Soliloquy

Living west of the Hussain Sagar called for a fortitude that the denizens of those parts did not possess. To walk past the fortifications of Golkonda, ignoring the timid cries of help from the tombs and bidding goodbye to the necropolis that was the heart of Asia in the seventeenth century required grit not sold in the bazaars of Old Delhi. Only Kokapet, with the temerity of a schoolgirl who had only just discovered the joys of watching television without her parents’ approval, could be said to possess the human touch.

Gandipet, lacking the lustre that would have allowed Mir Osman Ali Khan to travel westwards more often to rest in the guesthouse he constructed beside the lake he named after himself, often shed tears of insolence these days. Gachi Bowli, with the arrogance of an adolescent who had learnt to swim before its parents, could be swept aside, even as flyovers tooting the horn of an Argentinian who had once famously played a game of football with the chief minister swept across the lay of the land.

Miyapur, Kukatpally and Chanda Nagar seldom bore residents who understood what their compatriots from Dabeer Pura, Jahanuma and Dar-ul-Shifa said. The bonhomie of the Hyderabadi, when lost in translation, was at its best when seen in abundance, as was testified by the British consul when touring the western peripheries in search of authentic Khichdi Khatta. Shaikpet appealed to her, as did Toli Chowki, but she considered Nanak Ram Guda to be an extension of the City of London she had left behind as a graduate.

In all her years in the country, no one could have prepared her for the modern wonder that the Financial District had become, least of all her grandfather, who had once seen action as part of the Maratha Light Infantry. In the four hours she spent overlooking the marvels from the air-conditioned lounge of a five-star hotel, she could not count more than two cows crossing the street, chewing their cud with as much contentment as they would were they in the English Midlands themselves.

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