Crime Today News
In Delhi’s busy Karol Bagh area, there is a two-lane street called Faiz Road, divided by a metal fence. Strangely, however, it’s not very long, about one kilometre or under a mile. The neighbourhood is difficult to classify as either a commercial or residential area – it’s best described as a mix.
There are scattered shops with flats above them, a few traditional mohallah-type houses – closely packed homes with shared walls, inner courtyards, and balconies overlooking narrow lanes – alongside apartments, some small hotels, and a lot of traffic.
It’s an old part of town, not in the best condition.
Old Delhiites know it well and everyone seems to have some idea about it – but what exactly is it famous for? It appears to be just a short stretch of road, mainly a connecting route. Passers-by likely don’t even glance at the street sign; they use it simply to get from one place to another or perhaps to visit a few shops along the way.
However, some who do notice the street sign might wonder why it’s called Faiz Road. They might assume it was named after the famous Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz. It certainly seems like a tribute to him. However, Faiz Ahmed Faiz became well known in the 1940s and likely published his first works around 1946, whereas this road’s name has existed since the early days of Karol Bagh, a pre-Partition area.
Ancestral ties
For me, a Pakistani, this road in Delhi holds special significance, because my father lived here, growing up in a house on this road before Partition, when Karol Bagh was a predominantly Muslim area. In fact, most of the houses here once belonged to his extended family. Even the masjid on the road, I believe, was built by my father’s Bare Abba – Agha Abdul Aziz, his father’s elder brother.
Growing up, we heard many stories about Faiz Road from older family members. We were told that there is a road in Delhi named after my great-grandfather, Muhammad Faiz Bakhsh. The story goes that his eldest son, Agha Abdul Aziz – then the Kotwal (chief officer) of Delhi, likely around the 1920s – named an obscure road near Kala Pahar “Faiz Road” to honour his father, Muhammad Faiz Bakhsh from Chauntra in Himachal Pradesh in northern India.
My grandfather, Muhammad Amin, later built a house on this road in the early 1930s. He named it Faiz Manzil (house), again in memory of his father. It was a beautiful, sprawling bungalow where the family lived for many years. By some miracle, it still stands today – perhaps as a silent memory of Faiz Bakhsh’s family, who once inhabited the area.
The family migrated from Delhi in September 1947 to Lahore, Pakistan, amidst the Partition riots. By then, my great-grandfather had passed away. That ill-fated night, as an angry crowd gathered outside, my grandfather, Muhammad Amin, realised it was no longer safe to be here. He decided it was best for the family to take refuge in a safer part of town and reassess the situation the next day.
Sadly, they never returned home after that night. They left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, heading to a new country they had never seen before – a land they knew nothing about.
By then, because of the mass killings in Punjab, the trains had stopped operating. My grandfather, being a government servant, was able to arrange for a small plane to evacuate the women and children. They flew from Palam Airport in Delhi to Karachi.
My grandfather stayed behind, and for over a month, the family had no idea where he was or whether he was even alive. Luckily, he made it to Rawalpindi by the end of October, leaving the house on Faiz Road behind forever.
Home again
We grew up hearing stories about Faiz Road. Any family member who had the chance to visit India made a trip to the house. My father’s younger brother, a career diplomat, was posted to New Delhi in 1976, after diplomatic relations between India and Pakistan were restored following the 1971 war. This allowed my grandmother and my three aunts to visit India and see their beloved Faiz Manzil once again.
By then, the house had been divided and given to three or four refugee families from Punjab. These families welcomed them warmly. My uncle, my father’s youngest sibling, also had the opportunity to visit in the 1990s. One of my cousins visited the house in 2004; by then, it was being used as a packing factory for bedcovers. It still had the name “Faiz Manzil” written on the front parapet in Urdu. The manager introduced her to the workers as “one of the owners”.
Not all family members got a chance to visit, but for those who did, it was almost like a pilgrimage – returning to their roots, seeking some form of closure.
When I first visited India with my daughter in 2006, visiting Faiz Road was at the top of my itinerary. Back then, we didn’t have smartphones or GPS, just physical maps. My father drew a detailed map to help me find the house. I remember the names he wrote – Rohtak Road, Hakim Ajmal Khan Road, Tibbia College, Eidgah. These names were completely unfamiliar to me but deeply meaningful to him. It was fascinating how he remembered the details so clearly. Using his map, we were able to guide the driver and reach the house directly.
Although the house was locked, it was still an emotional moment. It was heartbreaking that my father wasn’t there to see it himself, but I felt like I was seeing it through his eyes – his house, his Bare Abba’s house, the masjid on the road.
The following year, I returned with my mother, my phuppo (father’s sister), and my sister. My phuppo remembered the area well, having visited India a couple of times before. Roaming the streets where my ancestors once lived was a surreal experience, though Faiz Manzil remained locked.
Years later, just before the Covid-19 pandemic, my mother visited Delhi. That day, however, the traffic was so bad that we couldn’t even stop.
Memories
In 2017, by some twist of fate, I moved to Delhi. One day, feeling a bit lost and lonely, I decided to go for a drive. On a whim, I spontaneously told the driver to take me to Faiz Road. It was a rainy afternoon, and traffic was unusually light. As we approached the house, I noticed a security guard sitting outside – and for the first time since my initial visit in 2006, the door was open.
I asked the driver to park, got out of the car, and, on impulse, walked toward the house. I asked the guard if I could take a look inside, but before he could respond, I walked in. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the safest thing to do, but at that moment, I didn’t care.
Faiz Manzil was abandoned, in a state of disrepair – just the physical remains of what was once a vibrant home. It was surreal.
I kept thinking: My father lived here, 90 years ago, and today, I am walking through the same house, yet no one here even knows who he was. As if he, my grandparents, and their entire life in this house had been erased – lost in time.
Wandering through the empty rooms, I imagined the lives once lived there. As I stood there, I felt the weight of their absence and a deep longing. I realised that time had moved on, but memories still lingered in its walls. Though the people had gone, their stories remained. Faiz Manzil may no longer belong to my family, but it holds a strangely special place in our hearts.
Reema Amin is a Pakistani educator and steadfast advocate for peace in Southasia who supports the Southasia Peace Action Network. She has also been actively involved with the Aman ki Asha Initiative, which fosters cross-border dialogue and deepens mutual understanding between India and Pakistan. An avid reader and passionate student of history, she lives in Delhi with her Indian husband.
This is a Sapan News syndicated feature.
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