While Diwali used to be a tense and low-key affair in Sindh, in India they can celebrate it openly, they say. Just last year a number of these refugees acquired Indian citizenship.
New Delhi: The narrow lanes of Rohini Sector 11 are filled with children running barefoot, waving sparklers that paint gold trails through the air. From a distance, it looks like any other Delhi neighbourhood gearing up for Diwali, but for the people living here, each flame carries the weight of 11 long years.
For over a decade, these families, Pakistani Hindu refugees who fled Sindh starting in 2013, lived in limbo. However, in 2024, their status changed. Some finally got citizenship certificates.
But many still wait. “Half of our people have received citizenship papers,” says Tulsidas Bagdi, 22, who received Indian citizenship in 2024.
“We came to India with nothing; now we have names, rights and a place that calls us its own,” he adds.
Community leader Hanuman Prasad Bagdi, who is among the earliest settlers here, says they became Indian nationals under the Citizenship (Amendment) Act (CAA), 2019, which relaxes naturalisation requirements for Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Jains, Parsis and Christians purportedly fleeing persecution from the Muslim-majority Pakistan, Afghanistan and Bangladesh and who arrived in India before 2015.
Under the original law such migrants would need to stay in India for 11 years to be eligible for citizenship but the CAA reduces that time frame to five years. While junior home minister Nityanand Rai has claimed that “thousands” of people received citizenship under the CAA – which was operationalised in March last year – he did not specify how many, and his ministry too has refused to share a figure for the same.
However, the exclusion of Muslims from the law’s ambit had triggered widespread protests, due to the fear that in conjunction with the National Register of Citizens (NRC) it could risk disenfranchising Muslims in India. Even as the law has benefitted refugees such as the residents of Hanuman Prasad’s neighbourhood, Indian authorities have allegedly maltreated or expelled other refugees from the country who do not come under the CAA’s remit.
Children burst crackers on Delhi’s streets. Photo: Aditya Sharma.
A pit that became a home
Rohini’s refugee camp wasn’t always a neighbourhood. When the families first arrived from Rajasthan by train in March 2013, the land they were given was a pit, literally a dumping ground.
“There was nothing here, just mud, snakes and garbage,” recalls 55-year-old Hanuman Prasad. “We spent our own money to fill it with soil, build huts and make it liveable.”
Now, the lanes are lined with modest brick homes. According to Hanuman Prasad, more than 700 Hindus with roots in Sindh live here today – vendors, labourers and small traders. Adults work long hours selling fruit, driving e-rickshaws or hawking mobile covers at traffic lights. Many of their children study at the local Nagar Nigam school, learning Hindi and English, languages their parents did not speak in Pakistan.
“We’re not rich,” says Tulsidas, who switches between selling fruit and repairing phone screens to feed his three kids. “But we have dignity. That’s something we never had back there.”
‘Back there, freedom was just a word’
For years, the idea of celebrating Diwali freely was unimaginable.
Speaking about how life in Pakistan was often shrouded in fear, Hanuman Prasad, sitting cross-legged outside his small house, his voice steady but heavy with memory, says: “Back there, freedom was just a word. Hindus like us were called kafirs [unbelievers]. People believed that killing a kafir would take them straight to heaven, where 72 hoorien [angels] would be waiting for them. That’s the kind of world we lived in.”
He pauses, his eyes fixed on the row of diyas in front of him. “Tell me,” he asks softly, “what bird ever leaves its own nest? And yet, we did. We left behind our homes, our land, everything we ever knew, to live here in a refugee camp.”
His voice hardens as he recalls the choice his family faced. “We were given two options: convert to Islam or leave everything. We chose our faith. We brought nothing but our religion with us.”
A small temple glows in the refugees’ area. Photo: Aditya Sharma.
Diwalis of silence
“In Pakistan, Diwali was something we celebrated behind closed doors,” says Hanuman Prasad. “We’d light diyas quietly, keeping the curtains drawn. If we performed havan, young men from nearby villages would barge in, disrupt it, even throw a cow’s severed head into the sacred fire.”
His hands shiver as he speaks. “To be Hindu was to live like a criminal.”
He recalls how even cricket could allegedly trigger violence. “When India defeated Pakistan, that match where Virat Kohli scored 183 runs, three girls from our village were kidnapped that night, converted and married off. The police did nothing. They sided with the men who did it.”
His family escaped soon after. They packed what little they had and boarded a train, unsure where it would take them. “We didn’t run to India for money,” he says. “We ran here to live without fear.”
‘In India, we celebrated openly, without fear’
Tulsidas was a child when his family left Sindh. Now, at 22, he has seen Diwali on both sides of the border.
“In Pakistan, Diwali used to be subdued,” he recalls. “We had to keep it low-key so that people around us wouldn’t take offence. Even at home, we spoke in whispers. But here, when we came to Delhi, it felt like breathing fresh air for the first time.”
The memory brings a smile. “We celebrated openly, joyfully, without fear. No one stopped us, no one scolded us.”
He laughs when the conversation turns to Delhi’s firecracker ban, which the Supreme Court relaxed ahead of Diwali this year, following which a spike was recorded in the city’s air quality index levels.
“That’s the government’s drama,” he shrugs. “This year, it felt like the restrictions eased a bit, so we enjoyed … We make our own small crackers sometimes, the way we used to. Everyone joins in here. It feels free.”
Tulsidas looks around at the narrow, glowing lane where children burst crackers with homemade enthusiasm. “That’s what’s different here, everyone celebrates together.”
Tulsidas with his family. Photo: Aditya Sharma.
‘Here, we feel seen, accepted’
Twenty-one year-old Durga’s face glows in the flicker of the flame. “In Pakistan, we celebrated our festivals in fear,” she says quietly. “We used to light diyas quietly, making sure the curtains were drawn. If someone saw, they might scold us or start a fight. We never felt safe showing happiness, even Diwali had to be hidden in the dark.”
Durga’s family also migrated when she was a child. “My parents were married there, but they couldn’t take it anymore,” she says. “So in 2013, our whole family, parents, uncles, everyone, crossed over. We started from zero.”
Now, she takes care of her kids and family and helps her younger siblings with school. “Here, no one stops us,” she says, smiling. “Even if we burst crackers late at night, no one objects. Neighbours join us. We share sweets. There’s laughter, not fear.”
For Durga, citizenship means something sacred. “Back there, we hid our joy behind closed doors. Here, we light diyas openly … we feel seen, accepted.”
Life after citizenship
It took up to 11 years for these families to get citizenship – years of paperwork, uncertainty and hope.
“Every year, we thought maybe this time our names would come,” says Tulsidas. “Finally, last year, it happened. Half of us got our papers. The rest are still waiting.”
“With citizenship came acceptance,” Durga says. “We exist.”
But life isn’t easy. Many still struggle with poverty, poor sanitation and insecure housing. “We built everything here with our hands,” says Hanuman Prasad, gesturing around the settlement. “No government gave us this. But at least now, no one can throw us out.”
Despite their hardships, there’s a quiet pride in the air, the kind that comes from rebuilding something sacred, brick by brick, flame by flame.
As night deepens, the settlement hums with celebration. Songs from old Hindi films play from a speaker. Children wave sparklers, and the air smells faintly of smoke and sweets.
Hanuman Prasad watches it all, his face calm. “Back there,” he says, “every street carried fear. Here, every street carries light.”
He looks around, at his grandchildren laughing, at his neighbours sharing sweets, and adds, almost to himself, “In Pakistan, we survived. In India, we live.”
This article went live on November first, two thousand twenty five, at fifty-three minutes past ten at night.
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