The Beautiful Chaos of Growing Up in Delhi in the 80s & 90s

10.05.2026

There was something magical about growing up in Delhi in the 80s and 90s.

Life was slower, simpler, and somehow more real.

We did not have smartphones, Wi-Fi, or social media. But we had full evenings, strong friendships, and memories that still make us smile without even trying.

Back then, music felt different.

We waited for songs on the radio with real excitement. Sometimes the announcer spoke longer than the song itself. Birthday wishes, song requests, messages from listeners… everything was read slowly and lovingly on air. And still, we waited patiently just to hear our favourite song.

There was something special about hearing:
“Yeh agla gaana Delhi se Sunita ji ne request kiya hai…”

And suddenly the song felt personal.

We listened to voices like Ameen Sayani and watched familiar television faces like Tabassum ji, who felt like part of every Indian household. TV anchors had warmth then. They smiled naturally, spoke gently, and never looked rushed.

Sunday mornings in Delhi had a completely different atmosphere.

Roads became quiet during Ramayan and Mahabharat. Families sat together in front of the television almost like it was a ritual. Some people even removed their slippers before sitting down. Neighbours discussed episodes for days afterward.

Television itself felt precious.

Doordarshan.
Chitrahaar.
Rangoli.
Hum Paanch.
Dekh Bhai Dekh.
Antakshari.

And if the antenna moved because of strong winds, someone had to rush to the terrace while another person shouted from inside:
“Bas bas… ab clear aa raha hai!”

School life had its own charm.

Natraj pencils.
Camlin erasers.
Compass boxes with secret compartments.
Ink pens that leaked in shirt pockets before exams.
Brown paper book covers neatly labeled by parents.

And those tiny joys mattered so much.

Delhi itself looked different then.

There were more sparrows on windows than pigeons. Afternoons were quieter. Children played cricket in lanes till sunset. We drank Rasna in summers, ate orange candies from small shops, and rode bicycles without fear.

People visited each other without calling first.

Landline phones were shared by the whole family. Most calls began with:
“Namaste aunty, Anju ghar par hai?”

And everyone in the house automatically knew who the call was for.

Winters in Delhi felt warmer emotionally.

Hot peanuts on roadside carts.
Rajai mornings.
Foggy evenings.
Wedding lights everywhere.

Life was not perfect.

But it had patience.
It had innocence.
It had time.

Today everything is faster, smarter, and more advanced.

But somewhere between notifications and busy schedules, we lost those little moments that once made ordinary life feel beautiful.

And maybe that is why people from the 80s and 90s become emotional so easily when an old song plays unexpectedly.

Because for a few seconds, we are children again.

— Anju Dahiya