If you ever happen to visit Hyderabad, stray away from the maddening crowd into one of the lonely corners of a street or a by lane. Away from the cold clutches of greedy guides, pokey nosed autowalas, ribald road side fruit vendors and casual tourists, do stray away. Here in the absence of commercial vantage, you will find under slanted roofs with heavy brown tiles and crescent shaped porticos with lime white coat, purer and pristine Hyderabad.
“Tawakkal Café” you are bound to find this hotel in every street of Hyderabad. Here, teenage waiters with their shirt sleeves folded above the elbow, with dishevelled hair, worn and faded jeans, top buttons of the chequered shirt left open, with a kerchief around the throat and chewing gum between their firm jaws, approach you. And when you are finished sipping the best chai on this planet earth out of a thick china cup and brownish white saucer with jagged edges, when you are finished with your tongue quivering for the last drop of juicy one rupee chota onion samosa, the waiter will return. Authoritatively, he pulls out coins from the kangaroo pouch suspended around his waist by a red belt with the initials “Tawakkal Café” embroidered in white. you will hear clinking noise of coins at the counter, every now and then, as the owner steadfastly drops coins into their respective round crucibles lodged in the wooden drawers of art deco slate finish table before him.
Stray away from the expensive shopping malls, fashionable boutiques and grand plazas. The charm of Hyderabad is not inside AC cabs, it is not found inside the walled corners of plush sanitised granite floored corridors of three star hotels, neither is it found in the claustrophobic mummified art exhibition before fluorescently lit 3D theatre screens. No! If you ever visit Hyderabad, walk the dimly lit crowded pathway to Charminar with yellow chandeliers displayed either side, on the foot paths. Get down near Madina (even if you have rented an AC cab), its only half a kilometre from here to the foot of four majestic pillars that peoples of Hyderabad and secunderabad have worshipped for ages. The grandeur of Charminar tethers all the by lanes around it in glorious flashes; bangles greet you displayed outside every shop and inside the glass cupboards. Women of all ages shop for bangles here, they try and tire the boys inside the shops (both with their haunting shy eyes and shrill peacock voice). Around the slender wrists of young girls are fragile looking thin bangles that glisten and twinkle in prismatic patterns and makes one wonder if rainbow itself stoops to rub its body against the window panes of charminar bangle stores, for where else can you stand in awe of pure sensual delight in as much as in the bazaars of charminar.
As you walk rubbing your shoulders against the ones walking hastily in the opposite direction, an old man with wrinkled skin and hunched back beckons you with his charcoal burnt ground nuts; a colloquial youth grabs you by the arm and points you in the direction of lassi vendor; an autowala blocks your way with his palm receding from the imploded rubber horn by the rear view mirror, its sharp pompous honk still reverberating in your ears. A little away, you will pass underneath the first giant archway with the top of minars watching you in amazement as you sluggishly proceed. “Rabbits. 350 Rs/pair” man in white pyjamas seated on a round wooden stool billows at you; “two wheeler seat covers sold here” written atop a black slate suspended to the projected thatch roof in the next shop, precariously hung, the slate twists the thread above as the aromatic evening breeze slides past it; radium stickers in the next one, bikers’ paradise, here they can refashion a passion plus into sporty European bike with two gorgeous cylinders, an uplifted back, a tractor back wheel, short handle, twin head lights and twin exhausts.
And so you walk beneath the next and the next archway. Crossing the third one, you will find yourself before the magnificent yellow walled architectural masterpiece-Charminar. Giant wall clocks are pinned up against each of the four walls; a thick brick layered design embroiders the four arches and the pillars. These arches recede inside into a sinusoidal repetition of arches that end up kissing each other at the roof of the structure five storeys above. Standing between the walls of Charminar, you will feel invisible threads pulling you above into the jaws of the structure, goosebumps promptly conjure once you are there. With brick layered teeth (in the form of embroidered borders) and fuller lips (in the form of gigantic pillars), Charminar, like a warm breasted mammal, heaves and the echoes of its throbbing heart ricochet off every dark corner, caress every blind bat clinging to the roof, suffuse through every nerve follicle of every visitor that ever visited it.
Now, if you ever visit Hyderabad, stray away from the dreadful clutches of commerce and dab your conscience with culture that lies hidden in every road side shop and every one rupee chota onion samosa. Do come. Do visit. But behold-do not get carried away by the affluence of the rich here. That is not where Hyderabad is found; the city like an enchantress hides away in the dimly lit corridors of Salarjung Museum, and resides in the dark shadows cast on a full moon day inside Charminar. Flower heads of Hyderabad blossom not in the laughably rich interiors of three star AC hotels and AC cabs, but outside, under the mystical sun and seductive moon.
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