Chapter XVII: The Charminar Memory

“Shouldn’t have I grown a little wiser?” The question rose from the abysmal unclean nooks of my mind like the dungeons where Gollum in the Hobbit dwells, and splashed itself across the foreground. Never had I before caught a speeding bus whose route I didn't know. Never had I not known what to tell the conductor as he approached me with his sheaf of tickets, a metallic puncher to mark my start/end-points and a ubiquitous black bag that conductors all across carry. It’s the bag that always has enough change in it that, sadly, the conductors never have enough courtesy to shell out.

As I let the question immerse itself back to the gloomy waters from where it had emerged like an assuaged sea-beast, I gulped loud. I had been in the middle of nowhere having just dropped my friend for an exam by taxi at some college whose name is like Harman Baweja  . Utterly forgettable.

The nervous lot of examiners began fluxing towards the just-opened gate, and as I cut heroically through the multitudes in slow-motion, I caught sight of an APSRTC bus emitting dark smoke out of its rear pipe, all ready to leave. I told my mind to shut up and I entered it.

But I also had a choice. We always have a choice, don’t we? But mine was as dull as a dry-day. It was to stay in the vicinity of the college that bragged of the plethora of IT companies that visit it by putting four big boards of the number of students placed on its entry wall, along with whistling emaciated guards and a few surrounding shops that only bluebottles flitted around. Now hanging three hours at a place that reeked of urine was hardly anyone would want to spend a Sunday like.

Gaining consciousness, I realized that the conductor, not used to meeting puzzled passengers of this degree, was beginning to lose patience. I, myself, was at a loss of thoughts. His piercing stare, repeated enquiries and my fit of haste finally found words. I asked him to drop me on the main road, out of the village that the college was in. From there started the first of the many auto-rickshaws we slid our behinds in and out of. 'We' is me and another friend who got in on the bus with me, clueless. 

It all made me slightly happy inside. I was silently beaming. This tiny adventure of roaming around some rural area of Hyderabad on my own was giving me a high. I was adrift, gloating in the new-found high. Suddenly my stomach made noises which could no longer stay unnoticed in the rickshaw now. My hunger grew just as high as the high I was feeling.

It was 9AM and all the false hopes of finding a good eating-joint in the middle of nowhere worsened my towering appetite. After a few futile calls to Just-Dial and a stroll across the cross roads, my heart beamed with glee as the letters KFC in red stared back at me. My legs could outrun an antelope then, I tell you. It was my oasis in the middle of a desert. And just like an oasis, my wish to eat there disappeared. It was an illusion. A mesmerizing mirage. Its shutter was down and my fast-beating heart sulkily sank in my empty stomach with a thud.

I again had a choice. We never run out of choices, do we? Hotel Sitara’s restaurant was on the floor above. And was OPEN. "It's better than the dusty putrid surrounding of that college", I comforted myself. The restaurant’s ambience was better than the notions I entered it with. The religious Telugu soundtrack filled the air, and a group of varied-shaped people crowded the breakfast counter.

We both sat in more quiet area. The manager, who could easily be cast as one of the rogues in Home Alone series, welcomed us and asked how many plates we would use. Another question! This one awoke the monster from within the green lake of cheapness, a trait too typical of Indians. Frugality? Practicality? Whatever! The eight-legged monster’s tentacles never easily part with cash, do they? My semi-conscious immediate reply was “Just ONE will do”. 

A good read and you never feel alone!

The waiters witnessed me re-appear at the counter the most number of times, perhaps. I ate ravenously like the shark from JAWS, relishing all the famed South-Indian breakfast. I refilled. I re-ate. We shared. The remnant of the time till the exam ended was passed at the restaurant with our respective books. It was there where I dived in “magic realism” of  Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. And it has still got me engrossed. The other was Jane Austen's Emma.

Borrowing from Rediff.com’s review of Deepa Mehta’s film by the same name “I've come to know two kinds of book lovers. The first kind constitutes of ardent fans of Salman Rushdie who have, over the years, devoured his novels and short stories -- deconstructing the liberal dose of magical realism in his stories and inhabiting the extraordinary worlds of his protagonists. The others have despaired endlessly over not being able to read through any of his books (Rushdie is widely known as one of the most complex writers of his time).”

It’s a delight to read his words and the worlds of the characters he conjures. Far more delectable than the combination of colourful chutneys I had just gorged on.

As we got ready to leave, the manager well acquainted with our "plan" now told us which way was the EXIT. Damn! Some might find that rude, not us. We didn't take offence. While paying the bill and not dishonoring the ingrained cheapness, I extracted the exact change out from my pocket. No tips, that means? This made the manager ejaculate “Change bahut hai sir ke paas!!” with a sinister lifeless smile. This blow too I sidestepped with an equally  lifeless smile. Why? Because eating for three, paying for one – it was like a small mission accomplished. My healed heart and stuffed stomach remained unaffected by his words’ acridity. They just cared not.

Finally, the trio reunited after the exam and headed on to Koti from where we’d catch an auto-rickshaw whose driver was too generous with the advices. “Keep your phones held tightly.” “They aim at your wallets.” “It’s gonna be crowd-y.” “It is no Taj Mahal but it is not no-good.” He was referring to my reaction on seeing the Charminar for the first time ever. Because what my eyes saw and what my eyes had imagined did not quite conform to each other.

Before embarking on getting to Charminas’s top, we stormed the busy street to buy Hyderabad Pearls instead. My friends were leaving for Punjab in two days (something I envied and took eons to stomach) , so getting pearls for their family seemed rosy.

At first, we got duped by a Sardar traffic-cop who used the Kada in my wrist to establish kinship among us and then in his pleasant Punjabi-less tongue directed us to a pearl shop that had rather prohibitive prices. Instead of helping us get to genuine pearls, he used us as bait to bilk extra rupees. Perhaps, his getting born and brought up down south has snatched away every ounce of being a big-hearted “Punjabi”.

I am what Greek princesses must look like.

But then I really got victimized! What was promised to not last longer than 30 minutes, took them 3 hours of selections. T-H-R-E-E! God tell me, how difficult is it to choose from things that all look alike? This time, just like the conductor, my patience withered out. My heart bruised again, all its excitement drained out. My stomach grew noisy again!

But another look at the Charminar made me forget the unease all my organs were at. Its beauty ousted the hurt, its magnificence silenced the noises. One would want to remain immured forever to its timeless beauty. The deafening noises, the outrageous honking and the beggars incessantly pulling on your t-shirt asking for alms, all ceased to exist. We were confined to its sight!

Through the long queue for tickets to see the monument from inside, we started to climb. Right in front of us was a Firangi couple. After having shamelessly displayed the cheapness at the restaurant, we were up for another effrontery. Some of our antics included:

A)Ogling

B) Talking loudly as if we are the only English-speaking Indians

C) Disparaging the monument that had us spell-bound a few moments ago

D) Grimacing at the graffiti

E) Belittling anything Indian that was mentioned

F) Sighing with pleasure at every breath the Firangi girl with skin like egg-white breathed [for me]

G) Sighing with pleasure with every step upwards the big guy with big pecs took [for the girls]

And to our luck, we had a corpulent aged lady before us who was climbing really slow. So all of our drama did get its run-time, but perhaps never got acceptance. I know we need to get a life! Well! After that lady fell once, we resumed the rest of the drama in a gripping fear of falling like dominoes and collapsing under her shapely posterior. Then we concluded that Newton’s rather questionable III law is not as universal. Our foolish actions were not bearing any fruitful reactions. Not even one Firangi glance.

 Interestingly, the fruit that our actions really bore was rather unwanted. And gross! After getting insane pictures clicked at Charminar’s top when we descended to the ground, we had one pigeon leave a little treat on one of our heads. I wonder if that pigeon was observing our silly machinations! Had Newton’s spirit conspired with the pigeon? This time my stomach hurt and my heart was inundated with the echoes of laughter. It was quite a scene. The victim seemed indecisive, confused whether to laugh along or weep right after strangling the fucking bird.

Thus we amputated the rest of our trip to the nearby palaces and a museum. After all the drama, our stomachs had grown noisy again. We hunted the city changing bus-after-bus to find the nearest Mc Donald’s. Looking a little worse-for-wear, we ate the day’s second meal amidst noisy kids and pretentious teenagers, before returning to Pocharam Village.

That was one weekend that’ll stay in my memory for quite some time. 

Presently, besides the extremely exacting job (sniff sarcasm here!), Midnight’s Children is also keeping me busy. It's pulled me under its gossamer of beautiful expression and inspiring style of writing. All I need to do is put on a jazz record like the one below and vanish in another world like smoke in the air..