Soliloquy

This piece – the sequel to the creative non-fiction work The Last Hyderabadi – was first published in the Borderless journal. It has been reproduced here in its entirety.

Had Paradise survived, the last Hyderabadi too would have weathered the storm. Yet what remained of Paradise were shards of its best self scattered around parts of the country that did not understand what it meant to carry its legacy. Or what the cups of frothy Irani chai over a pair of lukhmis or nausea-inducing keema-roti meant to the city’s gentry. Or what the gentrification of a city best known as a small neighbourhood harassed yet equally enriched by the history of glorification of local heroes felt like before the advent of social media.

Autumn had finally arrived, and the smell of the tree of sorrow permeated the crisp, starch-lined shirts of the former politicians of a political party whose hues no one could be certain of any more. The hijras flocking the bus stop opposite the Jubilee Bus Stand had no intention of seeking alms anymore. With the festive season approaching in all its vehemence, life was supposed to get better for them and the countless beggars – maimed or otherwise – who made a living out of the charitable pockets of office-goers.

The latter made the famous bus stand their endroit le plus important and fed their starving souls with tidbits of generosity that they could only offer a pregnant prostitute or a vagrant with no feet staring up Akbar Road with bright grimness in his eyes. One could also count upon the Ganesh temple looming through the shards of space between the metro rail pillars and berating simple-minded folk for not having enriched its donation box. The last Hyderabadi often thought that this vision – more than ideas of goodwill – dictated the largesse of the usually parsimonious gentlefolk.

***

What could have been construed as big-heartedness among the lower classes was usually written off with disdain by those who did not have the luxury of being poor. The road that snaked down the Military Engineering Services instalment evaded the right fork towards Secunderabad Club and was sure to have ended up in the ugly brown villas of Gunrock. The last Hyderabadi often wished he could spare himself the pain of looking at them, as at the future of a contraption no longer in use. To think of pain was pain itself. Hence, he usually forced himself off the stool next to Grill 9 where he was smoking a Charminar – a remnant of an era long gone – and joined the serpentining queue of revellers shedding their last moments of joie de vivre from Tivoli. Its sister establishment up the road took pride in housing respectable men these days.

Shedding the joie de vivre often took the last Hyderabadi back to the days when he could have been carefree enough to hop in and out of the breweries that had sprung up like mushrooms in Jubilee Hills. Had he known how to take the metro into the new central business district of the city, he would have reached sooner than he did when hoisting himself upon his trusted Bajaj. The latter frequently needed a pat of encouragement when it chose to get stuck on clean, wide roads that could only ferry the chief minister and his coterie. Of course, no other road would have had the gall to tidy itself up as much as the ones here did – the lack of water, sanitation and seepage excepted.

Of what need was there for him to chauffeur his thoughts in a world that had long seemed to dissolve him in a glass filled with water that no longer came from the Musi? Yet, there was the odd occasion when he would find himself seeing the vast encumbrance that the cable bridge over Durgam Cheruvu had become, with the thought of jumping off it never too far from his mind.

Broadway, Prost, Forge, Fat Pigeon, Lord of the Drinks, Forefathers, Daily Rituals – of what use was it that he could reel their names and the oldest Merlots they had from memory? Had he taken the time to look beyond the sports pages of the Deccan Chronicle, the last Hyderabadi would have found something to relish in times of the infrequent melancholy that knew him by name. Had the drink consumed him, or vice-versa, things may not have changed him for the better or made the city – once recognisable, and now imperceptible – more hospitable towards him. He would have certainly known something better to do with his time than count by hand the centuries scored on the numerous pitches at the Parade Ground every Sunday.

***

Oh, how he longed to go back to Shah Ghouse and forget that a world such as the one he was forced to inhabit now existed. A world in which seasons came and went, but autumn – obstinate, stubborn autumn – always hung around far longer than it was welcome. With the lines blurring between right and wrong, he always felt that the city would not live up to its pretensions had the same happened between autumn and winter.

Of course, the majority of the denizens who made the northern neighbourhood of Kukatpally their home took immense pride in pulling out their jumpers at the first smell of rain or – perish the thought – the temperature dropping below thirty. Yet, the last Hyderabadi plodded along, knowing innately that this season too was bound to dissipate – like the majority of his dreams had – and winter would take over inevitably.

How little he trusted his words these days, delving deep inside his psyche to find some semblance of sanity which he had held on to during his prime. Chasing another peak, the last Hyderabadi had settled down to accept the inescapable – that the city would move on without him – and defy the passage of time that had once held him tightly in its grip. Oh, what he would have given to head back to Paradise, say hello to trusted old Abid and ask for a cup of tea.

***

There were those moments of immense self-doubt in which the last Hyderabadi felt that his hands would wash away in the sickly Musi underneath Purana Pul, leaving him standing on his legs which were clearly giving up. The decisiveness of the issue softened the blow whenever he looked at the paunch he had developed of late – the result of gallivanting on Sundays to Garden Cafe, committing blasphemy and bypassing Paradise. (He had sought refuge at the Alfa Cafe one morning but was left ruing his choice as hordes of travellers swept past him determined to leave their footprint in the city without being welcomed by it.)

Whatever poetry had once risen inside him while tucking into the umpteenth samosa at Lamakaan had been disbursed by the growth of pain in parts of his mind he seldom recognised these days. The poems were songs in celebration of life, and it was only ironic that he should have to think of these when assailed by the thoughts of an autumn long ago, when Keyes High School had been decked up for the first time, and when Hitec City still boasted of barren boulders that one had to hike up. That autumn seemed to now have flooded away towards the Manjeera – the lifeblood of the city – and neglected to pay the last Hyderabadi any tribute worth his while.

When he thought of life, his most recent memories appeared dusted with the coat of nostalgia that one often reserved for emotions felt long ago. His worries had been compounded by his reluctance to admit that he had become old, that there would not be anyone after him, that he was merely standing upon the shoulders of those who had come before – those who had experienced the greatness of this city and shed an imaginary tear at what it had ultimately become.

You can also read the essay here.

If you like my work, consider visiting my website to get in touch with more of my writing. You can follow me on Twitter as well. Also, sign up for the newsletter to get regular updates coming your way. I would love to talk to you!