In the beginning, like millions of poor migrants, he lived in a tarped hovel on the fringes of the sprawling Indian capital. He worked in a book binding shop and moved to Khajuri Khas, a gritty neighbourhood in north-east Delhi, which has a literacy rate lower than the national average.
When the book binding shop folded, Mr Munazir decided to start something on his own. He bought a cart and rice and chicken and began selling home-cooked biryani. His business thrived – “I was a hero, everybody here loved my food” – cooking 15kg of biryani and making up to 900 rupees ($12.26; £9.60) a day. Things were finally looking up.
Barely three years ago, Mr Munazir and his brother, a local driver, pooled 2.4m rupees from their savings and bought a house – an unremarkable two-storey building in a narrow lane. Each floor had two small, windowless rooms and a tiny kitchen and bathroom. It was cramped for two families but it was home. They even installed an air-conditioner to keep the families comfortable in Delhi’s sultry summers.
“It was a nest I finally built for my wife and six children after a lifetime of struggle,” says Mr Munazir. “It was the only thing I wanted in life, it was my only dream come true.”
The dream ended in flames on a bright, sunny Tuesday morning last week.
