace of time refusing to fade. That morning’s walk wasn’t just a lesson in history or urban design; it was a quiet reminder of how cities hold our stories long after we’ve moved on.

Walking through Delhi, I wasn’t just revisiting its streets — I was revisiting myself, the twenty-something with coffee in hand and dreams in her eyes, finding independence one Connaught Place lunch break at a time.

A Sunday Morning in Hauz Khas: Walking Through Layers of Time

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Hauz Khas has always been that buzzing South Delhi address — synonymous with nightlife, chic cafés, designer boutiques, and a medley of world cuisines. For me, it had long existed as that happening urban village, where the city comes to unwind. Someone had once mentioned there were “some old monuments” tucked away there, but then, Delhi has monuments scattered like punctuation marks in its long, layered history.

So when an email from INTACH dropped into my inbox about a heritage walk through Hauz Khas, curiosity nudged me to sign up. That is how, on a quiet Sunday morning, I found myself standing with fellow history enthusiasts at the gates of the Hauz Khas mosque — ready to peel back the centuries, guided by the brilliant storyteller Ratnendu Roy.

Stepping Into a Medieval Campus

Hauz Khas was originally built by Alauddin Khilji and reached its pinnacle under Firoz Shah Tughlaq. As we walked into the mosque and madrasa complex — complete with hostel cells once meant for students — it was easy to imagine its glory days: serene gardens, the expansive water tank shimmering beyond, and scholars breathing life into its stone corridors.

Tucked within the complex are several tombs, the most prominent being that of Firoz Shah himself. Legend has it that the surrounding village grew as an ecosystem around this premier centre of learning. Even today, gazing out from the madrasa’s colonnaded windows towards the hauz (reservoir), the scene feels remarkably tranquil — as if time has paused just for a moment.

From Forgotten Village to Trendy Hotspot

Hauz Khas village lay largely forgotten until the mid-1980s, when designers and café owners “discovered” its rustic charm. Boutiques sprang up in old village homes, and the area morphed into Delhi’s go-to party destination. Yet behind the neon signs and polished façades, you can still spot the original mud-brick houses — a whisper of the village it once was.

A short stroll led us into the lush Deer Park. It is one of those rare green islands in Delhi where city sounds dim into silence. Joggers, families, and groups of friends dotted the winding paths. Within its leafy expanse stand two medieval gems: the Lodhi-era Bagh-e-Alam ka Gumbad, said to have taken inspiration from Firoz Shah’s tomb, and the diminutive Kali Gumti, whose cenotaph has vanished into history’s mists.

Munda Gumbad and the Whisper of the Wind

The walk ended at Munda Gumbad — literally the “headless dome” — a pleasure pavilion once located on an island in the middle of the reservoir. Encroachments have since pushed the water’s edge far back, but the charm lingers. Climbing the short steps, I was met with a 360° panorama: the green canopy of the park, the stone silhouettes of monuments, and the glimmering water. A soft breeze wrapped around us, and I found myself imagining an earlier time — boats gliding across the water, ducks splashing, and royalty reclining under the dome to escape the summer sun.

As we were walking towards the Munda Gumbad, a sudden rustling and cacophony above made us look up — a massive colony of bats hung like dark fruits from the branches overhead. I had never seen so many at once; they seemed like watchful guardians of the place’s secrets.

Threads Between Past and Future

Along the walk, our conversations meandered — from vandalised monuments and encroached heritage zones to the challenges of restoration, the scarcity of funds, and the lack of public awareness. It struck me then: history is not just an episode of the past. It is a thread that connects us to the future — a legacy to be understood, protected, and cherished.

A Sunday morning, well spent. A city rediscovered.