Chhota Qutub Minar, or the Hastsal Minar, in West Delhi, is a compelling testament to Delhi’s vast, often-unseen historical tapestry. While many travelers are drawn to the grandeur and celebrated engineering of the Hauz Khas Stepwell & Tomb Complex, where Sultan Alauddin Khilji’s ambition beautifully merged functionality with architectural splendor, the city holds quieter, equally haunting secrets.
The Hauz Khas, with its ancient reservoir and the serene tombs resting beneath watchful banyan trees, eloquently narrates tales of a kingdom’s wisdom. Yet, miles away, amidst the bustling rhythm of contemporary life, the modest yet mysterious Chota Qutub Minar stands, beckoning those who seek the deeper echoes of history. It reminds us that Delhi’s storied past isn’t solely confined to its famous monuments, but also thrives in the lesser-known, forgotten minarets that still whisper ancient tales.
Most people in Delhi have never seen this minaret, nor do they understand the secret it holds. The usual photographs and tourist trails remain focused on glorious ruins in South Delhi, but life’s real stories often rest with the less grand, the not-so-popular stones. Chhota Qutub Minar rises quietly, like a shy sibling, wishing to tell its own story.
It shares an ancestral link with the taller Qutub Minar in Mehrauli, but lives alone, surrounded by new houses, lost birds, and the curious eyes of children. Its bricks stare at the sky, patiently waiting to be noticed and remembered, much like an old diary tucked away on a shelf, pages yellowed but memories alive for those who care to read.
Royal Dreams and Mughal Memories: The History of Chhota Qutub Minar
The year was 1650. Delhi’s jungles echoed with elephant bells and hunting horns. Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, known for building the Taj Mahal, returned from a day’s hunt on the wild plains of Hastsal, an area whose name itself means “elephant place”, ‘Haathi’ for elephant, ‘Sthal’ for place. On those very fields, Shah Jahan wanted a monument, something grand yet personal, to remind him of his favourite pastimes and royal life away from the court’s burden. He ordered the construction of a tower inspired by the mighty Qutub Minar, but on a scale that matched the intimacy of his hunting lodge.
Chhota Qutub Minar once had five stories, crowned with an octagonal chhatri and an umbrella pavilion at the top, where the emperor and his retinue would relax after hunting. Locals recall stories whispered by ancestors, claiming there might have been an underground tunnel leading from the minaret to the royal lodge nearby, a secret pathway for the emperor away from prying eyes. The minar was built using small Lakori bricks and covered in red sandstone, echoing Mughal expertise in blending strength with elegance. Over time, Delhi’s battles, weather, and neglect shrunk its glory; the chhatri and upper two storeys fell in the 18th century, leaving only three stories standing today, about 17 meters tall.
Once, water from local streams flowed around the base, providing a cool resting place for royal elephants. Historic maps and village elders even claim that after a monsoon, one could see the reflection of the minar in these waters. There is even a strange village tale: many old-timers believed a plane once crashed here, but of course, that is just a story, born from curiosity and the lack of proper history books. The monument, sometimes confused as being built by Prithviraj Chauhan, stands firmly in Mughal origins, a silent witness to Delhi’s layered past and the play of memory against time.
Stories, Myths, and Echoes: Chhota Qutub Minar in Local Life
To understand Chhota Qutub Minar, one must listen not only to books but to Delhi’s living voices. In Hastsal, everyone knows about the “mini minar,” but few care about its real story. Grandparents recall those days when the monument was not sealed and children would climb its staircase, playing within its shadow, unaware of potential danger. For many, it was simply the “old red tower” at the edge of the colony. Others, especially in pre-television days, spun tales about hidden treasures buried by the Mughals or ghostly music during full moons, stories created not from fact, but from the desire for history to be magical.
Sometimes, the boundary between documented history and oral imagination is blurred. The minaret was never a mosque, nor a victory pillar, but a watchtower, a hunting lodge’s companion, a royal retreat. In the evenings, when the air cools and the noise of city traffic dips, local children still play cricket nearby, and the elders reminisce about times when Hastsal was more wilderness than settlement.
The minar, battered but upright, remains an accidental stage, not for royal feasts, but for broken bats, lost balls, and the casual competitions of neighbourhood boys. In this way, it remains woven into the everyday, living far from the tourist glare but close to the heart of a neighbourhood that may take it for granted, yet will miss it if it falls.
Delhi is full of grand and forgotten monuments, but few stand as quietly as Chhota Qutub Minar, bearing witness to generations of games, secrets, and Sunday afternoons. If one listens closely at dusk, even the stones seem to whisper the laughter of children, the shouts of mahouts, or the hushed steps of the emperor himself, pausing for breath between two worlds, the past hunting grounds and the crowded lanes of today.
Chhota Qutub Minar Today: Relevance in Changing Times
In the present day, Chhota Qutub Minar feels like a metaphor for the challenge of safeguarding heritage in modern India. All around, West Delhi has grown into a jungle of concrete blocks, power lines, and speeding rickshaws. Where once there was only grass and water, colonies now sprawl, and the minar rises like a wounded king in the middle of ordinary life. Scholars, bloggers, and history enthusiasts increasingly worry: the monument is crumbling, threatened by pollution, neglect, and encroachment. Locked gates and peeling paint are not enough to guard history from fading away.
Still, its inspiration lives on. The resemblance to Qutub Minar in Mehrauli is more than an accident of architecture; it expresses the urge of every human, and every ruler, to leave a mark, even if it is smaller, less celebrated, or more vulnerable. Students from nearby colleges come here for assignments, artists sketch its silhouette, and social media has begun to rediscover the site as a “hidden gem.” The Archaeology Department lists it as a Grade A protected site, requesting urgent conservation. Occasionally, an initiative is launched to restore it, and awareness campaigns urge locals to take pride in their neighbourhood history.
In today’s Delhi, the Chhota Qutub Minar teaches a vital lesson, big or small: every story deserves to survive. Sites do not seek grand attention, but quiet preservation. The past, if not remembered, vanishes not far from our doorsteps. As new towers rise in the city, this little minaret asks for only this: let us embrace the forgotten, walk the extra mile, and listen to the bricks, for they hold the stories of yesterday, the lessons of today, and the hope of tomorrow.
Also Read: Bhardwaj Lake: Hidden Gem of Delhi-Faridabad
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