In the 1970s, Veerasamy left behind his village in Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu, in hopes of a better life in Delhi. His family worked on farms and barely managed to get by. So, after getting married, he moved nearly 2,000 km to the capital, becoming the first in his family to take such a step.
As per a report by The Times of India, that was a time when nearly a third of India’s migrants were moving from villages to cities. Tamil Nadu had more people leaving than arriving, and many of them were heading to Delhi.
Veerasamy found his place in a small settlement with other Tamil migrants. This place would come to be known as Madrasi Camp. He started working informally as a labourer on municipal projects. Life wasn’t easy, but it was a beginning.
One summer, his 16-year-old niece Meenakshi came to visit from Tirunelveli. She liked Delhi, and she stayed. “Madrasi Camp was about half the size then,” she told TOI.
The camp, like many urban slums, was built on the edge of wealthier neighbourhoods. People from the camp found work nearby, cleaning houses, cooking meals, washing cars. Meenakshi, who had studied till Class 8, started working in local homes.
But there was a language barrier. “I couldn’t understand them. They couldn’t understand me,” she said. It took two years for her to pick up enough Hindi to get by.
She later met Senthil, who lived in the same camp. They fell in love, got married in Tamil Nadu, and returned to Delhi to begin their married life in a small home with a room, a kitchen and a bathroom. “But we had everything we needed,” Meenakshi told TOI.
By the 1990s, India’s economy had started to open up. Cities offered more opportunities, even if they were unevenly spread. For migrant families like Meenakshi’s, progress came slowly, generation by generation.
Veerasamy was the first. Meenakshi and Senthil were the second. And they hoped their children would be the third, the ones who would break barriers.
They had three children, two daughters and a son. The girls went to a Tamil school 8 km away, run by the Delhi Tamil Education Association, where annual costs were around Rs 20,000. Their son went to a private school, costing Rs 4,000–5,000 per month.
Now, both daughters are in their 20s and doing MBA degrees in finance. Their son, who has a BCom, also wants to pursue an MBA. “Even MBAs are more expensive now, Rs 1 lakh, Rs 2 lakh,” Meenakshi said. “We’ll have to find a college that’s a bit cheaper.”
Together, Meenakshi and Senthil make about Rs 25,000 a month. She earns Rs 15,000 working as a domestic worker, and he makes Rs 10,000 doing odd jobs at shops. But they are doing their best to give their children a better life.
“I spent more than 30 years here. It’s all gone,” Meenakshi said, standing beside what used to be her home.
On June 1, as per TOI, the homes of hundreds of Tamil migrant families were demolished in southern Delhi. The land belonged to the railways, and the settlement, Madrasi Camp, was said to be blocking a drain that flows into the Yamuna River.
The demolition followed a court order. Only the local Murugan temple was left standing. Residents said the camp had existed for nearly 60 years.
According to Delhi officials, 370 homes were torn down. Of these families, 189 were given apartments through a relocation programme, 26 were told they would get them soon, and 155 were denied homes.
But most of the relocated families haven’t moved in yet. Meenakshi explained that only a few childless couples had shifted immediately. That’s because the new homes are in Narela, an area 50km away from where Madrasi Camp stood. It’s far from job opportunities, has bad roads, and a high crime rate. For many, travelling to south Delhi for work would now take four hours daily.
The Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu MK Stalin called the situation a “humanitarian crisis” in a letter to Delhi Chief Minister Rekha Gupta. But Gupta said that since the court had given the order, neither the government nor the administration could stop it.
While challenging their eviction in court, the residents of Madrasi Camp admitted they had no legal right to live there, but said they deserved proper rehabilitation. They had requested to be moved to two areas better connected to Delhi’s economy, but officials said there wasn’t enough space. So, Narela was the only option.
And even that comes at a cost.
Each family given a home must pay Rs 1,12,000 upfront, and then Rs 30,000 every year for five years as maintenance. The house is a leasehold property for 10 years, which means it cannot be rented, transferred, or sold during that period. After 10 years, it becomes freehold.
When the TOI reporter visited Meenakshi’s new fourth-floor flat, they asked if at least there was enough sunlight and fresh air.
“Yes, too much of it,” she laughed, pointing to a square hole in the wall where a window should have been.
The flat had the basics: a small kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, a living room, and a tiny balcony. But the paint was chipped, the plaster was peeling, the tiles were crooked, and the door frames were already rusting.
And yet, these were called “ready-to-move” homes.
When asked if she was ready to move, Meenakshi didn’t give a clear answer. Her quiet planning showed she was trying to prepare, even though it wouldn’t be easy.
Inputs from TOI
As per a report by The Times of India, that was a time when nearly a third of India’s migrants were moving from villages to cities. Tamil Nadu had more people leaving than arriving, and many of them were heading to Delhi.
Veerasamy found his place in a small settlement with other Tamil migrants. This place would come to be known as Madrasi Camp. He started working informally as a labourer on municipal projects. Life wasn’t easy, but it was a beginning.
One summer, his 16-year-old niece Meenakshi came to visit from Tirunelveli. She liked Delhi, and she stayed. “Madrasi Camp was about half the size then,” she told TOI.
The camp, like many urban slums, was built on the edge of wealthier neighbourhoods. People from the camp found work nearby, cleaning houses, cooking meals, washing cars. Meenakshi, who had studied till Class 8, started working in local homes.
But there was a language barrier. “I couldn’t understand them. They couldn’t understand me,” she said. It took two years for her to pick up enough Hindi to get by.
She later met Senthil, who lived in the same camp. They fell in love, got married in Tamil Nadu, and returned to Delhi to begin their married life in a small home with a room, a kitchen and a bathroom. “But we had everything we needed,” Meenakshi told TOI.
By the 1990s, India’s economy had started to open up. Cities offered more opportunities, even if they were unevenly spread. For migrant families like Meenakshi’s, progress came slowly, generation by generation.
Veerasamy was the first. Meenakshi and Senthil were the second. And they hoped their children would be the third, the ones who would break barriers.
They had three children, two daughters and a son. The girls went to a Tamil school 8 km away, run by the Delhi Tamil Education Association, where annual costs were around Rs 20,000. Their son went to a private school, costing Rs 4,000–5,000 per month.
Now, both daughters are in their 20s and doing MBA degrees in finance. Their son, who has a BCom, also wants to pursue an MBA. “Even MBAs are more expensive now, Rs 1 lakh, Rs 2 lakh,” Meenakshi said. “We’ll have to find a college that’s a bit cheaper.”
Together, Meenakshi and Senthil make about Rs 25,000 a month. She earns Rs 15,000 working as a domestic worker, and he makes Rs 10,000 doing odd jobs at shops. But they are doing their best to give their children a better life.
“I spent more than 30 years here. It’s all gone,” Meenakshi said, standing beside what used to be her home.
On June 1, as per TOI, the homes of hundreds of Tamil migrant families were demolished in southern Delhi. The land belonged to the railways, and the settlement, Madrasi Camp, was said to be blocking a drain that flows into the Yamuna River.
The demolition followed a court order. Only the local Murugan temple was left standing. Residents said the camp had existed for nearly 60 years.
According to Delhi officials, 370 homes were torn down. Of these families, 189 were given apartments through a relocation programme, 26 were told they would get them soon, and 155 were denied homes.
But most of the relocated families haven’t moved in yet. Meenakshi explained that only a few childless couples had shifted immediately. That’s because the new homes are in Narela, an area 50km away from where Madrasi Camp stood. It’s far from job opportunities, has bad roads, and a high crime rate. For many, travelling to south Delhi for work would now take four hours daily.
The Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu MK Stalin called the situation a “humanitarian crisis” in a letter to Delhi Chief Minister Rekha Gupta. But Gupta said that since the court had given the order, neither the government nor the administration could stop it.
While challenging their eviction in court, the residents of Madrasi Camp admitted they had no legal right to live there, but said they deserved proper rehabilitation. They had requested to be moved to two areas better connected to Delhi’s economy, but officials said there wasn’t enough space. So, Narela was the only option.
And even that comes at a cost.
Each family given a home must pay Rs 1,12,000 upfront, and then Rs 30,000 every year for five years as maintenance. The house is a leasehold property for 10 years, which means it cannot be rented, transferred, or sold during that period. After 10 years, it becomes freehold.
When the TOI reporter visited Meenakshi’s new fourth-floor flat, they asked if at least there was enough sunlight and fresh air.
“Yes, too much of it,” she laughed, pointing to a square hole in the wall where a window should have been.
The flat had the basics: a small kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, a living room, and a tiny balcony. But the paint was chipped, the plaster was peeling, the tiles were crooked, and the door frames were already rusting.
And yet, these were called “ready-to-move” homes.
When asked if she was ready to move, Meenakshi didn’t give a clear answer. Her quiet planning showed she was trying to prepare, even though it wouldn’t be easy.
Inputs from TOI
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