Hyderabad. Indias Truly Indian City.

Hyderabad is this multi ethnic multi religious mix of bad 1980’s concrete, ultra modern euro hotels and business parks, and an ancient dusty dirty Islamic heart. We visited chowmahella palace, the residence of the 5th Nizam. This palace was a series of low bungalows that caught the breeze. Each was laid out with understated finery. This was not the gaudy palace of the vassal state of Mysore, this was a series of small buildings with large lawns, designed to house people, and get on with the business of the state. The audience chamber had a pure marble floor, and a series of chandeliers, but I had to look to see the intricacies of the workmanship.

Chowmahella was located in the old city of Hyderabad, next to two museums. I am not one for museums, but Cisca wanted to get a feel for this city, and so we trotted off to the small Nizam’s museum in Purani Haveli Palace. Most of Purani Haveli Palace is now a girls school and the central courtyard is piled with auto rickshaws waiting to take the kids home. This gives a used feel to the worn out palace. The museum itself is small and easily viewed. It is located in and next to a walk in wardrobe that belonged to the Nizam. The wardrobe was actually a forty yard long corridor with hanging spaces on either side and a level above. The museum was small and housed various items that showed the level of development of Hyderabad as an independent state. Railways hospitals, universities and aerodromes were all built by the Nizam’s government.

The curator of the Nizam’s museum was kind enough to get us an introduction to the Salar Jung museum. In spite of having lived, worked and visiting Hyderabad for many years, I had never been to this museum. Salar Jung was the prime minister of Hyderabad for many years and was, by nature, a magpie. He had collectors around the world collect pieces of art from China to India to Europe. In the 1960’s the Indian Government decided to build a museum to house all of this man’s artefacts. There are many halls, of exquisite paintings, statues, ivory, jade and chandeliers. Only when inside, did I realised the physical value, let alone the artistic value of these goods. No wonder that the museum was guarded by central industrial security force constables with automatic rifles. If someone robbed this place of one painting alone, they would be so rich!

But as I said, I am not a museum person, and inspite of our excellent, but weary guide, the attraction paled and I felt the need to wander around. And so we walked outside into the afternoon sun and looked at the slight trickle that was the Musi river, the buffalos wandering along its sandbanks and the bridges that span the gap between the two cities. In front of us was the Osmania general hospital, to our left the high court. Both were architectural fusions, utilising Hindu and Muslim domes and spires. The last Nizam had ordered that all public buildings should be attractive to all faiths. This fusion architecture is now dead. Both communities now build overtly in their own traditions as cultural understanding wears thin.

I know a tailor in Secunderabad called Mr Mohan. He is one of India’s last decent, old fashioned tailors who cuts the cloth himself. He has chaps working for him, but he checks everything. I was after trousers. I find modern flat fronted trousers do not rise easily when I am walking in the hills, and prefer pleated fronts. Marks and Spencer make a chino with a pleated front, but it is expensive and too large for me. And so armed with a sample of what I wanted, I went to see Mr Mohan. For 350 rupees he would stitch a pair of trousers. I bought the cloth and ordered 8 pairs. Mohan was situated in Secunderabad. The site of the old British Cantonment, Secunderabad was modernised in the 1980’s. Concrete abounds and the place can look like a bad Indian city, Secunderabad started out as the modern city, but as the internet hit Hyderabad, cyber parks were constructed on the out skirts of town and Secunderabad with its bad infrastructure lapsed into what it had always been. A cantonment city. Mr Mohan met me in his now very small shop.

”What happened Mr Mohan, you used to have a huge shop”
“Times are hard Sir,” he said “ the financial crisis has hit India, people are buying readymades. And these fellows”- he waved at the building and paused “they have raised the rents, so now my men are out in a different location.”
“That’s better I hope, more space”
“yes but how do I keep an eye on them?” he looked at me. “I need to be there, to supervise”

Mr Mohan carried on measuring me up, and was polite enough not to mention the increase in the measurements over the last few years. After some more banter we parted with him promising to deliver at least two pairs of trousers in 48 hours. This was not Thailand or Vietnam, but Mr Mohan was an artisan, one of life’s real tailors.

That night we were invited to dinner at the Novotel. Shareef, the driver sped our tiny Suzuki through the busy streets, past the new city, and out into the new cyber city. This was a modern business park that could have been in any developed country in the world. The security guards wore high visibility jackets, checked our car with mirrors and, most surprising of all, addressed me in English.
“Where are you going sir?”
“The Novotel”
“Of course sir, Good evening”

The Novotel itself was like any other Accor hotel anywhere in the world. The only difference being, that because it was staffed by Indians, the service was excellent. I filled my plate at the buffet, and found beef, something that is very rare in India. I ate my dinner and looked around me. Indian architects probably designed this building, Indian workers built this, and Indians ran the hotel. It was better run than the Sheraton in Delhi, and that is saying something. “If Indians can do this, then why can they not do this for the rest of the nation.” I said to myself.

Our time in Hyderabad was coming to an end, we needed to make a move to Central India, and the Bandhavgar National park. Cisca wanted one last look at the Old city, and so we made our way to Lar bazaar. For some strange reason we arrived hungry. We dived into an ancient eatery.
“What do you have?” I asked in Urdu.
“Chicken Biriyani”
“Anything else”
“Mutton Biriyani”
“Ok I will have one mutton Biriyani”
“The Mutton Biriyani is finished- only chicken Biriyani”
“OK so, in that case, I will have Chicken Biriyani”
“Good - two?”
“No just one and two spoons”
“Are you sure sir, that might not be enough food”
“I will see”

He disappeared and five minutes later half a chicken appeared on a mountain of rice, with a curry sauce, onion salad and raita.

“This is for one person?” I asked
“Yes sir, not enough? Would you like two?” He beamed.
“ No thank you, I think this is enough” I replied quickly.

He stopped beaming.

As soon as we had eaten, and paid the bill, ($1 for the meal) we walked past the four minareted building into Bangle street. Here the women of Andhra of all religions buy their wedding bangles. These are glass in nature and unique to the Andhra people. Cisca and I were accosted by touts. I replied in Urdu that we were just looking, and, to my amazement they left us alone. They did, however, harass, hassle and cajole the large parties of Hyderabadi ladies without remorse.

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