Mohsina Malik, TwoCircles.net
New Delhi: On the early morning of June 1, 2025, the peaceful rhythm of South Delhi’s Jangpura was shattered by the thunderous roar of bulldozers and the shouts of government officials. By midday, the Madrasi Camp – a settlement that had stood for more than 60 years and housed over 350 families – lay in ruins. In place of homes stood piles of broken bricks, twisted utensils, torn schoolbooks and dreams reduced to rubble.
“We were not squatters. We were not criminals. We were the people who scrubbed the floors of bungalows and flats, laid bricks for Delhi’s skyline and raised children who spoke Hindi and Tamil with equal fluency. This was our home. We grew up around this city, and we were pushed out like we never lived here. For us, it was not just a demolition; it felt like an erasure of our memories, belongingness and a community,” says Narayan, a 45-year-old resident, watching the walls of his home crumble before his eyes.
“If we are poor, are we not humans? Where should I go? Should we sleep on the railway tracks, jump into the Yamuna banks or die on the roads?” he asks, with his voice trembling.
The Madrasi Camp had been established in 1960 by Tamil-speaking migrants from Tamil Nadu – labourers, sanitation workers, domestic helpers, street vendors, daily wage earners and roadside mechanics – who came to Delhi in search of livelihood and dignity. What began as a settlement of mud huts grew into a vibrant, tight-knit community enriched with temples, festivals and generations of shared struggles and solidarity.
Rama, a 68-year-old woman whose father migrated to Delhi in 1962, talked about the long journey her family had undertaken. “We came here when there was nothing. My father built our home brick by brick with his bare hands. We raised our children here. Now it is all gone. We are left with nothing,” she said.
According to the residents, the demolition came without clear or timely notice. Bulldozers rolled in at dawn, and families – many still asleep or getting their children ready for school – were ordered out by municipal officials and the police.
“I thought they were coming for drain work or some maintenance process, but I did not know I would be made homeless with no roof to hide my children. My daughter missed her exam because of this sudden demolition. I watched my children cry helplessly when our house was turned into rubble, and we could not get a chance to take our belongings out. I pleaded with the authorities, but it went to deaf ears,” says Manju, a mother of three daughters and a domestic help in a nearby locality.
“A poor person builds the home, working tirelessly and saving money out of already minimal wages. It takes ages to build a house of its own, but it takes a second to pull that down. The authorities took our peace, happiness and a place to be called a home. We are homeless, forced to suffer and starve,” she adds.
The demolition was carried out under a directive from the Delhi High Court, instructing the Public Works Department (PWD) to begin clearing the camp from June 1. According to officials, the settlement was obstructing the Barapullah drain, contributing to waterlogging in the area. However, residents insist the flooding began only after the Metro construction blocked the main water outlet to the Yamuna River.
Many feel scapegoated and betrayed. “They talk about drains being blocked. But since the Metro was built, the water has had nowhere to go. They chose us because we are easy targets. But across the street, the other structures still stand untouched,” says Ramesh (name withheld), a longtime resident originally from West Bengal.
He adds, “Drainage issues do not stem from poor settlements but from flawed urban planning. Then the blame is placed squarely on those who have the least power and are poor and marginalised.”
Residents say at least 370 families had submitted paperwork under the 2015 Delhi Slum Rehabilitation Policy, but only 190 were marked as eligible for relocation. Many reported being asked to pay Rs 500 to process their documentation.
“We submitted everything they asked for – Aadhaar, voter cards and photos – but still they left us out. When I asked why they said, ‘You don’t qualify. What does that even mean? Isn’t sixty years here enough?’ What proof do the authorities want? I had paid Rs 500 for documentation. What do they want from the poor? What was our fault that we were left shelterless?” asks Kunti Bai, a domestic helper
For those who were offered relocation, the new housing is far from ideal. Most families were moved to Narela—a remote and underdeveloped suburb more than 45 km from their former homes and workplaces. While the flats were presented as a part of a structured rehabilitation plan, the reality on the ground feels disconnected and harsh.
Kamla, a widow who earns Rs 9,000 a month cleaning homes in Lajpat Nagar, now spends around Rs 200 a day just on travel.
“Even when I do find work at other places, the cost of getting there eats half my wages. Some days I return with nothing. Is this survival? It takes three hours to travel. How would we be able to carry on with this hustle of travelling six hours each day? What will we eat? What will we feed our family members? What can be saved with such insufficient wages? The authorities never think of us,” she says.
The emotional impact has been just as severe. “My children cry every night. My youngest keeps asking, ‘When are we going home?’ But we do not have one anymore. All our belongings – utensils, clothes, schoolbooks – are gone,” says Madhuri, who has not cooked a proper meal since the demolition and now lives in a makeshift tent beside the wreckage.
Even as Delhi moves forward under the banners of development and beautification, the families from Madrasi Camp find themselves clinging to tarpaulin sheets beneath flyovers or in crumbling buildings with no electricity or water.
“We are invisible. We are treated as strangers. No one sees us. No one cares,” says Rajan, an 18-year-old student.
The Tamil Nadu government has extended a hand, offering support for those willing to return to their native districts. But for most, Delhi is not just a place they migrated to—it is the only home they have ever known.
“I was born here. My children were born here. I have no village to return to. They want to exile us from our own lives,” says a housekeeper, Ajesh.
The demolition of Madrasi Camp is not an isolated event. It mirrors recent evictions in Khori Gaon, Priyanka Gandhi Camp, Yamuna Khadar and Tughlaqabad. All these settlements were cleared ostensibly for environmental restoration or urban expansion.
“It is never the rich encroachments that are cleared. It is always the poor – those with no voice, no legal backing and no seat at the table. Poverty is not the problem. Visibility of poverty is. That is what the state wants to erase,” says sociologist Monali Kumari.
As families continue to dig through the rubble in search of school IDs, ration cards and family photographs, what lingers is a sense of loss and abandonment.
“They promised us progress. But progress, for us, meant destruction. If we are not part of this city, then who is?” asks Anjali, who is now living in Narela.
Madrasi Camp may no longer exist on the map of Delhi, but its story is far from erased.
“They may have destroyed our homes, but they cannot erase the truth that the city was built on our labour. One day, it will have to remember us,” says Narayan.
