A century and a half ago, the people of Shahjahanabad used to climb the southern ramparts of the city wall between Turkman Gate and Dilli Gate, to look at the Khandrat Kalan (the great ruins). These were the vestiges of earlier Delhis. The domed buildings afforded waterproof shelter for village populations. From the 1920s, the khandrat were mapped and identified by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI).
Interspersed were the areas broadly called Jungle Baahar (the forests outside). The landscape of these was familiar to the city folk, for here lay the shrines they visited – Hindu, Sikh, Sufi. Between the trees and shrubs lay jheels, streams, rocky outcrops, and fields, all the way south to Mehrauli, the monsoon resort for the cooped-up city dwellers.
Thus did nature and manmade habitats intersect in the Delhi Triangle (the area between the Yamuna and the arc of the Ridge from the south curving round from west to north, and sloping into the river before Wazirabad. All the Delhis till the present one were within this triangle).
The decision to build a new city was announced in December 1911. From 1912 began the listing of structures and the mapping of requisitioned villages and their lands south of Shahjahanabad. The inhabitants were shifted to other sites, and areas were cleared to be laid out as roads and houses and parks and gardens, to cushion the harsh summer months.
The process has never stopped. As the urban and “urbanisable” (DDA-speak) acreage keeps growing, villages are “acquired”. Villagers of Mahipalpur go for morning walks on the lush green tracks leading to Indira Gandhi Airport, recalling it was once theirs; two generations ago, erstwhile villagers of Khairpur worked as malis in Lodi Garden, which had been their land.
A word on Lodi Garden – it is an example of how urban governments should work. The monuments are looked after by the ASI, the lawns and flowerbeds by the NDMC. This spirit of cooperation has to be extended, else we have a recipe for disaster. Imagine a hypothetical situation, where the Sheesh Gumbad in Lodi Garden is demolished because it encroaches on the lawns!
This is now happening near Mehrauli, in Sanjay Van, an invented forest delineated in 1994. Mehrauli and the Ridge have been continuously inhabited since at least the 10th century. The splendour of this landscape has been nibbled away over recent decades. It was put under the Forest Department of Delhi, which has its office in DDA’s Vikas Minar. Sanjay Van is one of many green areas in its care.
The Department has to be commended for its dedication to duty. They were in the van before sunrise on Martyrs’ Day, to remove “encroachments” which had happened in the 14th century. The children studying in the madrassa there were sent away, and their books given a decent burial. The malba was neatly carted off. Green areas have to be just that — not a trace of brown. Dare we remind our planners that this was the city of Delhi till the 14th century, that its shrines have been sites of solace and peace for generations. The DDA has explained that they have wonderful plans for the Forest: To use it for recreational facilities and promote environmental awareness through facilities such as paragliding, rock climbing, guided nature walks and aerial trails, among other things.
Of course the perceived needs and aspirations of town-dwellers change. But our historic city has a richness to it which can reconcile modern activities with the spirit of the past, taking care not to disturb areas which have been lived in. Mehrauli has layers of human history and earth history which has to be recognised and nurtured – and enjoyed. The monuments of centuries past communicate with the visitor who approaches them quietly. As do the birds and stars, which the enthusiastic Forest Department highlights. Sanjay Van does not need mushairas or folk-dances or loud merriment. The sufi saint with whom the undulating landscape is associated sought – and found – peace in its birds, trees, its night sky. And you would banish him?
The issue is not about pride in one’s heritage, it is about the control of land. This becomes ever so much easier to achieve if one is not distracted by sentimental arguments about heritage.
Till the 1980s the ASI had suffered from a lack of friends, low self-esteem, and low funds. It was the only whipping-boy for all complaints about historic buildings.
There has been a sea-change from the ’80s. “Heritage” suddenly became the most (over)used word. Heritage when applied to recipes and to handicrafts has been discussed and promoted spiritedly. But when brought into a discussion on historic architecture and landscapes, it becomes fuzzy, listless, often confrontational. There is a lack of dedication — speeches and colourful inaugurations can never be a substitute for regular maintenance. It is also ill-informed. Today there is information and agencies aplenty. There is no excuse for fudged dates and misinformation. But most of us lose our way in basketfuls of rules, regulations, gazette notifications, building bye-laws from which information has to be teased out. How many of us can understand officialese ?
While history may be in the past, heritage is in the present. The patina of years changes it and makes it more appealing. Making a list of and photographing built heritage once is not enough. It has to be a continuous process.
Our city’s most impressive monuments include three towers housing decision-makers – the Vikas Minar looking down on the Jama Masjid, the Nagar Palika on Sansad Marg, the Nagar Nigam looming over south Shahjahanabad. From that height they draw the map of our city. How, from that height, will they hear our little voices ?
The writer is a Delhi-based historian
The monuments of centuries past communicate with the visitor who approaches them quietly. Sanjay Van does not need ‘mushairas’ or folk-dances or loud merriment. The sufi saint with whom the undulating landscape is associated sought — and found — peace in its birds, trees, its night sky. 
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