New Delhi, November 11, 2025
The bustling arteries of Old Delhi's Chandni Chowk—once a labyrinth of spice-scented alleys and haggling hawkers—transformed into a nightmarish inferno yesterday evening when a car bomb detonated near the iconic Red Fort, claiming at least 10 lives and injuring over 20 in a blast that eyewitnesses described as "hell breaking loose on earth." Body parts scattered across the blood-smeared streets, e-rickshaws erupted in secondary flames, and the air thickened with acrid smoke and screams, as the explosion shattered the evening rush just 200 meters from the UNESCO-listed Mughal monument. Delhi Police have invoked the stringent Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA), signaling early probes into a possible terror nexus, while a city-wide security dragnet has cast a pall over the capital.
The blast, which rocked the area around 6:45 p.m., originated from a white Maruti Dzire sedan parked haphazardly near the Lahori Gate entrance to the Red Fort complex—a prime tourist artery thronged with shoppers, street vendors, and families winding down Diwali prep. Eyewitnesses, their faces etched with trauma, painted a visceral tableau of devastation. "I saw people blown to pieces—limbs flying like rag dolls in a storm," recounted Rajesh Kumar, a 45-year-old cloth merchant whose stall was reduced to charred twigs just 50 meters away. "The car just... exploded. A fireball swallowed two e-rickshaws; the drivers were screaming as their vehicles caught fire, melting into the road. Body parts—hands, legs—littered the gutter. It was like a movie, but the blood was real."
Kumar, nursing burns on his arms from flying debris, was among the first to rush toward the wreckage, only to recoil at the sight: The sedan's chassis mangled into a skeletal frame, its undercarriage riddled with what forensics teams later identified as improvised explosive devices (IEDs) packed with ammonium nitrate and ball bearings for maximum shrapnel. Nearby, three e-rickshaws—ubiquitous in the narrow bazaar—ignited in chain reactions, their lithium-ion batteries fueling greasy blazes that scorched adjacent fruit carts and a chai stall. "The smell—burnt rubber, flesh, and chemicals—it's stuck in my throat," added Meera Sharma, a 28-year-old schoolteacher who escaped with shrapnel gashes to her leg while herding her two children away from the chaos. Videos circulating on social media, since geo-blocked by authorities, captured the pandemonium: Rickshaws belching black smoke, pedestrians fleeing in stampede, and a young boy, his face bloodied, wailing for his mother amid the debris.
Casualties mounted swiftly in the aftermath. Delhi Police's initial toll stands at 10 dead—including four women, two children, and three e-rickshaw drivers—with 24 injured, many critically from blast trauma and burns. Among the fatalities: 12-year-old Aarav Singh, who was buying sweets for his family; and veteran vendor Salim Ahmed, 62, whose spice cart became a tomb. Hospitals like GTB and LNJP overflowed with the wounded, where surgeons battled to save limbs shredded by ball bearings. "We've seen blast injuries before, but the scatter pattern suggests a low-tech, high-impact device—crude but deadly," confided a senior trauma doctor at Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital, speaking off-record amid the frenzy.
The explosion's proximity to the Red Fort—a symbol of India's independence struggle and a Diwali hotspot drawing 5,000 visitors daily—amplified the shockwaves. The site, cordoned off since 2013 for security, saw its outer perimeter breached in the melee, with shrapnel pinging off the 17th-century sandstone walls. Tourism Minister Gajendra Singh Shekhawat decried the attack as an "assault on our heritage," announcing Rs 5 lakh ex-gratia to victims' kin and a temporary closure of the monument for structural checks. Eyewitnesses noted suspicious activity pre-blast: A lone man in a cap fiddling with the car's boot around 6:30 p.m., per CCTV footage now under forensic scrutiny.
Delhi Police, leading a multi-agency probe with the National Investigation Agency (NIA) and Intelligence Bureau (IB), wasted no time. By midnight, UAPA sections were slapped on unidentified perpetrators, with preliminary intel pointing to "cross-border modules" possibly inspired by recent Kashmir unrest. "This wasn't random; the timing—peak hour near a landmark—screams intent to maximize fear," stated Special Commissioner of Police (Special Cell) Ravindra Singh Yadav at a tense dawn briefing. Over 500 CCTV feeds are being sifted, bolstered by facial recognition AI, while forensic teams combed the site for DNA traces amid the e-rickshaw husks. No group has claimed responsibility yet, but whispers in security circles finger Lashkar-e-Taiba affiliates, echoing the 2008 Batla House echoes in the same neighborhood.
The blast's ripple effects blanketed Delhi-NCR in steel and suspicion. By 7:15 a.m. today—mere hours after the carnage—checkpoints sprouted at metro stations, markets, and highways, with CRPF quick-response teams patrolling the Yamuna floodplain. Schools in Old Delhi delayed openings, and Diwali fireworks sales halted indefinitely, as the city grappled with a curfew-lite vibe. Prime Minister Narendra Modi, cutting short a G20 side-meet in Brazil, condemned the "cowardly barbarity" via video, vowing "swift justice" and urging national unity. Opposition leader Rahul Gandhi echoed calls for a white paper on intelligence lapses, slamming the government for "complacency" post-October's Jammu skirmishes.
For Chandni Chowk's denizens, the horror lingers beyond the headlines. "This bazaar has survived partitions, riots—now bombs? How do we rebuild trust?" pondered Kumar, surveying his stall's soot-blackened remnants as cleanup crews hauled away twisted metal. As the sun rose over the Red Fort's minarets, silhouetted against a smoggy dawn, Delhi mourned its dead and braced for answers. In a capital wearied by winter pollution and political din, this blast isn't just a scar—it's a siren, demanding vigilance in the shadow of history.
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