Twelve dreams shattered, countless lives changed: Human cost of Red Fort blast

New Delhi: The powerful explosion that tore through a white car near Delhi’s Red Fort on Monday evening has left behind not just twelve dead and more than twenty injured, but a trail of families across northern India struggling to comprehend how a single moment could undo entire lives. From the narrow lanes of Shamli and Meerut to the quiet villages of Shravasti and Deoria, the shock of the Delhi blast reached far beyond the Capital, shattering homes and silencing futures that had only just begun to take shape.

At Lok Nayak Jai Prakash Hospital in Delhi, where the bodies were brought through the night, there was chaos on Tuesday morning. The air hung heavy with the sound of grief — the soft hum of prayers, the muffled sobs of mothers, the cries that burst out when someone recognised a name on the mortuary list. Ambulances came and went under tight police watch, their flashing lights cutting through the grey morning as families pressed against the gates, waiting to know if their loved one was inside. Many had arrived from other states after long, sleepless journeys, clinging to the hope that their sons or brothers were among the injured, not the dead. By noon, most had given up that hope.

Among those whose lives were abruptly ended was eighteen-year-old Nauman Ansari, a young shopkeeper from Shamli in western Uttar Pradesh. Nauman had come to Delhi to buy cosmetics for his small store in Jhinjhana. His uncle, Furkan, said the family had spoken to him that morning; by evening, he was gone. “Nauman was killed on the spot while his cousin Aman, who was with him, is in hospital,” Furkan said. At the hospital gates, Nauman’s friend Sonu could not bring himself to go inside. “I got a call saying he was no more,” he said, his voice trembling. “I wasn’t ready to see him like that.” His body, wrapped in white cloth, was carried away in an ambulance as his family followed silently behind, heads bowed, the stillness of their grief more piercing than any sound.

In another corner of the same hospital compound, Ashok Kumar’s relatives waited for the formalities to finish. A 34-year-old conductor with the Delhi Transport Corporation, Ashok had been in the Chandni Chowk area when the blast struck. His cousin Pappu said Ashok had been the sole provider for his large family of eight. “His mother lives in the village with his brother, who’s unwell. Ashok took care of everyone,” he said. “He even worked as a night guard after his shifts to earn extra money.” Now, his wife and four children are left with memories of a man who rarely rested but always found time to call home.

Further down the hospital corridor, the body of Pankaj Sahni, a 22-year-old taxi driver originally from Bihar, was being identified by his uncle, Ramdev. “We were told the back of his head was blown off,” he said, his eyes fixed on the paperwork he had to complete. Pankaj had been driving in Delhi for three years, saving for his sister’s marriage. “The car was completely destroyed,” Ramdev said. “He had just dropped off a passenger. He didn’t even have time to move.”

In Shravasti, a small town over 170 kilometres away, 32-year-old Dinesh Mishra’s home was surrounded by neighbours trying to console his father, Bhure. Dinesh had worked at a printing press in Delhi’s Chawri Bazar and had recently returned from home after celebrating Diwali with his wife and three young children. “He wanted to give them a good education,” his father said, staring blankly at the floor. “We still can’t believe he’s gone.” The district magistrate confirmed that his body was on its way back from Delhi, and the administration had assured the family of help, though no official words could fill the silence that had taken over the courtyard where Dinesh’s children sat clutching his photograph.

In Meerut’s Lohia Nagar, grief took on the shape of conflict. Thirty-two-year-old Mohsin, who had moved to Delhi two years ago to drive an e-rickshaw, was among those killed near the Red Fort. When his body reached Meerut, his wife, Sultana, and his parents began arguing over where he should be buried. Sultana wanted him laid to rest in Delhi, where their children were studying; his parents insisted on Meerut. “The blast took Mohsin away, but now even the family is divided,” said a neighbour. As the argument grew heated, police stepped in to mediate, and after hours of tears and pleading, Sultana agreed to proceed with the burial. The children, too young to understand, kept asking when their father would come back.

From Deoria, 22-year-old Shiva Jaiswal was among the lucky ones who survived, though he remains in critical condition at LNJP Hospital. A small-town garment shop owner, Shiva, had come to Delhi to buy stock for the festive season. His sister, Purnima, said they had spoken to him hours before the blast. “He said he’d finished shopping and would visit our aunt before returning home,” she recalled. “Then we saw the news, and his phone stopped ringing.” Shiva’s mother, Maya, a local BJP Mahila Morcha worker, said she hadn’t stopped praying since she heard he was alive. “He was lucky this time,” she said, her voice faltering. “But others were not.”

At the hospital, grief and disbelief merged into one long, unbroken scene. Some families huddled in corners with paperwork, and others leaned against the walls in exhaustion. A few broke down as stretchers rolled past, their cries echoing across the courtyard. “The bodies were in terrible shape,” said a hospital worker who had helped move them. “Some couldn’t be recognised at all. Families were identifying people by rings, belts, or phone covers.” A father who came looking for his son fainted upon seeing the body. Another woman refused to believe the one she saw was her brother until the officials showed her his ID card.

Among those seen wailing outside was the father of Amar Kataria, a 34-year-old pharmacist who ran a shop at Bhagirath Palace, about 600 metres from the Red Fort. Amar was returning home when the explosion tore through the intersection. His shop remained open on Tuesday, shuttered halfway, with a small photograph of him placed near the counter by friends. “He was a kind man,” said one of his employees. “He left early that evening to pick up medicines. He never came back.”

For many of the victims’ families, the suddenness of the loss has left no room for understanding, only numbness. “We lost our son,” said Furkan from Shamli, still unable to process Nauman’s death. “He was just a boy who went to buy things for his shop.” Around him, neighbours gathered to help arrange the burial, their faces mirroring the quiet disbelief that had spread across the small town.

Back in Delhi, the city’s traffic had returned to its usual chaos, yet for the families who stood outside the hospital mortuary, nothing felt normal anymore. They came from villages and small towns, from different faiths and professions, bound only by the cruel coincidence that their loved ones happened to be at the same traffic signal at the same time.