Have you ever seen Hindutva groups demand that the cow be declared the national animal, others protest for the release of a rapist, women’s organisations call for reservations and reclaiming space, and labour unions oppose government policies—all holding peaceful protests just meters apart? This was a common sight at Jantar Mantar. For someone like me, who grew up in Delhi but from a conservative Muslim background and new to student politics, witnessing such diverse demonstrations so close was a “cultural shock.”
In 2012, when I was a student, Jantar Mantar felt like a mirror of the country, reflecting part of its reality, including the parts we dislike. As a student protesting at Jantar Mantar, I witnessed India debate itself publicly.
Jantar Mantar was a place where the left, the right, and the extreme came together to express their views.
Now that mirror is being put away. On 11 October 2026, Delhi Police removed Jantar Mantar as a designated protest site. They named three alternatives: Ramlila Maidan in Old Delhi, CBD Ground in East Delhi, and Burari Ground in North Delhi.
But Jantar Mantar wasn’t just a mirror to society; it was in the heart of the city, reflecting its very beat. What the latest notification is really asking is that we relocate our heart.
‘Space of appearances’
For me, Jantar Mantar was a second home. As a student, I attended countless protests there: against college fee hikes, privatisation of education, women’s rights, attack on minorities, and whatnot. Whatever the fight, I knew where to go with my comrades.
But what does Jantar Mantar mean to girls like me, especially those who belong to a conservative, orthodox, or marginalised background?
I come from a conservative family where a girl’s movement is supervised and often restricted.
In college, I had to follow a strict curfew and be back home by 6 pm. It was during my graduation days at Jamia Millia Islamia that my friends and I first discovered politics. One day, a classmate from the All India Students’ Association (AISA) asked me to join a protest. I was scared. What if I didn’t make it home before curfew? But I was reassured, saying, “Don’t worry, Jantar Mantar is nearby. You’ll be home before time.”
I found the courage to go, and just as I was promised, I got home on time.
I realised Jantar Mantar was easily accessible and reachable. Then it became a regular adda. And it meant I could go, raise my voice, and get home on time without anyone asking where I was. That small window of distance was my freedom. I wasn’t alone. Many girls from my background lived by the same calculations: close enough to return, feel safe, and enough to belong.
When the government decides dissent belongs elsewhere, I don’t hear an administrative order; I hear a door closing on girls like me.
Ramlila Maidan, CBD Ground (Shahdara), and Ramlila Maidan are far from the centre, and every kilometre is a burden on the poor. For a student, travelling for several hours and spending pocket money is an additional burden. This decision will affect women most, as it prevents them from exercising their democratic rights. A working-class domestic worker and a mother from a marginalised community would not bring her child to an empty field on the outskirts of the city to protest. This decision has made protest a privilege. Everyone else is filtered out of democracy without anyone saying it aloud.
Just call it what it is—exclusion through distance. The marginalised are banned by making the journey too expensive. This arrangement benefits those who find dissent inconvenient, and in a democracy that makes freedom a scary prospect.
I remember asking a woman from Maharashtra during a farmers’ protest why she had come to Jantar Mantar.
“It is the government’s ear,” she said, referring to its proximity to government offices.
German-American historian and philosopher Hannah Arendt called it the “space of appearances,” the place where people confront each other as political entities. Remove the space, and the people disappear with it.
German philosopher Jürgen Habermas described the public sphere as a place where ordinary people gather to debate together in public. Jantar Mantar was just that—messy but real.
Also Read: From Shaheen Bagh to CJP, who gets to decide when Muslims protest?
To learn and unlearn
At Jantar Mantar, I have witnessed many seasons and emotions: anger, resentment, celebration, mourning, and grief. I felt everything there. I was at a protest when the news of comrade Vidrohi ji’s death was announced. A crowd of strangers fell into grief together, mourning a poet who had always stood with students and the marginalised. I also remember Women’s Day when I danced with women reclaiming the space. In the rain, we chanted the “azadi” slogan until my voice broke. These moments weren’t just politica;, for so many like me it was a quintessential coming-of-age experience, of recognising that your voice has power and that change, however difficult and hard-won is possible. They taught me that I belonged to something bigger than my fears, and that I had to reclaim my right in every space.
It was a place where I learned and unlearned. It sharpened my critical thinking as I heard a union leader explain contract labour more clearly than any lecture. I heard Dalit activists explain caste in terms I couldn’t find in any textbook. I heard old women talk about struggles that made mine small. I disagreed deeply with some groups there, but I never shunned them. Jantar Mantar taught me this lesson: your view is one among many, and you must defend it openly.
Listening is part of politics. No classroom taught me this. A crowded lane did.
I walked into Jantar Mantar a nervous student and walked out a citizen. I want the next girl, from the next orthodox or conservative home, to have the same chance. You can move the venue, but you cannot move the reasons people have to protest.
Views are personal.
(Edited by Insha Jalil Waziri)