Mid Life

Mysophobia - It's a fear of dirt or contamination. It smells like train journeys in sleeper class. It smells like the nurse who changes the dressing and manages the wounds and stitches.  And it smells alcoholic, of hand sanitizer. There's this friend at work whose hand sanitizer aromatizes the corridor, everyday, before lunch. He avoids unhygienic food and places. He is a cool guy to hangout with. Am I, myself, not worried about my health ? Of course I am. But that's not why I am afraid of protein supplements. I have researched thoroughly and quite convinced that protein supplements do no harm if taken optimally. Is it then the ego of originality of my food that I am suffering from ? Probably not. I don't think it's the fear of contamination that bothers my friend as well. Probably, its something from the past. My father died of pneumonia a few weeks after he started teaching me algebra and tabla. Later, I learned algebra because it was compulsory. Tabla wasn't, so I didn't. My father used to take steroids which controlled his asthma and blood pressure. Those had to be temporarily stopped to cure his pneumonia. Those new medicines didn't work. Thus, corticosteroids shaped my childhood, my life. So, probably anything which tries to shape my muscles makes me uncomfortable.  

It is then something from the past, indeed. History says, mysophobia created Hyderabad. in 1591, Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah was worried about the future of his overcrowded capital Golconda. Shortage of water, land and the fear of epidemic forced the sultan to establish a new settlement on the banks of the Musi river. It was named Bhaganagar, after the name of the queen, Bhagmati. The city, as it expanded, was later renamed to Hyderabad. The panic about dust is there in the Hyderabadis, since its inception. In the streets, on any regular day, the commuters can be seen shielding themselves from the dust and glare, wearing masks of handkerchiefs or dupattas. The rock-strewn terrain of the Deccan and the dry weather work together to bestow upon this city, its jaggedness. 

The summer heat in this city is unbearable. Bengaluru, it's more progressive kin, offers a much pleasant climate with its wintry mornings and frequent showers. Hyderabad also offers frequent showers to ease the suffering. But the average afternoon heat here is way higher than Bengaluru or Pune. Insufficiency of electricity and water adds to the ordeal. However, this inclination of comparing Hyderabad with Pune, Bangalore, Mumbai, Chennai or Kolkata is an alien disposition which came with the settlers. This is true to any city. Its an ailment, a condition in culture shock. "I like everything about Hyderabad except the summer ! Wish the weather was like Bangalore " -- It's a ridiculous statement. Its like asking for Gandhi without Godse  or falling in love without its insecurities. Godse symbolizes everything which we do not like about Gandhi, which, in a way, completes him. Similarly, what good is falling in love without the loneliness that precedes it or the romantic jealousy that follows ? Not the love that the therapists suggest but the one which is flesh and blood ! Zenism explains existence using the famous " the ring and its cavity" metaphor. It says, a ring is not a ring at all without its cavity. In other words, we are at the same time, what we are and what we aren't, what we achieved and what we didn't. So for Hyderabad, this climate, this rough terrain the dust and the sun complete it , constitute it's entropy, it's indication of life. 

Like heat and dust, shortage of water in this city dates back to the sixteenth century. As the population of Bhagnagar started to grow, the sultan became concerned about his limited water resources. Consequently, in 1562, he constructed the Hussain Sagar Lake to create a permanent water supply for his people. It's the largest artificial lake in Asia. It used to be the sole water supply for Hyderabad until two other such lakes came up - Osman Sagar and Himayat Sagar. Unfortunately, unplanned urbanization and subsequent excessive sewage deposits have turned the water hyper-eutrophic, a condition unsuitable for marine life. The stink of the lake hits as one strolls along Necklace Road, a beautiful boulevard, which connects NTR Gardens and Sanjeevaiah Park. The lake and the road, is the hub of an urban dynamism which is different from the antique ambiance found in old city. The early morning breeze, marathon events, street musicians charm the morning joggers, who flock around this place regularly. The Eat Street, Water Front, Lumbini Park and the Buddha statue at the heart of the lake are the primary attractions around this place. After sunset, the place glitters amongst leisure, luxury and lovers. 

Triggered by a smell , taste or music, we often travel back in time, to a different, old and familiar state of mind. History is an ordered set of events. However, the order or chronological aspect of History is dominant when we talk about wars, art or world championships. When we talk about us, usually, we recall events. Like buying a new television, a get-together or a marriage. Time seems to be too tight a wrapper for the train of events that shape our lives. The global and personal facets of History interact and influence each other. This interaction can be perceived more in the words of those who has been a part of the transformation. A new place always greets us with a bunch of people who settled there, several years before. They become our guides with their anecdotes about the jungles and marshlands which existed before the buildings came up. They are like the dinosaurs. As heard from one of them, fifty years ago, for someone from Banjara Hills, growing up would be like exploring the caves and tunnels in the hilly rocks, chasing the monitor lizards and picking up Sitaphals. 

In last two decades, after the IT Act was passed in 2000, Hyderabad has rapidly grown to be one of the major hubs of Information Technology in the country. Almost all the bigwigs of this industry have their offices erected around Hitech City, Madhapur, Gachibowli and Jubilee Hills.  Outside of their headquarters at Redmond, Washington, Microsoft has their largest development center at Hyderabad. This city also hosts thousands of emigrants from other parts of India. A large section of the populace in old city comprises of North Indian workers who serve as goldsmiths, masons and at restaurants. One finds Tamil, Malayalam and Gujarati colonies, scattered around the city. Yemeni Arabs , Iranian, Pathani and Turks comprise of the foreign immigrants whose forefathers settled during the reign of Nizams. 

This city had had its share of royalty, riots and revolutions. With Operation Polo by the Indian Army in 1948, the princely state of Hyderabad was integrated into India. The same year marks the rise of Razakars as a powerful force, followed by riots which killed about three to four thousand Hindus and Muslims (in favor of the merger), officially. The killing was avenged by another set of riots, where, allegedly with the help of Indian Army, about thirty to forty thousand Muslims were looted, murdered and raped. An era ended, another started. Occasionally, even now, reports of minor spats, are heard, around the old city. But they stay trivial and inconsequential. The heat has simmered down a lot. Hyderabad, now,  is much like the middle aged person who understands her limitations. She has grown less adventurous. She has carefully listed those in her life, who she understands will stay. She shields them from the demon of change, no matter what. She doesn't mind trying new things, new people. But there is no starting from scratch again. She has already become someone, for which she has fought, compromised and won.  As the rocks from the Deccan keep invading the marshlands and as the ponds keep turning into swimming pools, the people of Hyderabad are held together by their mutual amazement and anxiety towards this change, mutual deprivations and mysophobia. 

The Basic Instinct

Settling down in a new city brings with it a culture shock. And it is said that a culture shock spans four phases:  Honeymoon, Negotiation, Adjustment and Mastery. Honeymoon is when everything seems fresh and safe. The lightness of incognito and the charm of traveler’s romanticism make the first few days enjoyable. But soon enough, the honeymoon is over and one starts negotiating. Cultural chauvinism starts defending itself in cross language homophones and  cleanliness of restaurants. On an euphimistic note, a longing for country, for home, creeps within us. Comfort of a room, thousand kilometers away from home, brings with it a fear. Deep, rooted in rootlessness, a fear of freedom. Milan Kundera puts it nicely in one of his novels. “Nostalgia, apart from its spatial element also encloses something like the pain of ignorance, of not knowing.”  In social psychology, this stage is believed to be followed by adjustment and mastery with the circumstances. In Hyderabad, adjustment and mastery is getting used to the frequent showers, anarchic traffic, spicy food and water and power cuts during almost unbearable summers.

It was a sudden change in food-habit that came as the first bump to me. Honestly, I had never SEEN a vegetarian except my grandmother (who became a vegetarian after her husband died) before. At restaurants, I always wondered, “Who orders veg items from the menu?” We never looked at them. The ‘non’ in non-veg food was ridiculous to me . How can something (veg food), which didn’t exist for me, take away the truth value of what I eat? The campus (where I came to study in Hyderabad) authorities considered it unnecessary to provide fish or chicken ( they used to call it ‘non-veg’ — neither a word more nor a word less, just ‘non-veg’ ) to us as regular meals. Their argument, rather than being on grounds of morality, was a practical one. They  realized ‘non-veg’ made  the veggies uncomfortable. So, to balance things up, they made  ‘non-veg’ available in a ‘non-veg’ canteen. The price was kept reasonable but the food wasn’t. I remembered choking myself the first time I ordered chili-chicken and roti. All curries tasted the same, with or without butter, with or without vegetables, with or without spices. It was clear that they didn’t cook properly because they couldn’t. The plates weren’t properly washed. The staffs weren’t friendly either.  Students complained. But nothing changed. I believe ‘tasty non-veg food’ is an oxymoron for the authority. ‘Non-veg’ food could not be tasty or spicy or soggy or rotten. It could only be ‘non-veg’. In fact,  ‘non-vegetarians, uncomfortable with food’ was another contradiction.

It was during this  conflict between the past and the present, that Dosa became my connecting link. I have always been a Dosa lover. During my bachelor studies in Kolkata, it used to be a regular lunch, and occasional dinner. That one was oily, compared to its counterpart here in Andhra, but much less spicy than any other street-food which we could afford those days.  At Jadavpur 8B bus stand, below the coffee house, there is a small Dosa stall which serves a green chutney along with its Dosa. Most East Indians consider the white chutney redundant. Probably, there, the notion of  “Chutney” is slightly different. “Chutney” is generally served as a dessert at the end. It is not something  that supports your main course. It can’t be white and should taste sour. I have seen people  calling the sambhar as chutney probably because of its color and taste. Although Idly beats dosa as a typical South Indian breakfast, Dosa is way ahead in terms of variety. An ideal breakfast is when dosa is followed by a cup of Irani Tea or South-Indian filter coffee

.

Every time I get a cup of horrible tea, strongly smelling of Elaichi or Ginger or Strawberry or whatever to start my day with, I miss home. And if the tea is balanced and perfect, it reminds me of my mother and her big fuming steel tea-cup, early morning, the only time she used to relax and live for herself before setting out to live for us, the rest of the day.  A nostalgia that smells like home and a tea that smells like tea. I hate experiments with tea. Ideal tea for me should have the flavor of tea leaves, thickness of milk and sweetness of sugar, all distinct, consistent and coherent. This is THE basic requirement. Lousy experiments, with disproportionate amounts of milk, sugar and artificial flavors pisses me off completely. In Irani Tea, buffalo milk is used. The tea becomes thick, cools down fast. If properly prepared, it has a class of its own. It is not of the  refreshing  type but leaves behind a tale of Islamic antiquity. Nimrah Cafe and Bakery, just below Charminar, is the place  to taste  irani tea. The bright white cups, freshly baked Osmania biscuits and a view of the city’s icon Charminar creates the right kind of ambiance found nowhere else.

About 10 minutes walk from the Nimrah Cafe is Hotel Shadab, arguably one of the oldest and finest places for Hyderabadi biryani. Hyderabad is a paradise for chicken lovers. In fact, unless they have a better reason, chicken is what they will remember Hyderabad for. This city smells of Biryani, Tandoori Chicken and Shawarma. Also known as Dum-Biryani,  it doesn’t have a strong aroma like Lucknow Biryani, probably because of the absence of the components like rose-water and kewra and presence of yogurt. Hence, it can be consumed a lot more. The rice and meat are cooked simultaneously, unlike the Lucknow recipe. It is served with raita and mirchi-ka-salan ( a mixture of green chillies, peanuts, till seeds, dry coconut, cumin seeds, ginger and garlic paste, turmeric powder, bay leaf and thick tamarind juice ). Four restaurants , Shadab, Shah-Ghouse, Bawarchi and Paradise hegemonize the realm of Dum Biryani in Hyderabad. While Shadab is famous for its mutton biryani (optimally soft pieces of meat and a uniform blend of rice and masala), Shah-Ghouse boasts of its Special Chicken Biryani (extremely well cooked with less rice and more chicken). Each one of them except Paradise have maintained the old-time ambiance with their wooden furniture, dim light, waiters clad in traditional attire and huge turbans. On the other hand Paradise follows a twenty-first century philosophy and presents itself in a more contemporary style. A huge multistorey restaurant at the heart of the city, it has developed a brand value and is the most famous of the lot. During ramzan, they open Haleem Counters. I have visited each of these places multiple times, in mornings, afternoons and evenings and never found a seat without waiting for at-least half and hour. The minimum quantity of Biryani served is substantial and it is wise to consult the waiter before ordering.  Vidyadhar, a friend who has spent four years of his engineering in this city once told me, “We didn’t use to eat anything since morning and  went to play football in the afternoon. Then we used to go to Shah-Ghouse and order a Handi each”. It is indeed difficult to stay a loner in Hyderabad unless you can finish a Handi alone.

Gachibowli, where I stay, is a newer township than  Nampally or Secunderabad. It’s neither as chaotic as the old city nor as elegant as Banjara Hills. It’s a part of Hyderabad where one finds symptoms of unfinished development — barren lands and swamps between hundreds of mammoth MNC buildings, shopping malls and residential complexes, many more under construction. There are plenty of places to eat and drink, both for people who live in those buildings and those who build them. Kondapur, Hitech City and Indira Nagar are three such places which offer almost everything that Indians eat or have learnt to eat. There are Bawarchis, Punjabi Dhabas, Kolkata Houses and Kerala Kitchens, midnight maggi and wada pav’s. There are of course many small food courts which serve traditional Andhra cuisine. The proletarians serve and eat here and they have kept both the standards of cost and hygiene very low. And then there are Belgian breweries, authentic Italian and Chinese restaurants, stacked on top of Pizza Huts and KFC’s. Some of them offer affordable decent lunch and dinner buffets for underpaid IT professionals and Indian research students, like me.  Well, I spend more than half of what I earn on these restaurants, cigarettes and rum. These numbers don’t make me a bad-ass foodie or a smoker or a drunkard. It validates my economic status as an underpaid, middle-class, Indian research student, a class-enemy in its purest form.

In these two and a half years, surely I have eaten a lot. And I have made some great friends who have done the same. I feel extremely pampered while savoring their home-made brownies, banana chips, Bathua Pooris and laddus.  I have been taught to eat Dal-Bati, relish the taste of Khakhra and Thepla with garlic chutney, spot the difference between Chennai Idli from the rest of India and how to use chop-sticks. When the Subway guy asks me “Which bread ?” or “Which sauce ?”, I don’t panic anymore. The fear of rootlessness is gone. Nostalgia has simmered down. Does that make me a vagabond looking for new obsessions or a free person in search of identity? I don’t know. Social psychologists might say that I have mastered the culture shock. Probably, I have. I don’t miss home anymore.