Seven cities, layered one on top of the other, each built by conquerors who believed they would be the last. The Sultanate raised towers from the rubble of temples. The Mughals planted gardens over the Sultanate's ruins. The British drew a geometry of power across the Mughal landscape. And after 1947, millions arrived from a partitioned Punjab with nothing but the memory of what they had lost, and built a city the planners never imagined.
Delhi does not preserve — it absorbs. A Tughlaq tomb becomes a neighbourhood landmark. A Mughal caravanserai becomes a wholesale market. Lutyens' imperial boulevards fill with the protests of the democracy he never anticipated. The city's genius is not architecture but metabolism — it consumes every era and remains, somehow, itself.
This is not a tour. It's a listening — to the stories Delhi's stones carry but its traffic drowns out.