From the mind’s eye

The disappearance of a slice of history in the name of development or aesthetics creates a yearning for images and times captured in memory and enhance the value of those that have withstood the ravages of time....

‘Lazy bones wake up! It’s five in the morning and you have just half an hour to get ready’ Grandpa’s booming voice seemed to come from some faraway realm as I pulled the quilt firmly over me and hugged my pillow tighter my heavy sleep laden eyes just refusing to open. ‘I’ll get up in five minutes’ ...... I mumbled a response trying to squeeze in a few extra winks before the inevitable daily ordeal. ‘Woof’ ‘Woof’, Prince, the sprightly little chocolate tan Dachshund politely barked into my ear before employing stronger tactics involving tugging and removing my quilt and licking my face, having me hurtling out of bed to avoid further assault.

Prince and Grandpa never missed the 5 am deadline and were up before the alarm giving me just enough time to hit the road by 5.30. The tradition of being in the middle (thick) of things never left me since and I walked from my house on Rashtrapathi road in Secunderabad all the way to Hussainsagar, the beautiful lake that separated the twin cities of Hyderabad and Secunderabad, sandwiched between Grandpa and Prince. My surliness disappeared once I started walking and savouring the beauty of the morning.

A few minutes into our walk, the veil of darkness enveloping the sky disappeared and a bright crimson hue heralding dawn cast a magic spell. The cool gentle breeze fanning my face, the flight of birds in a beautiful formation and Gulmohar trees covered with red and orange hued flowers brought a smile to my lips and a sprite to my stride. It was indeed a glorious new day filled with new hopes and new beginnings...

After we walked a few metres crossing the Gujarati Seva Mandal and a popular petrol bunk, we took a right turn from Ranigunj, passing by an Iranian cafe called Watan restaurant. A stocky cheerful old man, with a fair pinkish complexion and sparkling eyes sat behind the counter, shouting out orders for the first brew of the famous Irani Chai (tea). He would always greet us with an “Aadaab” and exchange pleasantries.

In rare moments we stopped by to enjoy the chai on our way back home and our congenial host (he refused to take money for the brew) sat with us while his staff looked after Prince. Grandpa and I grew fond of this cheerful man and missed him on the odd days that he was absent behind the counter. He too waited for us, clocking our time and reminding us when we were late. It was a beautiful and unfettered friendship where a great bond developed despite very little being said.

‘Watan’ is one of the few Iranian cafes in the twin cities to withstand the onslaught of Coffee Day and other swank coffee shops. It is probably run by the old man’s descendants and the only trace of modernity over the years is a new Watan lodging and boarding building next to the original cafe. I am filled with nostalgia whenever I go past this place peering out of the car window almost looking for my old friend.

As we trudged along we went past beautiful Moghul style structures with intricate carvings which grandpa told me were probably tombs of the lesser known nobility neglected for decades. They haven’t attracted the attention of the government or real estate sharks and continue in their neglected state to this day. To the right is the private Sailing annexe of the Secunderabad Club with its beautiful lawns, colonnade and sailing area by the lake.

We stopped there occasionally on our way back being the only members to visit so early in the morning. These two halts were very rare and reserved for Sundays where I didn’t have to rush to school and college. Mostly we walked non- stop, even while Grandpa held long discussions with a group of lawyers, doctors, politicians and others. My interest in news I suspect was greatly triggered by these interesting early morning exchanges and heated debates as members walked the talk.

At the Secunderabad end of the Tank bund was a children’s park (still there) before which is a slice of history in the form of a Pakistan M47 battle tank which was a trophy given to the 54th Infantry division that disabled it during the Indo –Pak war of 1971. As we crossed the park we came upon a beautiful red brick British style police station where we saw yawning night duty policemen waiting for their relievers. The lovely structure has since been demolished and replaced by an ugly modern building sans character and heritage.

As we walked to the farthest end which marked the beginning of the Hyderabad city we watched several people jog, skate and walk briskly on the tree lined pathway in the opposite direction. Several people cycled along this path that had no obstructions whatsoever. There were wrought iron benches on the footpath here but one rarely sat down. Prince was a particularly restless creature being a hunting dog and very often pounced at Labradors, Alsatians and other big canines many times his size. It was a Herculean effort to hold onto him and very often I was dragged along with his leash looking helplessly as other dog owners intervened and brought matters under control.

Our walking continued non-stop with exam and rainy day breaks and I recall my grandfather clinging to me as he carefully took each step after his cataract operation. With a green pirate kind of band around one eye he walked and stopped by talking to friends who complimented his love for walking despite his eye condition. ‘I see through her eyes’ he would say proudly pointing to me. Another vivid image is that of a young family friend who jogged backwards so that he could face grandpa and me and keep talking as he exercised.

The 5.7 sq km artificial lake built by Hazrat Hussain Shah Wali in 1562 holds water perennially and has a maximum depth of 32ft. The Tank bund area was a beautiful place to walk on with very few vehicles plying in the morning. It was just a peaceful tree lined water body around which was a tranquil unhurried life. Those mornings were also about anecdotes and teachings from grandpa that would not have been possible in the confines of home and the hurly burly of routine. The trees, the people, the historical buildings have all gone.

The once tree lined avenue now has multiple statues of Telugu greats and the Hussainsagar itself has a 18 meter monolithic Buddha statue chiselled out of a white granite rock.... all installed by the late Chief Minister NT Rama Rao in 1992. I haven’t been there for many years now .The walkway remains but all walks of life have changed. Morning walkers everywhere are now glued to their mobile phones.

They seem to wish you but are actually talking to other busy bodies at 6 am with a vacant look on their faces and speakers in their ears. We are in a world that is never disconnected thanks to networks that boast of connecting you in any terrain. The environs have changed but the path remains. The people have gone but memories remain. For lack of better words of my own to describe what I feel, I quote Emerson ‘What peaceful hours I once enjoyed.
How sweet their memory still...
They have left an aching void
The world can never fill’