Tag Archives: Delhi History

A Medieval Icon, a Modern Nation

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There is something about the Red Fort—maybe because every time I have seen photographs or a telecast of Independence Day or Republic Day, it is the Red Fort that comes into view: stately, majestic, almost like a witness to everything that has unfolded around it.

So when an INTACH email landed in my inbox about a heritage walk at the Red Fort this Sunday, I had to join. Delhi Metro is the best bet to reach anywhere on time. The crowd I encountered while changing trains at Kalkaji should have warned me of what was to come. At Lal Qila, I emerged from the gate and realised it was almost a sea of humanity. Somehow, manoeuvring through it, I made it to the entry near the Lahori Gate.

Our walk leader, Javeria, had to shout just to make herself audible. Unfazed, she led us through the crowded spaces, sharing insights not only about history but also about architecture. We entered through Chatta Chowk—one of the earliest covered markets of its time—crossed the Naqqar Khana, and reached the Diwan-i-Aam.

Whenever I visit forts, I find myself wondering how people lived there. How was each place used—really used, day after day? The Diwan-i-Aam is stately, and the contrast of red sandstone with the highly embellished throne stands out. But it was a small detail that shifted everything for me: hooks on the ceiling outside, used to hang curtains—muslin or velvet depending on the season. That single observation triggered my imagination more than any grand façade could.

As we paused at the corner of the Diwan-i-Aam, the fort’s hierarchy became visible in stone. The areas meant for nobles and royalty were built in Makrana marble. The fort is said to have been constructed at a cost of six lakh rupees—a princely sum, and a sizeable figure even today. But we are speaking of a period when the Indian economy was possibly booming in ways we rarely pause to remember.

The first marble building we encountered was the Rang Mahal, a palace for the emperor’s concubines. An elaborate fountain system—run only by gravity—greets you there. I found myself wondering who the architect of the fort was. Imagine my surprise when Javeria mentioned it was the same architect associated with the Taj Mahal. And then the old story surfaced in my mind: wasn’t his hand chopped off so he could never build anything again? Apparently not. History, like memory, collects myths the way monuments collect dust.

We moved on to the emperor’s sleeping quarters. There is a barricade on the steps so people don’t climb them now, but you can still see a depression where the marble has slowly worn down with regular use. These quarters were never meant for mass entry. Today, most of the marble spaces can only be seen from outside—beauty held at a distance.

The lawns were being readied for an evening programme, ticketed. The security guards were almost shooing everyone out. But then, they underestimated our curiosity. We stopped near the pavilions to look at the Zafar Mahal: a red sandstone structure constructed by the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar. It stands out for its bare, un-embellished walls—a quiet testimony to the loss of power of the Mughals.

On our way out we saw the barracks built by the British after 1857 to house soldiers. The question came automatically: where did soldiers stay earlier? Javeria pointed out that rooms within the fort walls were used for them. What struck me even more was another fact: only the emperor stayed in the fort. Even his sons and daughters were not allowed to live there. The power of intrigue, deceit, and politics—clearly—has existed in all times.

By the time we left, the crowd had thinned. For the first time that day, one could stand at the entrance and simply marvel at what the fort must have proclaimed in its heyday.

I looked up at the lit ramparts and realised the fort would pull me back again. The child who watched Republic Day parades on television, spellbound, is not yet satisfied. Until the next time, the Red Fort will remain what it has become for me: a medieval icon adopted by a modern nation.

No Plans, So I Time-Traveled

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Christmas fell midweek, and I had no particular plans. After all, when one doesn’t have to go to church and pray, what does one do—eat and sleep?

As I was contemplating a lazy Thursday, an email from Tales of the City dropped in about a heritage walk around the churches of Purani Dilli. It felt like the universe was gently nudging me off the couch.

New Delhi may look like the diva, but it’s Purani Dilli that preserves the city’s soul. In Old Delhi, you can time-travel in a few steps—past a gate, around a corner, across a lane that pretends it has always been here. The walk began at St. James’ Church, and I found myself in a large group of walkers. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one with no plans for a midweek holiday.

This was my second visit to the church. The last time I came, the compound was quiet, almost meditative. Today, it was full of cars. A service was underway, so we avoided going inside. Still, I have always been intrigued by this church—its location near Kashmere Gate, almost next door to Lothiyan cemetery, which was the city’s earliest Christian cemetery. There’s also the story of its origin: a church built as a vow (a very Indian thing to do) by a private individual, Colonel James Skinner—a man who struggled to fit into the British world due to his mixed parentage, and yet went on to build an institution that later became the church of the Viceroy of India.

The church compound holds more than a place of worship. It houses the private cemetery of the Skinner family, and, most importantly, the grave of William Fraser, Commissioner of Delhi. In fact, the grave pre-dates the church and may have influenced the choice of location. Next to Fraser’s grave stands a large cross erected by the British in memory of British families killed in 1857. That the memorial is part of narrative-building becomes evident when one notices engravings not only in English but also in Persian—the lingua franca of those days.

When we stepped out of the compound, we could see the old campus of St. Stephen’s, which today houses the office of the Chief Electoral Officer, Delhi. Purani Dilli does this effortlessly—lives history, then repurposes it as required. Led enthusiastically by Shreya Sahay and Karan Tekwani, our group moved along the busy lanes towards the next stop.

On the way, we passed Dr. B. R. Ambedkar University and an interesting signboard that claimed the building had once been the library of Dara Shikoh and was now better known as a Partition Museum. A few steps later, the walk leaders pointed to something easy to miss: a rather nondescript obelisk lying ignored at the corner of a road. Yet this quiet structure is the Mutiny Telegraph Memorial, erected by the British in honour of the telegraph staff who sent the warning of the 1857 uprising. Today, the words on its base can barely be read; construction material and a garage crowd around it. Did I ever pause to think there could be a link between the telegraph and 1857? No. And yet, apparently, a single message—sent at the right moment—could alter the course of history. It’s humbling how cities hide their turning points in plain sight.

A little distance away stood another structure that draws almost no attention now: the British Magazine, constructed in the early 19th century near Kashmere Gate as a storage facility for gunpowder, arms, and explosives for the East India Company forces. In 1857, when the rebels reached Delhi, it became a target. When the British realised they couldn’t defend it, they blew it up. The ammunition is said to have burned for days, an image so dramatic it almost feels cinematic, and yet the building today sits quietly.

Our second church stop was St. Mary’s, near the Red Fort. Unfortunately, it was closed, and we could only admire the building from the outside. The walk leaders shared its layered history—how the site’s story moves through different phases of patronage and rebuilding, and how, once the later structure took shape, the church was frequented more by British officers stationed in the city. Even when a place begins with local connections, the city’s politics and power shifts can re-script who it belongs to.

By noon, the final stop was about a kilometre away. We hopped onto e-rickshaws and landed at St. Stephen’s Church in the bustling marketplace of Church Mission Road. The service was almost over, and as we debated whether we should go in, a hymn floated out—praise for Jesus set to the tune of “Jai Jagdish Hare.” I froze for a second, smiling at the sheer ease with which India does this—borrows, blends, transforms, makes faith sound familiar without losing its meaning.

When the service ended, people streamed out and wished us Merry Christmas. Built by Anglican missionaries, the church was meant for the local population and carries inscriptions in Persian, again, a reminder of how languages travel, settle, and leave marks even in places you wouldn’t expect.

I have always enjoyed Christmas festivities, but I had never visited a church on Christmas Day. This turned out to be one of my most interesting Christmas holidays—not because it was loud or glittery, but because it gave me a glimpse into the rich tapestry of Purani Dilli.

Delhi is a palimpsest—not only of its rulers and its various capitals, but also of languages, religions, and everything that comes along with them. Spend time with the city, and it will open up its world to those who want to see it.

Ridge of Resilience: Seeking Fresh Air in Delhi’s Living History

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How is it that as technology advances, the quality of life seems to decline? This thought weighed heavily on my mind as I stepped out into Delhi’s smog-filled morning. Dull. Dreary. Suffocating. Each winter, the capital transforms into a gas chamber, and each year’s promises of cleaner air evaporate faster than the smog settles back in. With my quota of casual leaves exhausted, and thus, my dreams of a temporary escape, frustration clung to me like the haze itself.

Just then, a message flashed: an INTACH heritage walk in the Northern Ridge. A chance to breathe history, if not fresh air. That it was led by a master storyteller Ratnendu Ray, the idea was inviting. I signed up.

Sleep, however, conspired against me. I woke late, rushed through the morning, and hastened toward Kamla Nehru Ridge Park or Bonta Park, frantically searching for Gate No. 1. Inside, a short walk led to Flagstaff Tower, where the group awaited.

On the way, monkeys ambled fearlessly across the path as if they owned it. Morning walkers clutched sticks as insurance. Memories of Vrindavan’s notorious simian bandits resurfaced. Would my glasses survive this walk? But the monkeys only cast indifferent glances my way.

Where History Watches the City Below

The Northern Ridge rises above Shahjahanabad or Purani Dilli, one of Delhi’s seven historical cities. Flagstaff Tower, once a watchpoint, sits at its highest elevation. Today, it is surrounded by trees, but this greenery is not ancient; it is the product of three rounds of afforestation before independence. Hard to imagine that this tranquil patch of forest was once a British encampment during the 1857 war.

Our walk began with stories of the siege, of smoke and cannon fire, where parakeets now flutter, and a glimpse into early war journalism. Felice Beato, the pioneering war photographer, had captured this very landscape scorched by battle. The Delhi Urdu Akhbar had tried to shape public sentiment, reinforcing Bahadur Shah Zafar as the symbolic leader. The tools change, but the media’s role in nation-building and narratives remains constant.

We learned of Brigadier General John Nicholson, the strict Irish officer who commanded British forces from August 1857 till his death in September 1857. His reputation in the North-West Frontier was so imposing that he inspired a cult — his followers, the Nikal Seynis, treating him almost as divine. History has its ironic humour. Interestingly, the cult is said to have lasted into the 21st century.

Ruins, Remnants, and the People Who Remember

Next came Chauburji Masjid — a 13th-century mosque once crowned by four domes, now missing half its crown thanks to the bombardments of 1857. With its gates locked, we admired it from the outside. A group of elderly men paused their morning banter to offer us sweets and snacks. Their warmth cut through the wintry chill — and reminded me that heritage isn’t only stone and mortar, but memory and community.

At Pir Ghaib, originally Firoz Shah Tughlaq’s hunting lodge, a lone structure now stands beside Hindu Rao Hospital. A baoli lies neglected nearby. The mansion of Raja Hindu Rao, once a mighty noble’s residence, has vanished and today stands the hospital in its place. Has history been replaced by urgent modern needs? May be not. People who come to the hospital may not know him but his name carries on.

Near the Ashokan Pillar — fragmented by a 1713 East India Company ammunition dump explosion and later restored — the layers deepened. Mauryan ideals. Tughlaq’s passion for collectibles, Mughal drama. British intervention. Modern restoration. Delhi does not erase its history; it compacts it like geological strata.

A Victory Tower, A Shifted Narrative

We concluded at the Mutiny Memorial — a Gothic tower celebrating British “victory,” its plaques once labeling Indian freedom fighters as the enemy. After independence, a corrective marker was added: a reminder that the empire’s enemy was India’s fight for self.

Standing there, surrounded by green silence, I reflected on the three hours that had passed. My irritation from the morning now felt smaller. The air may be polluted, but the past here still breathes — vividly, defiantly.

Delhi’s history isn’t merely to be read in books. It rises from the earth, whispers through crumbling walls, lingers in the names of forgotten places. Technology may advance, and quality of life may falter — but what endures are stories. And on the Ridge, the city’s oldest stories still hold their ground.