Basant at Nizamuddin Dargah at Delhi Where Erratic Rains This Year Test a Cultural Festival and Basti Residents

Every spring, when mustard-yellow begins to punctuate the narrow lanes of Nizamuddin Basti, the neighbourhood slips into a different rhythm. As the ubiquitous basant qawali of Sakal Ban, based on a verse written by Khusro for this occasion, which has now been immortalised by the Heeramandi song, states, Tarah tarah kay phool lagaaye,Lay gadhwa haathan mein aaye, ( Colourful flowers of all kinds, In hands everyone’s bringing); Basant at Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya's dargah is not announced by banners or hoardings, but by the smell of fresh marigolds, roses, the low hum of qawwalis, and the unmistakable sense that the basti has shaken off its everyday weight.

For those who live and work around the shrine, Basant is not just a festival, it is a reminder of belonging, history, and shared survival.

The celebration of Basant at the dargah is often traced back to the 13th–14th century poet-saint Amir Khusrau. Legend holds that Khusrau, a devoted disciple of Nizamuddin Auliya, introduced the wearing of yellow and the offering of flowers to lift his grieving pir's spirits after the death of his nephew.

Over seven centuries, Basant became woven into the dargah's living culture, an annual moment when spring, devotion, and community merge in ways that defy rigid religious categories. It is a festival that belongs neither wholly to Hindu tradition nor Islamic practice, but exists in that syncretic space where Delhi's composite culture has always thrived.

This year, however, Basant arrived under troubled skies. Unseasonable rains on Basant Panchami disrupted the celebrations that thousands had come to witness. The erratic weather patterns caught both organisers and authorities off guard, leading to visible mismanagement. Narrow lanes turned to rivulets, flower garlands wilted in the downpour, and crowds jostled for shelter under awnings and makeshift tarpaulins. When a brief dry spell offered respite, many visitors arrived with hopes for an extended programme, only to see the celebrations cut short as the rains returned with renewed intensity.

Flowers, Faith, and the Economy of Devotion

For flower sellers, Basant marks the most crucial time of the year. Sitting near the narrow entrance to the shrine, Syed Aamir Ali, who has sold flowers here for over two decades, says the transformation is immediate, even when complicated by weather. "Basant is the biggest day for us, the most important of the year even, a close call to Urs," he explains, gesturing at marigold garlands protected beneath plastic sheeting.

"A huge portion of our annual earnings comes from this one festival. People come wanting flowers to offer with their chadar, yellow flowers to take inside the dargah. This year the rain made it difficult, but still they came. Sometimes it feels like every other person is walking around with bundles of marigolds, even if they're getting soaked!"

But the festival is not only about business. For many vendors, it is also about watching the basti transform. Iqbal Khan, another flower and chaddar seller whose family has lived in the area for generations, reflects on this year's challenges with characteristic resilience, "The moment Basant arrives, poori hawa badal jaati hai (the entire atmosphere changes). You see children in yellow clothes with flowers in their hands, it's like a Holi mood. All year there's the daily struggle for survival here, but during Basant it feels like everyone is breathing together. This year the rain tried to dampen our spirits, but the market stayed open, people kept coming."

Community, Cuisine, and Collective Labour

That sense of collective participation is not accidental. According to Mohammad Aslam, a member of the Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya Dargah Committee, the festival is sustained as much by local residents as by visitors. Preparation begins weeks in advance, though this year, even meticulous planning couldn't account for the weather's unpredictability. "Basant isn't just a celebration, it's the basti's own festival," he says.

"People here cook biryani, distribute food, organise qawwali. From the Chowk to the dargah, the entire area gets involved in preparing for Basant. The rest of the year we're caught up in our daily routines, but during Basant, people of all ages work together, yellow chaddars, flower garlands, the cascade of colours, sab basti ke haathon se banta hai (everything is made by the hands of the basti). This year, we couldn't manage the crowds properly because of the erratic rain. People were left standing in muddy lanes, waiting for the weather to clear. But even then, the spirit didn't break."

Food sellers, like flower vendors, feel the shift sharply. Near the main roads and crossings, where the lanes widen just enough for carts to line up, Saleem Nizami tends his small hotel called as Nizami Hotel with renewed energy, despite the dampened ground beneath his feet. "If Basant didn't exist, our sales wouldn't be particularly special.

But on Basant, it feels like every third person who passes will eat something from here! Biryani, kebabs, chaat—everything sells like hot rotis. In one day, we do double, even triple our usual sales. This year was different though—people came during the dry break, hoping to stay longer, enjoy the qawwali, but then the rain came back and many had to leave early. Still, people are in the mood to eat and share, and there's a constant queue at our stall, even if it's shorter than usual."

For Saleem, the festival also carries a deeper meaning that transcends one day's earnings or the vagaries of weather. "This isn't just about today, Basant has always been part of our culture. What we're cooking here, biryani, kebabs, pāyā, our grandfathers and great-grandfathers cooked the same things during Basant. When people sit here and eat, it's not just food."

Dissolving Divides, Reclaiming Dignity

Perhaps the most striking change during Basant is how it temporarily dissolves the many divides that shape life in Nizamuddin. The area is often described in binaries: the 'old basti' of narrow lanes and working-class Muslim families, and the 'new basti', Nizamuddin A Block, home to senior advocates, bureaucrats, and Delhi's elite. For most of the year, the two exist side by side but rarely together.

During Basant, that boundary softens. Long-time resident Farzana Begumnotices the shift every year. "Earlier, if you saw people from A Block, they'd just get out of their cars, offer chadar at the dargah, and leave. Now on Basant you'll see them walking through our lanes with us, buying flowers, eating food together! The A Block people participate wholeheartedly in this festival, and it feels good that everyone mingles during this celebration. It shows that Basant isn't just a festival, it's a bridge between people. Even this year, despite the rain and the mud, they came."

For another resident, Imran Siddiqui, the festival offers something rarer than celebration: dignity. "Throughout the year, there are so many divisions in the basti. Class differences, political conflicts, and because this is a Muslim basti, the way people keep us under watch. But during Basant, it feels like our lives become part of a story where only humanity and joy are visible. People standing on the streets meet each other, chat, listen to qawwali, and then share laughter over flowers and biryani."

In a city increasingly shaped by polarisation and surveillance, where Muslim neighbourhoods often find themselves subject to suspicion and marginalisation, Basant at Nizamuddin is a reminder that culture can still resist erasure. It survives not as spectacle, but as practice, through flowers sold, food shared, songs sung, and lanes that briefly forget their fractures. The festival's hybrid origins, rooted in both Sufi devotion and the celebration of spring, embody the composite culture that once defined Delhi, and which now exists in fragile, precious pockets.