In Delhi’s historic Mehndiyan graveyard, burial plots are sold like real estate, with advance bookings at times going for lakhs of rupees as families scramble to book prime spots, seeking status even in death. A report by Tehelka SIT
Booking flats, cars and marriage halls is commonplace, but some people now book graves for their loved ones to secure a premium spot for eternity. The trend, earlier prevalent in Gulf countries, is catching on among Muslims and Christians in India. Ironically, even resting in peace now demands planning — and a price.
Razi-uddin Ahmad lives in a two-bedroom flat near Jama Masjid in old Delhi with his wife and four children. Sky-high property rates have forced him to stay in the house he grew up in, but in death, he has ensured that his family has adequate space. The 52-year-old businessman booked 12 graves for Rs 48,000 so that his family members wouldn’t have trouble finding space when they die. “Who would want to be buried next to a stranger? We will all be together,” said Ahmad, who made the booking over a decade ago.
Ahmed’s cousin, Shafeeq Rehman, has booked 88 graves in his grandfather’s name. According to Ahmed, it is considered a status symbol to own as many graves as possible. He comes from a large family. Another businessman from the walled city, Akhmal Jamal, has booked 58 graves in Delhi’s Mehndiyan graveyard.
Some graveyards allow advance booking of graves, with rates starting from Rs 5,000 and running into lakhs, depending on the location—much like buying property. The earlier you book, the higher the discount!
“You cannot bury your dead in this graveyard without booking a grave in advance. Once booked, no one else can use that spot for burial. There are instances where people have booked graves 10 years in advance here. One can even do bulk booking in this graveyard. Several grave plots here were sold for Rs 1 lakh,” said Mushtaq, a gravedigger at Mehndiyan graveyard, speaking to the Tehelka reporter.
“I live in this graveyard and have been preparing graves for the last 10-12 years. Advance booking is a must here. The rate of a grave depends on the location of the plot. All the preferred plots are either sold or booked. The only available plots now cost Rs 30,000,” said Pappu to our reporter.
“For advance booking, we take the full Rs 30,000 upfront, book the spot and issue a receipt against the payment. Whenever the family comes with the dead body, they show us the advance payment slip and take their booked spot for burial. If someone comes with proof that a family member was buried here 20-22 years ago, we bury the dead in the same grave after re-digging it,” said Mohammed Chand, a caretaker of Mehndiyan graveyard.
Mehndiyan, a Muslim graveyard known as a VIP Qabristan, is a historical site situated behind Lok Nayak Jai Prakash Narain (LNJP) Hospital, near Delhi Gate in New Delhi. It is one of the country’s most prominent graveyards.
Rana Safvi, author and historian, has written about the compound in her book The Forgotten Cities of Delhi. She states that the Qabristan-e-Mehndiyan was once a vast area, home to the graves of many saints and ordinary people. Mehndiyan boasts a striking history—when Shah Waliullah Dehlawi, the renowned Islamic scholar, historiographer and philosopher, died in the late eighteenth century, he was buried here.
Born four years before the death of Aurangzeb, at a time marking the beginning of the end of the Mughal dynasty, Shah Waliullah Dehlawi is considered the greatest Islamic scholar of India. Claiming descent on his father’s side from Umar bin Khattab [R], the second caliph of Islam, his entire family is buried alongside him in this cemetery. Even today, people can be seen sitting for hours in front of his grave, praying and meditating.
Momin Khan Momin, one of the greatest Urdu poets, is also buried inside the same compound. Other prominent graves include that of freedom fighter and Islamic scholar Maulana Hifzur Rahman Seoharwi, Younus Dehlvi, former editor of Shama, an old and now out-of-print Urdu film magazine, and BJP member Sikander Bakht.
The entire compound consists of graves, the Dargah of Shah Waliullah Dehlawi, and a madarsa. Madrasah-i-Rahimiyah, established inside the Mehndiyan compound by Shah Abdur Rahim, father of Shah Waliullah, went on to become one of the greatest educational centres in India.
Among the many prominent graves at Mehndiyan, those of Mona Ahmad—considered India’s most iconic transgender—and her guru Chaman lie side by side in a small room with Quranic verses inscribed on its bright blue walls. A large, faded painting of Mona in a long white dress is etched on a purple wall. She died in 2017, but her nephew and caretaker, Jahanara, still lives there.
Since Mehndiyan is one of India’s most historical and prominent Muslim graveyards, it houses the graves of several Islamic scholars, freedom fighters, Urdu poets, journalists, politicians—and above all—the Dargah of Shah Waliullah Dehlawi. With so many revered figures buried here, it is believed that resting next to a holy person helps transport the soul to heaven, as the neighbour is expected to seek God’s forgiveness for those buried nearby. This belief is also why graves next to religious figures command higher prices.
Sources say that a grave near the feet of Shah Waliullah Dehlawi was sold for Rs 1.8 lakh. For many Muslims, it is a matter of pride to be buried in this graveyard alongside such luminaries. Sensing the rush among Muslims to secure a final resting place here, some people have begun taking advantage of the situation by offering advance bookings of graves in Mehndiyan graveyard.
Tehelka reporter visited Mehndiyan graveyard posing as a potential customer to investigate. Just to the left of the entrance gate, we spotted the office of the Ali-Mohammed Shere Mewat Foundation board, registered in 2018, with the names of its office-bearers displayed. A tea vendor at the gate guided us to a man named Mohammed Chand, who introduced himself as the caretaker of the graveyard.
We told Chand that we wanted to book two graves in advance at Mehndiyan. Chand was initially confused but understood once told it was for advance booking — not for an immediate burial. He took us around to show potential plots where we could choose graves.
Reporter- Jagah ke liye aaye they.
Chand- Jagah.. matlab?
Reporter- Qabr ki jagah.
Chand- Inteqal hua hai?
Reporter- Intekal nahi.. matlab wo advance mein chah rahe hain..qabr ki jagah.
[The brief exchange underlines how common advance bookings for burials have become. It also reflects how afterlife, like life, is increasingly being planned and secured well in advance.]
While he was showing us the sites for graves, we asked Chand whether we could get place for burial inside the Dargah of Shah Waliullah — considered most honurable thing for any Muslim. Chand, however, made it clear that such a spot was not available.
Chand- Yahan mil jayegi….
Reporter- Ander Hazrat ke yahan nahi mil jayegi…?
Chand- Nahi
Reporter- Aapka naam?
Chand- Mohd Chand.
Reporter- Aap Aligarh se hain, kaunsi jagah se..?
Chand- Jamalpur.
[The dialogue reveals that even caretakers draw a line when it comes to the most coveted spots. It also hints at the unspoken hierarchy within graveyards, where some spaces remain out of reach.]
While we were visiting the graveyard to choose a plot for booking a grave in advance, we came across two vacant plots. When asked about them, Chand said they were already sold, though no one from their families had come yet.
Reporter- Ye jo jagah hain sab biki hui hain?
Chand- Ye sab biki hui hain..
Reporter- Ye bhi biki hui hai?
Chand- Haan… abhi tak yahan koi aaya nahi hai..
Reporter- Advance mein!
[The brief conversation lays bare the scale of the dealings, with the man confirming that all the plots in the area have already been sold. It reflects the brisk nature of these transactions—ownership changing hands long before any visible activity.]
Then, Chand showed us another plot for the graves and assured us that it could accommodate three to four graves. The reporter then sought clarity on the ownership of the available plots. Chand confirmed that most spots were already sold, though some remained unclaimed as they had been booked in advance.
Reporter- Accha ek ye jagah hai.?
Chand- Ye qabr hai iske barabar mein ek ye jagah hai..
Reporter- Accha ek jagah ye hai…to ye to ek hi hui na?
Chand- Aur ho jayengi.
Reporter- 3-4 ho jayengi.?
[The interaction makes it evident that graves here are treated like real estate — bought, reserved, and waiting. It reveals how the scramble for space extends even into death!]
Curious about those buried at Mehndiyan, we asked if politicians found space here. Chand replied that the graveyard mostly housed ulema and wealthy families from old Delhi.
Reporter- To is Qabristan mein bade log dafan honge..MPs, MLAs.. ?
Chand- Ulema zyada hain.. purani Delhi ke paise wale log bhi hain..
[The response reveals how lineage, scholarship, and wealth shape even burial grounds. Resting among the learned and affluent seems to carry a significance that survives beyond life.]
The reporter then asked Chand if he was a committee member. Chand clarified that he was merely a caretaker, tasked with shifting graves and deciding where each body should be buried.
Reporter- Committee member hain aap?
Chand- Nahi hum to caretaker hain..kahan kya karna hai. Kaunsi maiyat ko change karna hai, idhar se nikal kar idhar karna hai..ye sab.
Reporter- Acha maiyat bhi change ho jaati hai ?
[What stands out is the casual mention of shifting bodies — an unsettling reminder of how even the dead aren’t spared adjustments when space and demand collide.]
The conversation soon turned to rates. Chand quoted a fixed price — Rs 36,000 per grave —including digging, stonework, and constructing the box. Any additional rituals or tasks later would attract extra charges, he added.
Chand- Do jagah aur hain wo bhi dekh lo.
Reporter- Uska kya rate hoga?
Chand- Rate sab same hain.
Reporter- Ander bahar.. sab kya hai?
Chand- 30 plus hain.
Reporter- Hain ji?
Chand-36 hazar.. khudai hai, pathar ..box banwana.
Reporter- 30 hazar qabr ka aur 6000 uper ka mistry wistry ka..36 hazar ki ek qabr ?
Chand- Dafnane tak.. uske baad kuch karwayenge.. alag se to uska alag charge hoga
Reporter- Pakka karwayenge to?
Chand- Jo bhi karwayenge.
[It turns out there’s a clear price list even for the afterlife. Resting in peace now depends on how much you can pay.]
When asked if the price would change if we booked a grave today but the burial happened after 3-4 years, Chand said he would issue a receipt. At the time of burial, producing the receipt would ensure the price remains the same. He assured that future hikes wouldn’t affect the advance buyer holding the slip.
Reporter- Accha agar hume aaj booking karwa li aur intekaal hua 3-4 saal baad.. to keemat badhti hai?
Chand- Haan badegi kyun nahi badegi..
Reporter- To wo kis hisab se hogi?
Chand- Nahi aapko wo matlab nahi hai..aapke pass to parchi hogi..
Reporter- Aap slip de denge advance booking ki..aur aagey jo keemat badegi wo bhi humko deni hogi ?
Chand- Nahi uski koi zaroorat nahi hai.. humne aapko aaj ek cheez ek rate pe de di…aagey jo bhi rate badega 10-5 hazar ussey hame kya…aapne koi business karne ke liye thodi le rakhi hai..
[What emerges is the rare certainty that once a grave is booked, the price is locked forever. In a world where inflation spares nothing, death, it seems, remains a rare exception!.]
When asked if a receipt for advance booking of the grave could be issued after paying some token money, Chand said the receipt is issued only after full payment, or at least Rs 10,000 must be paid. He also clarified that receipts were only issued during official hours.
Reporter- To abhi mein koi token de jaaon.. raseed kaat do aap?
Chand- Raseed jab poora paisa aata hai tab detey hain..
Reporter- Abhi mein aapko 1000- 2000 rupaye de jaoon?
Chand- Kam se kam 10 hazar to dena hoga.
Reporter- To raseed kat jayegi ?
Chand- Is time to wo bhi nahi kategi…offce band ho gaya ab..subah 8 baje se 1 baje tak hota hai..
[It shows how money changes hands quietly, while official work sticks to fixed timings — revealing even death’s business follows its own rules of convenience.]
As the discussion progressed, the reporter enquired about documentation for the advance booking. Chand confirmed that submission of an Aadhaar card was mandatory to finalise the grave reservation.
Reporter- To Chand saheb hame bhi documents dene padenge kya..hum jo advance booking karwa rahe hain qabr ki uske liye docs dene padenge?
Chand- Haan
Reporter- Kya kya ?
Chand- Aadhar ki photocopy.
[It becomes clear that while money secures the spot for grave, they still ask for identity proof—maybe to keep some order in a trade where emotions run high and accountability is weak.]
While we were talking to Chand, two men arrived and handed over Rs 30,000 for the advance booking of their graves. The reporter asked whether those who had just paid were also advance bookings, Chand confirmed that they were indeed advance bookings for graves.
Reporter- Ye bhi advance booking hain jo de gaye hain abhi paise.
Chand- Ji haan.
[It reinforces how the graveyard has turned into a transactional space where even death is booked in advance—reflecting the commercialisation of sacred grounds.]
We booked two graves for Rs 72,000 and asked for a discount, which Chand refused. He then took us to show another plot — this time at the feet of the Shah Waliullah dargah, a prestigious burial spot that he had earlier declined to offer. Nevertheless, the deal was finalized at Rs 72,000.
Reporter- Kuch kam nahi hoga 72 hazar se?
Chand- Nahin..chaliye hum aapko ek aur jagah dikhatey hain shayad wo aapko pasand aa jaye..
Reporter- Kal mein aa jaata hoon subah kynki abhi to raseed milegi nahi..
Chand- Kal hi lena
Reporter- 2 Qabron ka 72 hazar ho gaya hamara…?
Chand- Haan.
[The discussion exposes how graves here are openly priced and negotiated—reminding us how even in death, financial deals dictate where one rests.]
Meanwhile, this is not the first time Chand was caught on camera taking advance bookings for graves. During the Covid pandemic in 2020, we had struck a similar deal with him—booking a grave in advance at Mehndiyan graveyard for Rs 30,000, but leaving without making any payment. Even then, Chand had promised to reserve the plot after receiving the full amount and said he would issue a receipt, which we would need to produce at the time of burial. In the meeting, the Tehelka reporter not only posed as a fake customer seeking advance booking but also gave Chand a false story that someone in the family had died with a specific wish to be buried at Mehndiyan, and they had come to Mehndiyan graveyard for the burial.
Reporter- Ek inke rishtedar hain unki khwaish yehi hai ki wo Mehndiyan mein hi dafan ho..to uske liye koi advance dena padega jagah k liye..?
Chand- Poora paisa dena padega.
Reporter- Chahe unka kabhi bhi intekaal ho?
Chand- Haan uske liye hum aapko ek parchi denge, wo aap lekar jana usko sambhal kar rakhna, jab bhi zaroorat ho..aa jana.
Reporter- Aur wo qabr ki jagah advance mein book ho jayegi..
Chand – Us time par jab bhi aapko zaroorat padegi to labour charges 2-2.5 hazar rupiya dena hoga.
Reporter- Accha…uska hame kitna advance dena hoga?
Chand- Wohi 30 hazar..
Reporter- Theek hai.
[The interaction reveals how death itself is monetised—peace in the afterlife seemingly assured only through advance payments and receipts. It reflects a growing trend of commercialisation in graveyards.]
In that meeting, before allotting a grave to us in advance, Chand asked whether we had any relatives buried in Mehndiyan graveyard 20-22 years ago. If so, he said he could dig up that grave and bury the dead there. But we refused.
Reporter- Wo maiyat ko lekar aana tha.
Chand- Kahan se?
Reporter- Shakarpur..cancer se maut hui hai, ghar par.
Reporter (continues)- Doctor se elaj chal raha tha 1-2 saal pehle , doctor ne jawab de diya tha.
Chand- Ladies hain gents?
Reporter- Gents.
Chand- Jagah dekh lijiye yahan.
Reporter- Ander nahi mil sakti ?
Chand- Kisi ki hai kya?.. aapke dada pardada ki?
Reporter- Na…kya ander nahi mil payegi jagah?
Chand- Agar hoti aapke kisi dada pardada ki 20-22 saal pehle to usko khudwa dete..
Reporter- Kitna kharcha hoga Chand bhai ?
Chand- 30 hazar..yehi sabse achi jagah hai.
[Here, Chand bluntly states that without ancestral claim, an inner spot is impossible. Instead, he offers an available plot outside for Rs 30,000, revealing how even space for the dead is bound by lineage and commerce.]
The extent of open and rampant advance booking of graves at Mehndiyan qabristan becomes clear from our meeting with Mushtaq, a gravedigger there for the past 20-22 years. He told us that without advance booking, burial in the graveyard is not possible. He then directed us to contact Chand for the booking. In this brief exchange, the reporter confirms that the Mehndiyan graveyard is privately managed, with Chand acting as the contractor overseeing grave digging. Mushtaq clarifies that unlike government graveyards, here one must purchase burial space in advance.
Mushtaq- Chand naam hai… thekedar hai yahan ka.
Reporter- Qabre wo hi khudwatey hain.?
Mushtaq- Haan.
Reporter- Ye Mehndiyaan kabristan hai na?
Mushtaq- Haan.
Reporter- Kuch kya advance wagera?
Mushtaq- Ye to wo hi batayenge..aapki jagah yahan pehle se hai ?
Reporter- Nahi hamari nahi hai…pehle jagah leni padti hai kya?
Mushtaq- Haan..yahan sarkari nahi hai..
Reporter- Private hai ye?
Mushtaq- Haan.. to yahan jagah aapko lena padega.
Reporter- Acha qabr ki advance booking karwani padegi…kitna advance dena hoga ?
Maushtaq- Ladka aa raha hai.. ye batayega.
[It emerges from the dialogue that even resting places are commercialised in private graveyards. It highlights the irony — land, whether for the living or the dead, must first be bought.]
The reporter now enquires about the inner burial spots, once priced at Rs 1 lakh. Mushtaq curtly responds that those prime spots are no longer available—indicating both scarcity and the premium attached to certain burial spaces.
Reporter- Ander wali jagah kitne ki hai… 1 lakh ki thi ?
Mushtaq- Nahi thi ab khatam ho gayi.
[The prized inner spots, once priced at Rs1 lakh, are no longer available. It reflects how even burial space runs out, turning graves into a commodity chased by the living.]
The conversation now turns to the business of advance bookings for graves, with Mushtaq revealing that people secure burial spots even a decade in advance. He also shares his own experience—digging graves for over two decades—for a meagre Rs 400 per grave.
Mushtaq- Ek baar jagah mol le logey to hamesha tumhari ho jayegi…koi aur nahi aayega.
Reporter- Matlab ki advance booking karwani padti hai tab dafan hoga.
Mushtaq- Haan.
Reporter- Matlab ek saal pehle bhi kara saktey hain log advance booking.
Mushtaq- 10-10 saal pehle bhi kara letey hain log.
Reporter- Aap kya kartey ho ?
Mushtaq- Kabr khodtey hain.
Reporter- Kitne saal ho gaye?
Mushtaq- 20-22 saal.
Reporter- Kitna paisa milta hai aapko?
Mushtaq- 400 rupees.
Reporter- Ek qabr ka..?
Mushtaq- Haan.
[The conversation brings to light a grim reality—while grave spots are sold at premium rates, the men who dig them toil for paltry sums. Death, here, is commerce layered with irony.]
The following exchange shows that burial here is possible only if the grave is bought in advance. Mushtaq says many graves are pre-booked, and without booking a spot, even burial is refused — turning death into a matter of ownership.
Reporter- Ye jo aage wali qabrein hain ye aapne khodi hain..?
Mushtaq- Haan.
Reporter- Ye sari advance booking wali hain?
Mushtaq- Sari nahi.. ab jaise tum aaye ho….ab jaise tum a gaye ho.. yahan to tum teen ki le lo.. 4 ki le lo jagah.
Reporter- Bina jagah liye dafna nahi sakte?
Mushtaq- Haan.
[What emerges is a telling picture — even resting in peace comes at a price, and ownership of land extends beyond life. Death, too, feeds a growing business, with phrases like ‘advance booking’ casually thrown around.]
Mushtaq then introduces us to Pappu, a mason who has been building permanent graves in the graveyard for the past 10–12 years. Pappu also asked us to book a grave in advance for Rs 30,000. It becomes evident that even the masons here, like Pappu, are closely tied to the business of graves. For over a decade, he has been building permanent graves, living within the graveyard itself—a witness to many transactions of mortality.
Reporter- Kab se kar rahe ho aap ye kaam?
Pappu- 10-12 saal ho gaye..mera hai mistry ka kaam, qabr ko pakka banate hain.
Reporter- Aap yaha rehtey ho qabristan mein?
Pappu- Haan.
Reporter- Aap mujhe total kharcha bata do?
Pappu- Total yahan ka 30 hazar aa jayega..aur waise aap jaiye Chand bhai bethey hue hain, unse baat kar lijiye, number de raha hoon.
Reporter- Kya hain wo?
Pappu- Yahan ke main hi samjho.
Reporter- Ye Mewat foundation kiski hai?
Papu- Unhi ki hai.
[Mehndiyan Qabristan, it turns out, is treated like a private estate. With caretakers, masons, and middlemen in place, an informal trade thrives around it, where even one’s final resting place is carefully priced and marked out.]
While commenting on the advance booking of graves in the Mehndiyan graveyard, renowned Islamic scholar, Dr Maqsood ul Hasan Qasmi says, “This is a very shocking practice going on in Mehndiyan graveyard. It should be stopped immediately. The entire place is being encroached upon by illegal occupants and must be freed from them.”
“Mehndiyan is a historic graveyard of India that houses the Dargah of Shah Waliullah Dehlvi, a renowned Islamic scholar. Every Muslim takes pride in getting buried there after death. Where is the money collected from advance grave bookings going—this must be investigated,” adds Dr Qasmi.
He further told Tehelka that all graveyards in India come under the Waqf Board, and Mehndiyan graveyard should also be a Waqf property. Waqf officials must immediately check and curb this advance booking practice at Mehndiyan, he said.
Another Islamic scholar, Khalid Saleem, told Tehelka that the advance booking of graves is illegal and Mehndiyan graveyard is indeed a Waqf property. Saleem said that the Ali Mohammed Shere Mewat Foundation was started by Islamic leader Ali Mohammed, who came from Mewat, Haryana, and settled at Mehndiyan, Delhi. He said that he was a politically connected man with close ties to Congress leaders of that time, including Indira Gandhi. It was under the banner of this foundation that he took control of the land, he added.
What to say of Muslim graveyards, even Christian cemeteries are facing the same issue—skyrocketing grave rates and shrinking space are fuelling the demand. As the population grows, space to bury the dead is fast vanishing. Burials have truly become a grave matter, especially for the poor. Reports of advance grave bookings are pouring in from many cities, yet no concrete action has been taken to stop this practice.
According to a media report, a TDP leader, Mohammed Ahmed, informed Waqf Board officials in Hyderabad about such illegal deals, but no action followed. Also, allegations of fraud in grave deals are rampant. One man claimed his father had booked a grave, but when he passed away, the quabristan caretaker sold the plot to someone else and even refused to refund the money.
Sources also reveal that when BJP leader Sikander Bakht died in 2004, he was buried in a grave that had already been booked for Rs 75,000. The amount was later refunded to the original buyer. Now, with the government pushing to ensure the Waqf Amendment Bill 2024 sails through both Houses of Parliament, there is hope that this Tehelka investigation into Muslim graveyards—where graves are sold in advance despite being Waqf properties—will catch the authorities’ eye and prompt action against such unlawful practices.
