Outside the gates of Lok Nayak Jai Prakash Narayan (LNJP) Hospital on Tuesday morning, the crowd was heavy but hushed. Faces were blank, eyes swollen, voices faint. Some waited for a word, others for a body. Inside, the smell of antiseptic mixed with smoke and burnt metal still hung in the air.
A day after the Red Fort blast, Delhi woke to grief. For many, hope ended in a mortuary, with only a torn shirt, a tattoo, or a shoe left to identify those they loved.
The blast, which tore through a slow-moving car near Gate number 1 of the Red Fort Metro Station on Monday evening, killed at least twelve and injured several others. The explosion left vehicles mangled, glass shattered, and lives broken.
By night, the dead began arriving at LNJP Hospital. Ambulances moved in and out without pause. The mortuary was sealed under tight security. Only authorised officials could enter.
Families pressed against the barricades, trying to catch a glimpse, pleading for news. A hospital worker, his voice tired from the night shift, said softly, “The bodies that came were beyond recognition. Some were just lumps of flesh. Many had organs missing. It was hard to tell one from another.”
In one corner, Noman’s family huddled together. His body had just been identified. They followed the white ambulance that carried him away, walking behind it in silence. His friend Sonu stood apart, unable to step inside. “I can’t see him like that,” he whispered. Further down the corridor, another family broke down when a body wrapped in a white cloth was brought out.
A woman collapsed to the ground, her hands shaking as others lifted her up. A man tried to steady her, whispering, “It’s him.”
Inside, Amar Kataria’s family stood by a metal trolley. His body was burned beyond recognition. The 34-year-old pharmaceutical businessman from Chandni Chowk had tattoos on his arms in tribute to his parents and wife.
Those tattoos, once marks of love, became the only way his family could say, “It’s him.” At another table, Idris waited through the night for news of his nephew, Mohammad Zunman, a battery rickshaw driver. Zunman’s GPS had gone silent around 9 pm Monday. “Police asked us to check hospitals,” Idris said. “We saw four bodies but couldn’t recognise any.”
A call came later, asking them to come again. “Some body parts were missing,” Idris said.
“We knew it was him from his blue shirt and jacket.” Zunman was 35, the only earning member of his family. His wife, who is physically challenged, sat by his body, unable to speak. “He had three children,” Idris said. “Now his children have no one.” In another section, 30-year-old Pankaj Sahni’s family waited. His father, Ram Balak, said he last spoke to him at 5.30 pm when Pankaj left for a client drop in Old Delhi. “Then the news came on TV,” he said. “We called him again and again. No answer.”
The family searched hospitals through the night. “Then the police called and asked what he was wearing,” the father said quietly.
“When they took us to LNJP, I thought we were going to see him alive.” He paused. “They took us to the bodies instead.”
Outside LNJP, a steady line of ambulances moved through the gate. Some carried survivors. Most carried bodies. A woman waiting near Gate number 4 complained, “The gates are closed. We were told to go from the other side. Even patients are being turned away.”
Inside, security was tight. The emergency ward was sealed. Patients were sent to other blocks. Guards stood at every door, keeping reporters, relatives, and onlookers away. By mid-morning, Lieutenant Governor VK Saxena arrived to inspect the situation.
He met doctors and spoke briefly with families. Chief Minister Rekha Gupta also visited earlier, asking officials to ensure full medical support for the injured.
The Red Fort blast had ended in seconds. But its echoes, in torn sleeves, in faint ink on charred skin, in the cries outside a hospital gate will stay far longer.
