Sonam wangdi
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A Heritage Walk Through Ghalib In Chandni Chowk
It was a sweltering summer afternoon in Delhi, the kind where the sun doesn’t just shine,it scorches.
The narrow streets of Chandni Chowk felt even tighter, more crowded, more alive. But I had signed up for this ,a heritage walk in search of stories.
And one story or rather, one soul had brought me here.
Mirza Ghalib.
The walk had begun near Town Hall, weaving through lanes bursting with colour, chaos, and centuries of history.
The guide spoke of Mughal rulers and fading facades, but in my head, one sher whispered louder than the heat:
“Umar bhar Ghalib yehi bhool karta raha, dhool chehre pe thi, aur aina saaf karta raha…”
(All his life, Ghalib kept making the same mistake ,the dust was on his face, and he kept cleaning the mirror.)
By the time we reached Ballimaran, the sun was relentless. Shops lined both sides ,the lehengas, the sherwani,Artificial jewellery shops,small eateries sizzling with jalebis and lemonade 🍋 . And then, suddenly, the guide stopped and pointed.
“Yeh rahi,Ghalib ki haveli.”
There it was. Tucked into a narrow by-lane, shadowed by an old concrete Ghalib’s Haveli. The gate stood open like an invitation. And I stepped in.
Inside, the air felt cooler, quieter. The noise of Chandni Chowk faded behind those walls. The haveli was humble, with arches and tiled flooring, now preserved as a small museum. But the presence of the poet ,his loneliness, his brilliance ,lingered in every corner.
On the wall was a line written in delicate script:
“Hazaaron khwahishen aisi, ke har khwahish pe dam nikle…”
(Thousands of desires, each worth dying for…)
It hit harder in the heat ,because walking these lanes, sweating and exhausted, I felt the weight of his world. Ghalib had lived here during a time of immense change ,the fall of the Mughal Empire, personal tragedies, and financial struggles. And yet, in all that, he wrote,with unmatched wit, elegance, and pain.
The statue of Ghalib sat quietly in a corner, gazing into the past. His eyes seemed to follow me. Maybe amused. Maybe just tired of visitors.
I smiled.
The haveli is now a small museum, holding a statue of Ghalib, some letters, his handwriting, and illustrations of his life. It’s quiet, almost reverent, as if Delhi itself pauses here to remember
Walking back out into the sun,I noticed how Ballimaran carried on ,loud, busy, beautiful. Children laughed in narrow corridors, a chaiwala shouted for change, a rickshaw pulled through honking scooters.
But for me, the day had changed.
The day was still hot.
The sweat still clung.
But now, every drop felt like an offering to the poet who had once walked these very streets,broken, brilliant, and burning with sher after sher.
That day,I didn’t just walk through heat.
I walked through Ghalib.
No ticket required for Entry.
