notes from a fort

Once I loved spotting birds. That must have been long ago from this wednesday when I spotted one on the begumpet road and then again at cinemax. Only this bird was called THE Rolls Royce with a spirit of ecstasy on it.

It was a mythical bird once, long back when I was still a kid. It was the kind of stuff fathers told sons, a generational itch that passed on. As a kid I was told about its engineering, about how exclusive it was - no really - how very exclusive & subjective it was and then how, perhaps NO ONE in India owned it. If you have heard such a story, you will understand why I am writing about spotting two in a day.

I told my colleagues about it and they, carrying perhaps similar mythologies in their individual (sub?)consciousness, were happy for me.

- "Two! Is it!" One of them asked.

- Yes

- I wonder who owns the other one?

- Do you own one? I asked at the familiar "other-one" joke.

- Ha...ha very funny. I know Chiranjeevi owns one. 

- He does.... is it?

- Yes.

So the mythical bird nests here too now. Is that better? Perhaps now I can catch it too. My friend showed me a picture of Chiranjeevi in his Rolls Royce. Perhaps this is what I saw?

Years ago, I would have given anything to see Megastar Chiranjeevi. Now, it was his car - my father's dream - a Rolls Royce.

I wonder if he, Chiranjeevi, knows what he owns? Does he really really know? Or is it an enlarged ego that is on display? Sir, get a Rolls Royce. No one will think you small then. Amitabh's got one. Sir, you are THE MEGASTAR.

What about the engineering? The exclusivity.

Then again, perhaps thinking like that has ensured I only talk about spotting a Rolls Royce. The pressure of knowing how bloody great that damn machine is, has made me idealize it - grow in awe of it. Any crush you have ever had will teach you such idolizing is bad. But, Chiranjeevi doesnt care and thats why he's got it. I would care too much and so I dont have it. It is a perfect equation. What use is god if I cant pray for a Rolls Royce to him. He'd be useless to me. He is keeping his usefulness this way. Yes.

Unfortunately, I extended my mythology. Oh yes! Greedy greedy Ariza thought about Bentleys, Mercedes, Audis and the Buggatis. Thats why, perhaps I'll never own a Bentley. 

 

We live in a country soaked in taxes. Ever notice how much you pay in taxes?

Take a normal day in anyone’s life.

• Wake up and brush: VAT on tooth brushes & pastes
• Take a bath: VAT on soaps / shampoos
• Cook a breakfast: Tax on Gas / ingredients of your sparse breakfast
• Drive to work: Tax on Petrol / Road tax on car
• Slog-your-heart-out at work: Tax Deducted at Source
• Drive back home tired : House tax on the home
• May-be-have-a-drink: Excise duty (or customs depending on your taste)
• Browse the net for a while: VAT on telecom
• Sleep: Service charge on doctor’s fees if you cant!

I get worried summing these random scraps of tax. How much will they add up to? Because it doesn’t end there – does it? I haven’t visited a restaurant / or even contemplated flying to Delhi to see my mother.  They’ll charge your brains out for thinking of doing something sinful like flying.

For, it is a sinful indulgence to think of living. Long long ago... when our country was young... the idealistic old men who thought up laws in spare time decided that the country must be responsible for its less fortunate. Nothing wrong with that! But they decided that this support can only be funded by taxing the rich. Tax the rich and distribute it to the poor. Robin-hood and all that.

So are you and I rich? I am not. May be the folks who own fullhyd are. But back when laws were as new as the fresh paint on Titanic rich was someone who earned a few thousands. It was a time, ask your grandmother, when Jalebees cost 10ps. But something happened. Most of the country – for no fault of theirs – grew up and like any grown-ups they began to earn more than their parents. But parents never grow up. Government – the ultimate parent didn’t – and did what any parent would do - punish deviant children It means anyone who earns above 3000 a month is rich and hence must be taxed.

Now most decent chaps wouldn’t even complain at being squelched under taxes.  IF they had something to show for this! Look around you. Roads, electricity, food, water, petrol, gas etc etc none of these justify the taxes we pay. 

One of the problems of democracy is that while it apparently seems to benefit ALL, look closer and you’ll find that ALL is almost never anyone. Let me demonstrate. So your taxes are supposed to pay

FOR ALL EDUCATION OF CHILDREN BELOW THE AGE OF 14.

Who is this ALL? The rich will send their children to schools with ACs that charge taxes – so they are ruled out. Middle class emulates the rich so they are ruled out. Poor class / the have-nots whose children are supposed to be attending municipal schools – schools that have no roofs / whose teachers are never paid on time / whose play grounds are encroached / whose text books are mis-appropriated and finally whose mid day meal schemes are rife with corruption. So now lets revisit the statement. Education for ALL. Who is ALL? None.  Next time you assuage your conscience by paying taxes – think again!

Ever heard those stories with tyrant kings who taxed their populace to plagues / hunger and death? Ever heard of Gandhiji’s Salt Satyagraha to not pay taxes on essentials?  Our tyrants are many. They are elected every 5 years but never change. Gandhiji’s salt is perhaps the only commodity left untaxed. Eat salt! Only!

 

 

I feel lost without my iPhone. Then when I have satiated myself with the incredible touch-screen, I feel lost without my laptop, this writing device I am currently using. When spent here I will feel lost without the television, the internet, the music player, the DVD player, the wireless transmitter in my car, my tablet. Each one calls to me, each undressing itself in the dark and drawing me with the promise of unspoken elementary delights. 

I am not alone.  Sitting around on a Saturday night, a group of friends are having a good time. There is liquor, munchies and a pleasant conversation relayed around. Tune in closer and you’ll notice a pattern. All our cell phones – touch phones - are drawn.  One of them reads aloud his observation:

“A Sierpinski Gasket is a fractal endless triangle.  You can write an algorithm to create a Sierpinski Gasket. It was used by the writer David Foster Wallace as the pattern for his famous book Infinite Jest”

Isn’t it clever?  A purely intellectual undertaking! But look closer… and try getting into the mind of the person who is reading this detail. An accountant by profession – what is he doing talking about a Sierpinski Gasket?  Just then he sheaths back the touch phone and forgets all about this Sierpinski Gasket. Yet for a brief while there he was the master of fractals.

Whats wrong with that?

In the natural world some creatures live for briefest of times. Perhaps a butterfly only lives (as a butterfly ofcourse, not pupae or a caterpillar) for a couple of days. And who cares how long love-birds live? An inventory of such animals might just reveal that 90% of the world lives for less than a day. Yet Humans value eternity – the idea that things should last forever. This includes knowledge. We demand that knowledge should be permanent. Why?

Here is a random list of things from anyone’s day.

1.       News

2.       Gossip

3.       Facebook posts

4.       Twitter posts

5.       Work-Deadlines

6.       Orgasms

 

And this is the percentage of time I spend chasing these?

1.       News – 10%

2.       Gossip -  15%

3.       Facebook posts – 10% and increasing

4.       Twitter posts – I do read about Amitabh Bachchan’s Twitter post – 5%

5.       Work-Deadlines – 70%

6.       Orgasms – J

Yes most of this stuff dies on touch.  But isn’t it pleasurable to reach out and feel them there? That they exist? That is why I need my iPhone, iPad, my lap-top or even my TV!  That is why they draw me everywhere – at work, at home, while driving, in the lift and heck – even in the toilet. Not plugged in means I am loosing knowledge – about something that just happened in the world, something that happened with Priyanka Chopra, with my friends, with my colleagues as they chip away at yet another daily deadline and with the world of erotica that is being augmented everyday in geometric proportion.

And then suddenly they all stopped working. Together! For no particular reason I was cut off from the rest of the world. Condemned to exile! How could I ever catch up on 24 hrs??? How can I get back the chance to be most commented on face book posts again – catch up on all the new stuff that Reuters, New York Times, The Hindu published. I was lost, lost….

But I live…. Time’s ticking. Steve Jobs died that day, and the world – without me reading or commenting on it - moved on.

There is a dull candor around town now-a-days. It is the color of cement. And its been painted on the sky, hiding the bright blue skies of any other October. 

Last Sunday an Aunt (who settled) in Guntur called. I asked her why she wasnt here?

"Werent you supposed to be here a week ago?"

Brief silence and then "You Telangana folks dont want us!"

What?

She had started and had been stalled somewhere en-route and the scared bus driver decided to turn back. I told her that we in Hyderabad are absoutely fine - working normal days. It was a class lie used by someone who doesnt need need the RTC-Bus.

"Thats because you are a local!" she said. We are bad people there.

I felt the line, not as the boundary between Telangana and Andhra but between you and us. But this is a sign of times, a will of the majority, a change inevitable - my aunt must accept it and so should I. That doesnt mean we shouldnt feel sad about it. When did movements become this unkind - that they should rob us even the feeling of genuine loss?

But that was last Sunday. Today we were with a real estate agent. I needed a flat I asked him in the local language. We laughed and spoke, he warming up to a business idea and me wanting to bargain. Thus far any normal business transaction. Until amidst some jokes he asked me:

"Where are you from?"

"Born and brought up in Hyderabad."

Did I not understand the question "I mean" he insisted "where are your parents from - Andhra or Telangana?"

How did it matter? I thought and said so. Later, outside, I wondered if I really was that naive! Ofcourse it mattered to the agent and thats why he asked me. I blew my chances by not committing. But then again wouldnt my answer depend on which side he is on? Shouldnt I be Andhra origin for Andhra folks and Telangana for people from here. But then again - why did he want to know? Does he maintain a list and will he mark my home with a cross - to be burned by the 40 thieves. How can I blend in?

These are tough days to be a Hyderabadi - striked against, boycotted, hounded in and bullied. Perhaps it is a time of a revolution - but if it helps remember that the sky hasnt been cemented in. It is still blue, still any old October. 

Is it just my wish
a memory of my naive heart
Sepia tinted heroes who walk out
of ancient forgotten words

Where was ever such a time
When one stepped ahead of many
Herded the flock and 
Corrected the awry

Where has he gone?
Oh! Where has he gone!

Now the hyenas roam the naked night
Bare, baying and tearing my flock
The lions are gone –they are dead
It is the time of the scavengers now.

In the first year of UPA-I I received a mail from an admirer of Prime Minister Manmohan Singh.” Look at this resume” it said and went on to list his unbelievable series of achievements.  Professor, Delhi School of Economics, and Governor, Reserve Bank of India was amongst them. “He is your prime-minister” it said down at the end, “most qualified man for the job!.” Remember, this was when America had elected George W Bush once and was all set to elect him again. It made me feel proud in comparison and somewhere unsaid was this feeling that in its own bungling way the Indian Democratic system worked well. Which Board of Directors wouldn’t employ Dr. Manmohan Singh? The miracle was that most of our country, including folks who couldn’t read, somehow democratically ended up with a man best qualified to be the prime-minister.

And yet if we were to have elections tomorrow, I would gladly vote the prime-minister out. This is in part a about my own disillusionment.

It couldn’t have been a better equation. An economist, the scholar, would be prime-minister and take care of running the country. Behind him, keeping him away from the rot of politics would be madam, a generational politician from the country’s most political family. He would draft us laws perfect and balanced and she would ensure they pass through the labyrinth of political motivations/demands. He would choose qualified ministers and she would get them the political backing. How ideal it all seemed! And like ideals it possessed a way of screwing reality in, painfully twisting it on its way down.  There was never a neat division of labor, instead a muddled force of ambition and intention. For example:

Do we really know who – madam or PM – was behind the fateful 9^th December 2009 T-decision?

Why do ministers talk to 10 Janpath when they resign?

Yes we know it was the prime-minister who decided to go through with the nuclear deal but did he also decide the political implications – of left leaving UPA I?

There is enough commentary to argue one way or the other but isn’t confusion a rule than just an extreme exception?

What is surprising is that even the council of ministers seem just as confused. Who grants favors?

This is the result of confusion, not the reason and any first year graduate will tell you that confusion at the top of management means muddled mess at the bottom.

Walking into the mayhem of Lehman brothers in 2008 I, along with the rest of the country, was secure. India’s collective consciousness recognized that an economist was the prime minister: His team – Montex Singh Ahuwalia, Dr. C Rangarajan, Chidambaram etc.

 In 1930’s FDR had to appoint JM Keynes to help solve the economic mess of his country. India in 2008, didn’t need to, because our JM Keynes was the prime minister! I expected us to weather the storm, yes, and perhaps even to assert ourselves on the global map. If we could escape the recession we can also teach the rest of the world something about economics – how to manage expectations and needs with limited resources. For a while it seemed like a success story. But dig a little deeper and you will see the contradiction

–      Yes, we grew even when the world was shrinking, but isn’t that expected from a country a billion strong?–      Why couldn’t we assert ourselves as an economic model to be emulated by other developing countries? 

 –      Why are we still dictated by worldly whims? Money in when their economy is booming and out when it is downgraded? 

 –      And who is counting the inflation? Is our growth only a result of conspicuous consumption? Or is there any real improvement in efficiencies? Where is the infrastructural growth to support high GDP? 

 It is our best economic team at the helm. Very much like the Indian cricket team – the best team in the world who can lose an entire series. Best teams simply don’t do that.

I wouldn’t be a true Hyderabadi if I didn’t mention the T- problem.  Don’t get me wrong, at this point I am neither for nor against the T- decision. What I am against is uncertainty. I believe the problem would never have defaulted to national government had YSR been alive. He was a decisive leader and his fateful death and the subsequent vacuum it created meant that bickering local leaders, like school children, looked north, to the teacher, for a settlement. But any good teacher would know that without an intrinsic acceptance of a resolution, any decision is just an excuse for further bickering. Dr. Manmohan Singh was a professor and by all judgments a very good teacher. Any scholar will tell you that the absolute worst thing to do in a state of confusion is vacillate. Yet, our PM, an eminent scholar vacillated first by granting and then refusing T-state.

It gets worse. Now there are two sets of congress-men for every issue. One for and the other against. Who needs an opposition when such perfect balance exists within the government?

Here is my analysis of the situation: The situation is a political problem and the prime-minister is not (political). We knew this limitation when he became PM but we hoped that years of being a bureaucrat had taught him an instinctive understanding of politics: lessons that require deft sidestepping of minefields while decisively handling cattle. A leader must be able to carry his team through tough unacceptable decisions because in the end a team divided is a team dead. By allowing the festering of two opinions in the same arena he has armed both. And any good teacher will tell you that giving two children knives to solve their mutual differences can never have a single winner.

There is absolutely no doubt that our PM is a clean man.  And yet it is also true that under his premiership the country’s corruption numbers have gone out of the page. And both are not mutually exclusive. Let me illustrate in a different way:

In the movie On the Waterfront Marlon Brando confronts his older brother in the car in a memorable scene. This brother had asked Marlon to lose a boxing match because his boss has money riding on Marlon’s opponent. Shocked and hurt Marlon looses the match and is a broken man ever after.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeVq1e6JKlw 

“You were my brother Charlie… “he rages in the car scene “I could have been something.” Left unsaid is the question of responsibility. Wasn’t the brother more responsible to Marlon than be loyal to a boss? In the end what was the right thing to do – be loyal or be right?

I have heard the PM talk of coalition dharma in terms that suggest loyalty even if it means backing the corrupt. But what is more important – loyalty or country?

I still think the PM is a great man. If I ever get a chance to meet him, I will tell my grand-children about it. But despite that impressive resume I believe that he is not the right man for the job anymore. This is my disillusionment and it is a sad story. 

Even beyond the first glance there is nothing in common between the nice lady who sells tea near my house and Ileana.  This particular nice lady selling tea on a kerosene stove is short, dark with broad shoulders strengthened in the rigors of hardship and a quick mouth that could snap any smart talking man while Ileana is…well…Ileana.  Yet if ever a Telugu film was to be made celebrating the life of my tea woman, it probably would star Ileana.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not here to write yet another critique of Telugu Cinema. No, I am here to celebrate it: For no other film industry, anywhere in the world, can claim the honor of taking so many gawky teenage girls and transforming them into stars. Here are my facts: From Vyjayantimala / Hema Malini / Sridevi to Asin / Genelia.  It seems to me that without Telugu cinema most of these girls, if not all, would have been glorified extras in Bollywood.  

There is little written information about the intentions of those first directors who started this trend.  For example, it appears that the only reason Jayaprada was chosen to be in Sargam (1979) by director K.Vishwanath was because she starred in its original – Siri Siri Muvva (1976). Perhaps it made practical sense to work with someone who knew the role well, or perhaps it was just a psychological comfort of having a familiar face on the set in an alien world? However, it is revealing that no-one stopped to worry about such pedestrian matters as language.  In this first age of actress export it was south Indian girls who conquered the north.  At one time Sridevi, Jayaprada and Hema Malini were bigger stars than Zeenat Aman or Parveen Babi.

There were obvious advantages: Telugu films (South Indian films generally) are male centered. This meant that the girls could get away being bad for a long time…. only….only they HAD to look good.  Then there was the question of discipline. The fast turnaround time of Telugu films meant that discipline was not just appreciated, it was demanded.  To beleaguered Hindi film producers of 70’s/80’s reeling under the pressure of temperamental stars this must have been almost magical. They must have wished that they could send their girls over to Hyderabad on a strict training regimen. For this is exactly what they did!

And so in our era Hindi girls travel south. Some have flops behind them (like Nagma) while others are brand new. But, they all look good and none of them can speak Telugu.  If lucky they have a quick hit and are offered more films for extra cash. Just keep looking good, they are told and while here in Hyderabad they keep chipping away until at an opportune moment they jump to Kollywood or Bollywood as an accomplished actor.  Everyone’s happy – right? Yes, except that now we have, for eternity, our favorite Telugu films of the last decade perfect but for the heroine miming gibberish while a dubbing artist is delivering relevant dialogue.

Again, if I had to guess, I would say that these satin white north Indian girls represent a projection of us:  the Telugu self. It means that while the nice lady near my house is serving tea and filling into her red saree, she has a mental image of herself as Ileana.  Now only if she could expect her man to look like Salman, this equation can be balanced.

If ever written, an obituary of Hyderabad will have one entire chapter dedicated to the loss of its lakes.

No one knows if it was a deliberate strategy, but by the time the kingdom of the last Nizam acceded to the Indian Union there were no less than 900 lakes in Hyderabad. They made perfect sense for a city built on a large plateau which must face the inconvenience of finding potable water in its rocky underground. Yes, they provide an access to drinking water and yes, they are a source of fresh fish in a land locked city, but most importantly they provided a relief to the eye. Like Mr. Melville said, there is magic in it.

Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it.

-       Hermann Melville from Moby Dick

I should know, because even years later I still remember that grey monsoon morning when a friend and I set out on a drive around the AOC centre. It was one of those mornings that only a Hyderabadi will know, the kind that comes after a long dry summer that makes your body crave cool air. Such days make you feel adventurous and as we drove around my friend noticed an un-laid (kuccha) road that seemed to go no-where. “Take it” she said “let’s explore!” and we drove inside past a service railway line and were just about to give up when right up in front of us was a large peepal tree, a small temple and a tiny lake. I think it was my atheist friend who said: “Thank God for the temple. It will ensure this lake never gets encroached!”

Sometime before 1573 Sultan Ibrahim Qutb Shah ordered digging to commence on an artificial lake. It was to serve the irrigation needs of his capital and would store drinking water brought from the Musi. The lake would be called, after the king, Ibrahim Sagar who entrusted the responsibility to his Son-in-law Hussain Shah Wali a direct descendant of the famous Gesu Deraz of Gulbarga. Spreading across 8 Sq Kms this lake would be the largest man-made lake in Asia. Hussain plunged into the work with dedication and watched over an army of workers dig out a ditch whose sheer size became legendary as hundreds of citizens came over in their caravan’s to watch. No wonder that by 1578 many nobles considered its completion a feat of singular importance and admired Hussain’s unwavering dedication. In deference to this popular opinion Sultan Ibrahim did something unthinkable of kings – he decided to name the lake Hussain Sagar.

Hence begins the life of one of Hyderabad’s oldest lakes. For over 400 years it crops regularly entwined with the history of the city, with its fate. For here on its banks the generals of Aurangzeb set camp during that fateful seizing of Hyderabad and here on the opposite side would be built a new city by yet another new conquering breed - Secunderabad. Hussain Sagar was here when 17 inches of rainfall inundated Hyderabad in September 1908, remembered in the history of the city simply as the “Great flood” and which prompted the damming of the Musi and construction of two other reservoirs: Osman Sagar and Himayat Sagar. Then in 1930 it stopped being a source of drinking water to the city and became what it still is – a recreational spot.

From 1948 on the story of Hussain Sagar is the story of every lake in Hyderabad. Now the new capital of a large new state, Hyderabad began to attract inevitable industrial attention and prosperity. Drainages crept underground and began to snake through the city carrying their waste into the docile waiting lakes – as the city looked the other way in that in typical Hyderabadi fashion.  At one point about one million liters of industrial effluents flowed into Hussain Sagar every day. In 1989 divers blamed low visibility of the polluted lake for not finding the 72 foot large Buddha statue lying drowned in the waters of lake!

In 2000, a new city, a triplet to Hyderabad and Secunderabad cropped up with the unveiling of Cyber Towers. It was called Hi-tech City. Somewhere near this new city was a lake the locals called Durgam Cheruvu. Driving through an inaccessible road one summer morning in 2001 I was surprised by the size of the lake: large, serene and smiling at the summer sky it seemed everything Hussain Sagar was meant to be 400 years ago. Then came the rock blasting as Cyberabad carved itself out of the rock and Durgam Cheruvu became prime property. Now, I drive past this lake every-day, gone is the gleam in its water and shrunk by the incessant reclaiming of land underneath it nevertheless sits decked as an attraction. It reminds me of a bride who, knowing her new husband only sees her as an investment looks sad & lost in glorious bridal attire.

What would we do without the genorosity of kind autodrivers? They who accept to take us around the city  sometimes dropping us right at our house. If you have luggage to tug around they might even help you out by carrying your luggage with you. IN THE SAME AUTO! So what if they charge a modest fee for these services, you musnt mistake this to be business, it is public service for a fee!

Many of us misunderstand auto drivers. Take for instance this incident I saw yesterday.

Four foreigners come out of a famous institute in Hyderabad. They look around and approach a line of autos in an auto stand. One kind man is busy with his gutka, a pre-occupation that is of singular importance. The girls (didnt I mention these foreigners were girls!) wait for him to finish the ritual of crushing the gutka and placing the powder between his stained teeth. He then agrees to listen to them and replies with a number. The girls look shocked. They approach another man in the line. At this the first man, his sensitivity hurt screams to his peers who laugh. Those mild natured foreigners are worried. They unnecessarily sense trouble and begin to move away. A beggar approaches the auto-driver. He directs him to the foreigners - rich bastards that they are. Last I saw the girls were being chased away by our insistent beggars. 

Such avoidable misunderstanding! Why dont passengers see that the "for-hire" on the auto is just a legal necessity. No one, not the government, nor the legal system takes it seriously. Then why do passengers? Why assume such a thing and get hurt? It is best to petition the kind autodrivers. The exchange should be something like this:

 "Kind sir Autodriver... Is it ok if I approach you?" 

"Sure"

"Sir Owner of the yellow automotive, thy vehicle is all powerful. Kings Pay obsequiousness to it... knights in time past would die to ride such a powerful creature... your kindness is immeasurable.”

“Such is true. That is why everyone from Balakrishna to Rajnikanth has portrayed us.”

“Kind sir... could I be bold enough to ride in this yellow chariot. I wish to go to the secunderabad station.”

“Isnt it a little out of my way?”

“Of-course it is... dear sir... but off-course it is.... such imprudence on my part. Thy exalted feet could not possibly stray towards such bourgeois locations. No. Never.”

At this, like with every conversation with an auto-driver, you must bow and walk away. Take care never to show him your back. If you are lucky, he will call you.

Blessed be our autodrivers.

 

 

I am sitting here waiting for my order to arrive: slow cooked chicken marinaded all night long in curd and tossed into a bowl of warm rice and served with the leg sticking out. It arrives in a copper bottomed vessel, I take a swoop of rice, tear a piece of chicken from the bone and mix it with the Mirchi Ka Salan tasting its dry peanut taste over the spices taking care never to wash it down with cool drinks. No, for the Hyderabadi Chicken Biryani, its just ice cold water sweating it out on the table.  

I can never hurry through a Biryani. Perhaps its the effect of reading, years before, of the soldier's meal. During those days when wars were separated by yawning days of long marches, waiting for the enemy to make the first move or laying siege to an unfortunate citadel, the troops carried with them large cauldrons simmering with slow cooked biryani. If it was the traditional dum style, for we can never be sure of this, the cauldrons must have been sealed shut by large rings of dough. Under this dome was piled alternatively a layer of meat followed by a layer of rice half boiled in saffron infused water, until it touched the top. The cauldrons could never be heated directly because too much heat could burn away the subtle infusions, they were inturn placed in larger vessels. If the army was on move, this entire contraption was placed on an elephants back.

I pour out a little bit of the raita in my plate and let the rice soak it in. The curd in the raita cuts the sharpness of the spices. For folks with less sturdy bellies I have often recommended this way of enjoying a Biryani. However, I would never visit any over ethusiastic restaurant that was easy on spices in the Biryani. That’s often the case in places that serve westners: as if that race of mankind ever spiced up their cheese burger for a visiting Indian in Dallas. We need no apologies, neither does our food. 

Perhpas the authentic hyderabadi biryani is long lost. But if it isnt, it is hiding somewhere in the old city where I have tasted the Biryani of the nawabs. In it is the right balance between spice and moderation that could never have been a sell out. Perhaps a legacy of the Bidari Bahamanis or the Bijapuri Sultans whose fat portraits can be understood by the Biryani, or may be the pakwaan from the house of one of those 10,000 courtesans who apparently dotted Qutub shahi Hyderabad. In the old city the Biryani must never be had without this inquisitiveness. 

The one I am having in Paradise is a product of Secunderabad. There is the taste of the working class, rice more plain at top and the mix stronger at the bottom. I am here for nostalgic reasons but if you accuse it of being the McDonalds of Biryani, good but impersonal, I'll have to agree. But hell... is it good!  The other representation of this kind is at Bawarchi, Biryani made purely for lust - with too much rice and too strong a mix. This is the Biryani for adolescents. 

Its tough to be away from this taste. Once on a visit to New Jersey I was told of a "Paradise" there that sold Hyderabadi Biryani. Its my experience of a mirage in the desert. I should have known what to expect when I saw Amitabh Bachchan and Tabu argue about Cheeni in Asli Hyderabadi Zafrani Biryani. Either I have never had biryani properly or the taste of sugar is so faint that only a masterchef and his girlfriend can zero in on an argument about it.

Its done now. In tough times of choice I have defined a good Hyderabadi Biryani as one that finishes just ahead of your appetite. The slender chicken bones must be cleaned of meat, the Mirchi Ka Salan squeezed out and the bowl of rice double checked for remnants. That is when you have done good by the Biryani. 

 

Here's a list of complaints I have heard about Hyderabadis.

Lazy: The first thing that hits them. The hyderabadi will for leisure. I am told that even money cant get us going. Maids dont care, Auto drivers dont bother. Its supposed to be rude and its supposed to be inherent.

Lousy Drivers: The best form of speed control is a hyderabadi two wheeler. Each time the new comers assume precedence on the road the hyderabadi driver who has just emerged on from the side lane will inch closer, onto his way, closer still, until anyone who doesnt want a collison will give up and break. Then we pass.

Zero Culture: Now this is hard to take. Delhi has its round of cultural activities - plays, music! Apparently they are everywhere and all you have to do is emerge from your house and culture drops onto you. What happens here - a random act in HIFT or Ravindra Bharati?

No History: This be a long post of its own. Isnt hyderabad really a dimunituve of cyberabad? The hitec city is your city's ancinet symbol right? Where are the sites of ancient battles, evidence of kings?

Food: Over-rated. They'll give us Biryani, yes, but everything else is smothered in chilli. Dosas are better in Chennai, Butter Chicken in Punjab.

Fashion: Always late. Yesterdays summer collection. Nah... we are stuck a decade behind. Case in point: have you looked at the Telugu film posters of late?

Weather: Cant make up its mind. Summer isnt counted -  its not Hyderabadi, its Indian. A national property - never meant to be federal. Winters dont bite and the rains dont help.

Roads: A mirage. Somewhere outside the city is a road that is oh so smooth and oh so fast you will trip. It begins there because no one can spoil it by using it. 

This be the place we take the above accussed unique perspective to speak.