We think we know what 21 looks like—restless energy, unfinished dreams, a horizon stretching endlessly ahead. I certainly believed that. But this Saturday, as I listened to the story of Flying Officer Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon, I found myself quietly shaken. What does courage look like at 21? What does duty feel like when the cost is everything?
INTACH Delhi had announced a heritage walk at the Indian Air Force Museum, led by Retired Group Captain (Dr) Shajahan Avadi. It was curiosity that took me there. Only later did I realise how rare the opportunity was—the museum isn’t part of the usual tourist trail, and this was its very first heritage walk.
At the entrance, two things stood out. A crowd of schoolchildren—wide-eyed, excited—and at the gate, a real aircraft, standing like a guardian of memory. The walk leader began with a question: Why is a Gnat placed right at the entrance? Before we could think, an officer injured in service rolled past us in a wheelchair. The answer, perhaps, lay in the silence he left behind.
Inside, old photographs whispered forgotten stories. We heard of Indra Lal Roy, of “Jumbo” Mazumdar, of Sekhon—names that deserve far more space in our collective memory. The narrative unfolded like a tapestry: Dakotas landing in Srinagar in 1947, missions in 1965 and 1971, UN peacekeeping roles, and humanitarian operations during the Uttarakhand floods. These were not just stories of war—they were stories of service, endurance, and humanity.
Then came the aircraft displays. A Japanese kamikaze plane. A Pakistani Sabre shot down in 1971. And across from it, the small, almost fragile-looking Gnat. It was impossible not to imagine Sekhon climbing into it, fully aware that he may not return. The only Param Vir Chakra awardee of the Indian Air Force was just 21 years old.
For two hours, we walked, listened, absorbed. But more than the exhibits, it was the weight of the stories—the quiet bravery, the unspoken sacrifices—that stayed with me.
As I stepped out of the museum, a thought lingered: Why don’t we tell these stories more often? Why aren’t they part of every Indian child’s growing-up years? It was heartening to learn that the museum was in the process of moving to a larger building with more exhibits.
Maybe that morning didn’t just teach me history. Maybe it deepened my gratitude for the freedom I live so casually, so comfortably—freedom that someone, somewhere, once guarded with their life.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Delhi is often said to be a city of seven historical cities, each founded by different rulers and woven together to form the capital as we know it. Among them, Lal Kot or Qila Rai Pithora is believed to be the first city of Delhi, located in present-day Mehrauli.
This Sunday, I joined a walk by Enroute Indian History inside the Mehrauli Archaeological Park. Spread across undulating terrain, the park houses nearly 55 archaeological monuments—some documented, others fading into obscurity, their stories lost to time.
Jamali Kamali Mosque & Tomb
Our walk began at the Jamali Kamali mosque, dedicated to Shaikh Fazlullah, also known as Jamali—a courtier of Sikander Lodhi who later fought and died for Humayun.
Beside the mosque lies a locked chamber, believed to be the resting place of Jamali and Kamali. The identity of Kamali is cloaked in folklore; some accounts call him Jamali’s beloved. Both are said to be buried together in this compound, a rare tale of intimacy and companionship from medieval Delhi.
The land itself was a grant from Sikander Lodhi, and the mosque reflects syncretic architecture—kalash motifs, inverted lotuses, and temple-like details—likely owing to local craftsmen more used to building temples.
Rajon ki Baoli
Next, we descended into the quiet depths of Rajon ki Baoli, a stepwell built in 1510 by Daulat Khan, the military commander of Ibrahim Lodhi. History records that it was this very Daulat Khan who invited Babur to India, setting the stage for the Mughal dynasty.
The four-storey stepwell is flanked by rooms used for bathing and washing, fitted with terracotta pipe outlets that ensured fresh water circulation. Yet, curiously, the baoli is not remembered by its builder’s name. Instead, after Partition, it became home to raj mistris (masons), and so the name Rajon ki Baoli endured.
Dilkhusha: Metcalfe’s Retreat
We then arrived at the picturesque ruins of Dilkhusha, once the country house of Sir Thomas Metcalfe, a civil servant of the East India Company and agent of the Governor General at Bahadur Shah Zafar’s court.
The first structure is a quaint boat house, curiously perched atop a Lodhi-era tomb. Though Metcalfe’s residence was later dismantled to restore the tomb, traces of its outer walls remain. From here, one can glimpse the soaring silhouette of the Qutub Minar.
The estate was built around the tomb of Muhammad Quli Khan, the foster brother of Emperor Akbar. Like many Mughal-era tombs, it was repurposed into a colonial residence, perhaps to establish distance between the ruling elite and the ordinary people.
The complex also houses what was once described as a “honeymoon suite”, complete with a fireplace and private pool. Today, it functions as a small museum, but in its day, it was rented out as a luxurious retreat.
Echoes of a Forgotten Past
Much of the park lies in decay, its walls slowly surrendering to time and nature. Yet a walk here feels like time travel—through the Sultanate, the Mughals, and the British Raj—when Mehrauli was alive with kings, saints, travelers, and storytellers.
It is a reminder that Delhi is not just a capital city but a palimpsest of civilizations, each layer shaping its destiny.
Do most people love hoarding things? Even the ones that don’t work anymore? I certainly do. But space is finite, and eventually, sentiment has to bow to practicality.
One casualty of this weekend’s decluttering was my old point-and-shoot camera — long kaput, yet faithfully carried through every house shift. In its final moments, it gave me a parting gift: an SD card with forgotten photographs.
They took me back almost a decade, to a time when my mother and I were enthusiastic long-weekend travelers. And to one trip in particular — to Krishnanagar in West Bengal — born out of nothing less than maternal blackmail.
Blackmail in the Name of Travel
The culprit? My mother. The crime? Forcing me — almost at gunpoint — to accompany her to Mayapur, ISKCON’s headquarters. Her partner, my aunt.
Never keen on religious tourism, I dug deep for excuses. She countered with an irresistible teaser: “There’s more to Mayapur than just ISKCON.” And as they say — “Tujhe sab he pata hai, na Ma.”
A little research revealed that the area was steeped in history. Soon, my resistance melted into curiosity.
The Journey Begins
Mayapur lies at the confluence of the Ganges and Jalangi rivers, in West Bengal’s Nadia district, about 130 km from Kolkata. It’s near Navadwip, the seat of Vaishnavism, and is considered the birthplace of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, regarded as Krishna’s incarnation.
We booked ISKCON guesthouse rooms through their Kolkata office, checked in, and immediately set off for our first stop: Palashi — better known as Plassey.
Palashi — Where History Changed Hands
On June 23, 1757, Palashi witnessed the Battle of Plassey — a turning point in Indian history. Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah’s forces fell to Robert Clive’s East India Company, paving the way for British dominance in Bengal and eventually the subcontinent.
Arriving at the site, we found nothing but green fields. A paan shop owner confirmed, “Yes, the battle was fought here… but now we grow crops.” No plaques, no elaborate memorials — just paddy swaying in the wind.
My driver refused to let the anticlimax stand. Guided by an elderly local, we eventually found a small, plain monument marking the spot. For a battle that altered India’s destiny, the simplicity was striking.
Krishnanagar — Churches, Palaces, and Clay Dolls
From Palashi, we headed to Krishnanagar. Our first stop: the Roman Catholic Church — an elegant cathedral housing 27 oil paintings depicting the life of Jesus Christ, alongside intricate wooden sculptures by Italian artists.
Catholic missionaries arrived in the region as early as the 17th century, and the current church was built in 1899 by Bishop Frances Pozzi.
The mood shifted when we visited the Rajbari of Raja Krishna Chandra Rai. Once a royal showpiece, the palace now serves as a parking lot and fairground. The grandeur has faded, its arches and courtyards bearing the scars of neglect.
Ghurni, however, brought back the charm. This neighbourhood remains a hub for Krishnanagar clay dolls, a tradition championed by Raja Krishna Chandra himself. The lifelike figurines, some no taller than a thumb, seemed to hold entire stories in their painted expressions.
Ballal Dhipi — Unearthing the Past
The next day took us to Ballal Dhipi in Bamunpukur village — a 30-foot-high mound spread over 1,300 square feet. Excavated in the 1980s, it revealed a massive brick complex, stucco heads, terracotta figurines, and copper utensils — dating as far back as the 8th–9th centuries, with later structures attributed to the 12th-century Sena dynasty ruler, Ballal Sen.
Standing there, with the wind carrying whispers of centuries past, it felt like touching the layered skin of Bengal’s history.
A Line on the Map
On our way back to Kolkata, a roadside sign brought a geographic surprise: “You are now crossing the Tropic of Cancer.” Not many trips let you straddle history and geography in the same breath.
And Mayapur?
That tale will need another trip — and another story.
As for this one, the blackmail was worth it. My mother loved the historical detour, even if she missed the spiritual one she had planned. And I walked away with a camera full of memories I’d only rediscover years later.
Delhi doesn’t reveal itself all at once. It unspools in layers — a whisper here, a ruin there, a breeze carrying the scent of marigolds and memory. On a quiet Sunday morning, I joined a heritage walk curated by Enroute Indian History, tracing the sacred and ceremonial path of Phoolwalon ki Sair — the annual festival of flowers, peace, and communal harmony held in Mehrauli.
But what I encountered was far more than just a trail of rituals — it was a journey through the soul of Delhi.
Where the City Began: Yogmaya Temple
Our walk began at the Yogmaya Temple, one of the few surviving temples from ancient Delhi and possibly as old as the city itself. It stands tucked away in the heart of Mehrauli, quiet yet powerful, like the still eye of a storm that has raged for centuries around it.
Long before Mehrauli acquired its present name, the area was known as Yoginipur — the city of yoginis. The temple, dedicated to Goddess Yogmaya (a sister of Krishna in mythology), still plays a central role during Phoolwalon ki Sair, with floral offerings made here alongside those at the nearby Dargah. As we stood beneath the age-worn arches, time itself seemed to slow down.
A Tomb with a Curse: Adam Khan’s Memorial
Not far from the temple, we made a detour to the tomb of Adam Khan, a monument steeped in local lore. Adam Khan, the foster brother of Akbar, was executed for treason, flung twice from the ramparts of Agra Fort to ensure death.
His tomb stands out for its Indo-Islamic architecture, reminiscent of Delhi Sultanate-era design rather than typical Mughal grandeur. It is said that no local woman of Mehrauli visits the tomb, believing it to be cursed. The only women who do are usually tourists or history students, like us. The air around the tomb is oddly heavy — less reverence, more caution.
A Sacred Journey: Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki
We then followed the festival’s spiritual trail to the Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki, the 13th-century Sufi saint and disciple of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer. A contemporary of Sultan Iltutmish, Kaki is revered as one of Delhi’s patron saints, and his shrine continues to draw pilgrims, politicians, and poets.
It is said that every ruler of Delhi sought the blessings of Sufi saints to gain legitimacy, and this Dargah, in particular, carries that aura of sanctified power.
As we stepped inside the whitewashed courtyard, a qawwal seated by the gateway began to sing. His voice, deep and raw, cut through the morning stillness, carrying the lyrics of Chaap Tilak. The Dargah came alive — not with grandeur, but with music, faith, and centuries of longing.
A Forgotten Well of Healing: Gandak ki Bawli
On the way to the Dargah, we stopped at the near-forgotten Gandak ki Bawli — a stepwell slowly sinking into neglect, yet once central to local life. Gifted by Iltutmish to the Dargah, the stepwell was believed to possess healing powers, and pilgrims would take a dip in its waters before offering prayers.
Later studies revealed the water had a high sulphur content, lending some scientific basis to the belief that it could cure skin ailments and other illnesses. Today, the water is stagnant, the steps cracked, but the legend still lingers — like a half-remembered dream.
Where the Empire Withered: Zafar Mahal
The final stop of our walk was the Zafar Mahal, the summer residence of Bahadur Shah Zafar, Delhi’s last Mughal emperor. Mehrauli, cooler than the rest of Delhi due to its elevation and greenery, became the seasonal retreat of the royal court. And this retreat wasn’t symbolic — the emperor moved with his whole retinue, even shifting the throne to Mehrauli for the duration.
Inside the Mahal is the Moti Masjid, a private prayer space built by Zafar himself. But the site is not just a reminder of royal solitude — it is also the stage for a powerful piece of local lore.
People in Mehrauli still say that the proximity of Zafar Mahal to the Dargah was a fateful misstep. “Sufi badshah se bada hota hai,” they say — a Sufi saint is greater than a king. Perhaps it was no coincidence, they whisper, that the Mughal Empire collapsed soon after. Bahadur Shah Zafar, the poet-emperor, would eventually die in exile, far from his beloved Delhi, and never be laid to rest in the tomb he had built for himself beside the Dargah.
A City of Shadows and Fragrance
As I walked back through Mehrauli’s bylanes, the scent of mogra, the hum of old qawwalis, and the echoes of royal processions accompanied me. Delhi, I realized, isn’t just a city of monuments — it is a city of memory, myth, and mood. Every stone here remembers. Every shrine still breathes.
Phoolwalon ki Sair may be celebrated once a year, but the path it takes is eternal — a living map of Delhi’s soul, etched in fragrance, footsteps, and faith.
Jajabor 