Syed Nissar H Gilani
The sight of an old photograph often unlocks a vault of memories, and for me, it brings back the legendary Tourist Camp on Jawaharlal Nehru (JLN) Marg. Sprawling across 15 acres of land owned by the Delhi Municipal Corporation, this was no ordinary lodging. It was the brainchild of a retired Colonel who ran the campus with the unwavering precision of an army unit. Every corner reflected his military discipline: the rooms were impeccably tidy, and even the common washrooms were a marvel of cleanliness, offering the luxury of running hot and cold water—a rarity for budget travel in those days. The entire campus, with its newsstands stocked with the morning papers and its well-maintained common toilets, looked like a pristine army camp, functional and neat.
By 1985, a deluxe room cost just Rs 110/- per night. While the food was reasonably clean and hygienic, it was considered a bit over-budget for the time. For my children, the camp was a wonderland of sprawling lawns and open spaces where the vibrant hippie culture thrived. International campers and globetrotters in their rugged vehicles would buzz through the camp, creating a miniature global village. Every evening, the air turned electric with soul-enthralling cultural shows representing different states of India. It was a place where the world met, thriving with life and laughter.
Tragically, the spirit of the camp was destined to fade. The Colonel, who had earned immense respect and built a cornerstone of Indian tourism, met a sudden and tragic end in an accident in the Middle East. Following his passing, the Delhi Municipal Corporation moved to take over the land, and by December 2001, the camp was demolished to make way for a green zone.
Travel in those days had its own rhythm and challenges. Rs 500 was the one-way airfare between New Delhi to Srinagar and vice versa. Indian Airlines would charge Rs 269 to Rs 300/- for children under the age of 12, and Rs 10/- to Rs 25/- for the baby in the parents’ lap. A three-wheeler to the airport from the camp would cost about Rs 45 to 50, while the return trip was slightly more.
One of the greatest joys was the camp’s proximity to Jama Masjid, just a short walk away. This grand mosque, built by Shah Jahan to command a view of the world, stood as a gateway to the historic Chandni Chowk. We would spend afternoons offering Namaaz and enjoying the legendary mutton biryani and other delicious mutton dishes at Karim’s at very reasonable rates. Walking through Chandni Chowk felt like walking through history; the area was designed in 1650 by Princess Jahanara Begum, and its name, “Moonlight Square,” once referred to a central pool that reflected the night sky. We would wander through the bazaar, famously known as “Silver Street,” stopping at the various iconic eateries for crispy samosas and local treats until we were tired, but our hearts were full.
For longer distances, we relied on the famous three-wheeler motorbike carriers, mostly run by the Sikh community, taking one rupee per passenger from Connaught Place to Lal Qila.
I remember carrying a bank draft of Rs 4500/- from Srinagar to cover unforeseen expenses. In a moment of panic, I thought I had lost it. It was a tough time—no ATMs or even digital payment existed then—and I had to rely on a relative in Delhi for cash. It was only after returning home that I found the draft safely hidden in the cover pocket of my diary. Such events are part of the journey for any traveler who dares to look beyond their hometown. Even with a tight budget, we found magic—at times taking the family to Hotel Ashoka just for snacks and the atmosphere, as a full dinner was far too expensive for us then. Those were truly great days.
The writer is former Assistant Commissioner of Revenue Department, can be reached at (nisargilani57748@gmail.com
