Honestly, we thought Part 1 would settle things. It did not. The comments turned into a full-blown suggestions box, the DMs were overwhelming, and it became very clear that Lucknow's collection of bizarre, poetic, and deeply unexplainable area names is far larger than any one post can handle. So here we are, back by genuinely popular demand, Here's round two. Don't say we don't listen!

Only Lucknow could take a name like "Daniyal Marry Pul", believed to honour a historic noblewoman, and casually reshape it, conversation by conversation, generation by generation, into "Dhaniya Mehri Pul." No formal announcement, no committee decision. Just the city's famously effortless way of making everything sound a little more like its own. Linguists would call it corruption. Lucknow would call it character.

The Nawabis didn't waste time on clever naming, if you sold tobacco there, it was Tambaku Mandi. Done. What's charming is that centuries later, the tobacco is gone, the traders have moved on, and the whole neighbourhood has reinvented itself, but the name stayed put. Lucknow never really lets a good story disappear quietly.

Nobody knows exactly who Jhabban was, not a Nawab, not a noble, just someone who tended a garden well enough that the whole neighbourhood ended up carrying his name forever. There's something wonderfully democratic about that. In a city full of grand baghs named after royalty, Jhabban quietly got his own bagiya. Lucknow remembers everyone, it seems.

The village, Husarya, vanished when Shahid Path arrived. The sabzi mandi that carried the name forward has mostly packed up and moved on too. And yet Husariya remains. On signboards, in directions, in everyday conversation. Lucknow has a habit of keeping names long after the stories behind them have gone quiet. Husarya may be gone, but Husariya didn't get the memo.

Somewhere in Lucknow's past, an entire community built and operated traditional swings, hindolas, for local fairs and festivities. And because this city has always had a soft spot for the people who made life more fun, the neighbourhood simply took their name. The swings are long gone, but Naka Hindola remains. Honestly, it's one of the more joyful addresses in the city.

Two stories, one name. Either locals were so fed up with police turning a blind eye to dacoities that they named the chowki accordingly, an insult sharp enough to last nearly a century, or it honours Ramzani, a visually impaired fakir who simply sat here and offered water and jaggery to anyone passing by. History can't decide which is true. Perhaps both are. Lucknow tends to hold contradictions beautifully.

No grand titles, no official sainthood, no royal connections. Just an uncle and a nephew, buried together on Gwynne Road, whom the neighbourhood quietly decided deserved to be remembered. And so they named the spot after the one thing that defined them, their relationship. In a city full of elaborate dargahs and historic tombs, Mama Bhanje ki Kabr might just be the most human address of all.

There's no clear story to the name Narhi. But turns out there's a type of grass called Nar or Nari. The area could be a grassy spread surrounding Hazratganj, hence the name.

In the Nawabi era, Chaupatiyan was where business and culture refused to stay separate. A crossroads market by design, it drew traders, poets, and artisans into the same bustling space, where a transaction could easily turn into a debate about poetry, and an evening stroll could end in an impromptu mushaira. Lucknow has always blurred those lines, and Chaupatiyan is where it started.

There are many anecdotal stories that tell the origin of the name Dubagga. But a story that sounds more factually correct one is that once two big parcels of land here belonged to a zameendar who was nicknamed Dobagga. Locals made him pretty famous by naming the area after him in that case.

Turiyaganj almost certainly started life as Victoria Ganj, a colonial-era name honouring Queen Victoria. As locals said it, "Victoria" gradually softened into "Turiya," and a neighbourhood renamed itself without a single official order. It didn't stop there, the area's statue of Queen Victoria was eventually reinterpreted as Turiya Devi, a local goddess entirely.