Growing up in Khureji Khas, a bustling Muslim ‘ghetto’ in East Delhi, I was surrounded by the vibrant energy of lights, crowds, music, and bustling markets. As a child, these elements filled me with joy, especially during Diwali. I would wander through my neighborhood, marveling at houses adorned with fairy lights, their glow reflecting the spirit of the festival. My connection to festivities deepened when I worked as a salesman—or as I fondly called myself, a “saleskid”—in markets like Laxmi Nagar. There, I experienced the grandeur of celebrations not just during Diwali but also on Janmashtami, the birthday of Lord Shri Krishna.
One of my most cherished memories was adorning Laddu Gopal (baby Krishna) with exquisite jewelry and clothes, particularly his crown and garland, which I would later sell to my favorite customers.
I also loved selling bandanwars (decorative hangings), which added to the festive ambiance. A few days before Diwali, a group of kinnars would arrive in their finest attire, dancing to the beats of the dholak, collecting donations from shopkeepers and businesses. The market would come alive with decorations and the continuous playing of bhajans on loudspeakers. One bhajan that still echoes in my mind is “Are dwarpalo Kanhaiya se keh do ki dar pe Sudama gareeb aa gaya hai” sung to the tune of a Bollywood song.
The TV era brought its own charm to Diwali. Daily soaps celebrated the festival, advertisements showcased special gift hampers, and stores announced festive discounts. From virtual spaces to physical ones, every corner of the city embraced the festival. Even in school, we would decorate the whiteboard with “Happy Deepawali” written in bold letters.
Christmas, too, had its own festive allure. Malls and fancy shops were adorned in green, red, and white. Christmas trees stood in every outlet, whether Indian or Western brands. Even non-Christian parents dressed their kids as Santa Claus, and young people donned Santa hats at private house parties and clubs. Iconic places like India Gate and Connaught Place transformed into Christmas wonderlands. Despite Christians making up less than 1 percent of Delhi’s population, the grandeur of Christmas celebrations—spanning malls, streets, and social gatherings—left me in awe. Attending church on the night of 24 December became a ritual for me, where I witnessed long queues, a huge number of non-Christians like myself, and people lighting candles in designated spaces, praying to God.
Why Eid and Diwali are Celebrated Differently
Yet, amidst all this, I couldn’t help but wonder—why not Eid? There were no grand Eid decorations in malls, no widespread Eid special offers in shops, and no long queues outside Delhi’s iconic Jama Masjid, similar to what I saw for other festivals. My mind never stopped comparing. Back then, there was little media coverage of Eid celebrations, and the internet did not provide easy access to images or videos of festivities in Muslim-majority countries. For me, having faith also meant celebrating it with others, not just with people of the same faith. This curiosity eventually led me to Kashmir during my university years, hoping to experience Ramzan in a Muslim majority context.
I often wondered how it felt to be born in the majority, to see one’s faith reflected in the environment—faith that wasn’t just limited to praying in private or in religious places, but faith that materialized in markets, streets, schools, shops, and homes.
However, my expectations did not align with reality. While Kashmiris were likely celebrating in their own ways, the kind of festive atmosphere I had imagined—one of lively streets and dazzling lights—was absent. Instead, after iftar, the streets emptied, and markets closed. Over time, I realized that this subdued celebration was deeply rooted in the multidimensional political challenges Kashmir has faced since the violent conflict of the 1990s. The prolonged turmoil has shaped not just daily life but also the very nature of joy and public festivity in the region. This experience made me rethink my own perspective on community and festivity. Despite being the largest Muslim-majority state, Kashmir’s celebrations were muted, a reflection of its complex socio-political and militarised reality.
During my college days, I began to understand concepts like exclusion, systemic discrimination, othering, marginalization, ghettoization, stereotyping, and prejudices. I saw how Christimas celebrations were also a function of consumerism and Western cultural hegemony. This was a time that I began examining the dynamics of cultural influence and identity.
Ramzan Celebrations Are Changing
On the other hand, I also witnessed the light of hope shining on the horizon. I experienced moments of inclusivity, coexistence, tolerance, and democratic values. In recent years, I have seen how people from different religions come together at Nizamuddin Auliya Dargah. During Ramzan, non-Muslims can be seen around Jama Masjid and Old Delhi’s bustling streets, enjoying Sharbat-e-Mohabbat and Shahi Tukda. These moments of unity and shared joy reminded me of the beauty of diversity.
In Delhi, despite being a minority, Eid still had an air of joy, communal prayers, and social gatherings. But over time, I began noticing changes in my own neighborhood. Economic upliftment and the influence of social media have transformed the way Muslims celebrate.
Over the last two to three years, I have seen the streets of my locality come alive with fairy lights, Chinese lanterns, and beautifully adorned lanes. Groups of young boys collected funds, some hired professionals for elaborate decorations, while others took it upon themselves to brighten up their surroundings.
This transformation wasn’t limited to my locality but was visible across many Muslim neighborhoods in Delhi. However, one common thread was that only shared community spaces—streets, chowpals, mosques, and markets—were being decorated.
I believe the Anti-CAA protests, the Shaheen Bagh model, and the COVID-19 lockdown played crucial roles in shaping this change. Both events were seen as threats to the community but taught the same lessons: resilience, solidarity, mutual aid and kinship. I have seen how, during the COVID-19 lockdown, families and friends grew closer, and new relationships formed. The same resilience was evident after the Shaheen Bagh Movement and the North East Delhi Pogrom. The minority community, like water, becomes more resilient the harder it is hit.
Yet, a question still lingers in my mind— what explains the strength of shared spaces? Why do Muslims primarily decorate their streets, chowpals, mosques, and markets rather than their individual homes?
During Diwali, the entire city shines as houses, markets, temples, societies, and high-rise buildings are illuminated by individuals, trade associations, and RWAs alike. After much contemplation and deep dives into different Muslim neighborhoods, I have come to understand that this reflects a fundamental aspect of being a minority—community bonding. In close-knit minority communities, survival and celebration are shared experiences. The act of decorating together strengthens these ties and reinforces their collective identity.
Festivities are not just about lights and decorations; they are about belonging. For years, I searched for that feeling, wanting to see my identity reflected in my surroundings. Today, as I witness the transformation of Delhi’s Muslim neighborhoods, I feel a growing sense of connection. But the question of what truly defines a minority still remains—Is it just numbers? Faith? Language? Or is it the deep-seated need to come together, to create spaces of joy in a world that often overlooks them? Perhaps, the answer lies in the very spirit of Ramzan itself—a time of reflection, unity, and hope for brighter days ahead.
In a world that often divides, festivals remind us of our shared humanity. They are a testament to the resilience of communities, the power of faith, and the enduring hope for a more inclusive and harmonious future.
(Bilal Saifi is a professional social worker based in Delhi. He is committed to community resilience and social justice. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)