Delhi Lost and Found: Echoes of Empire, Poetry, and the Sacred

Once through this ruined city did I pass I espied a lonely bird on a bough and asked What knowest thou of this wilderness? It replied: 'I can sum it up in two words: ‘Alas, Alas! ― Khushwant Singh

For the city that gave me peace and refuge, with care - Saurabh Singh, Editor of Bohemian Dialogue

Over the past few months, I have wandered through Delhi as a vagabond, a digital nomad, and, in many ways, a traveler returning to a place I call home. Every corner of the city carries a story, layered with centuries of history. Since childhood, my favorite pastime has been to lose myself in the City of Djinns and relive its past.

My journey begins in Faridabad, the city of my birth. As I’ve shared before in one of our newsletters, my grandparents migrated here from eastern U.P., making it their home when Faridabad was rising as the “Manchester of Northern India,” celebrated for its thriving textile and steel industries.

From this city, I often set out for the capital, crossing the ancient Aravalis, the world’s oldest mountain range. And so, as I write this newsletter, I want to share with you my journeys to the city that I know so well, perhaps in search of myself.

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Tracing Delhi’s Echoes of Empire

As I journey from Faridabad to the heart of Delhi, I’m reminded that while the drive isn’t long without traffic, Delhi never lets you forget that traffic and history walk hand in hand here. I often pause at the Imperial Hotel, and for good reason. Not only is it one of Delhi’s oldest hotels, but it was also the very place where, at its legendary Patiala Peg bar, Nehru, Jinnah, Gandhi, and Mountbatten once sat together to debate the partition of India.

I like to think I’m tasting history when I sit there now, sipping my gin and tonic, the drink that has made this bar my personal ritual these days. Another cocktail in the menu is named East India, which instantly brings to mind William Fraser, one of the first few English residents and the so-called “White Mughals” who began living like the Mughal emperors. Fraser himself became the subject of Delhi’s enduring gossip: his Civil Lines residence, his love triangle, and his eventual murder. The tale is almost theatrical. Nawab Shamsuddin Ahmed Khan of Loharu, fueled by political tensions and a tangled love affair, is said to have arranged Fraser’s assassination.

Driving further, I finally reached Hotel Maidens, the oldest surviving hotel in Delhi. Between statesmen debating the fate of a nation in a bar, English officials adopting Mughal ways of life, and these colonial hotels still standing like monuments, I find myself reflecting on the strange lessons of history.

Tracing Delhi’s Echoes of Poetry

When William Fraser was killed in 1835, Mirza Ghalib mourned him with the grief of a son, writing that he felt as though he had lost his father a second time. In my other projects, I have tried to tell the story of Ghalib: his brilliance, his profound thought, and the way his poetry continues to echo across centuries. To truly grasp his depth, one must pause and reflect on one of his most philosophical ghazals:

na thā kuchh to ḳhudā thā kuchh na hotā to ḳhudā hotā

Duboyā mujh ko hone ne na hotā maiñ to kyā hotā

huā jab ġham se yuuñ be-his to ġham kyā sar ke kaTne kā

na hotā gar judā tan se to zaanū par dharā hotā

huī muddat ki 'ġhālib' mar gayā par yaad aatā hai

vo har ik baat par kahnā ki yuuñ hotā to kyā hotā

I have visited Ghalib’s haveli in Gali Qasim Jan many times. Unlike the crumbling remains of other poets’ homes, this haveli has been preserved with care, allowing one to step into the world where Ghalib once lived. For me, it stands as a rare monument to Delhi’s poetic heritage. Yet, when I think of poets like Mir Taqi Mir, my personal favorite, I cannot help but wonder how much of their world has been lost in the ruins of time.

Tracing the Sacred Echoes of Delhi

I have heard a lot about Yamuna Ghat and how peaceful it looks during the winter. When I read Delhi by Khushwant Singh, there’s a quote in the book that I often reflect on.

That's Delhi. When life gets too much for you all you need to do is to spend an hour at Nigambodh Ghat,watch the dead being put to flames and hear their kin wail for them. Then come home and down a couple of pegs of whisky. In Delhi, death and drink make life worth living,”

―Khushwant Singh,Delhi

One day, I decided to visit Nigambodh Ghat myself. I had never been to a cremation ground before. I saw several pyres burning and, to my surprise, I didn’t feel afraid. It made me realize that many of our fears exist only in our imagination.

As I walked further, I reached the Yamuna Ghat, a ghat that carries centuries of history and legend. It is believed that during the Mahabharata era, Lord Brahma bathed here to recover his lost memory. That is why it came to be called Nigambodh Ghat, meaning “realization of knowledge.” It is believed that these ghats were established by Yudhishthira, the eldest Pandava brother.

As I retrace these journeys through the imperial corridors of Delhi’s past, the verses of its poets, and the sacred silence of its ghat, I realize that the city is less a destination and more a mirror. Each monument, each ruin, each flame on the Yamuna’s edge carries not just the weight of history, but an invitation to see myself within it. Perhaps that is why Delhi never feels finished; it is always waiting to be rediscovered, in its echoes and in our own.