Lingering Scents of Hyderabad

The history of Hyderabad has always been one of defiance, against the Mughal Emperors far away in Delhi, against submission to the British, against the new republic. But its defiance was not merely one of belligerence, but rather one of culture, of ‘culturedness’, of knowing its place between the North and the South, not torn between them, but at ease with itself, relishing it’s achievements without the need to show them off. Rather than one-upmanship, its people show their pride through hospitality, for how much better to spend an evening with good food, poetry and laughter, rather than trying to prove a point. It is the stuff of legends, and on the wings of stories told and retold, Hyderabad’s buoyant splendour is sinking into an ever more distant past. Today it seems to me a Camelot, one we can still reach through the relics of a generation born before India’s independence, but which is slipping away fast. 

I made the journey into the heart of my family many times, and yet not nearly often enough. The childhood memories are the fondest. My sitting next to my mother, my small face pressed against the window of the bouncy white ambassador car, we approach the house nestled among the rocks of Banjara Hills. A cousin would sprint to the gate and swing it wide open, then followed a steep descent on the dry grovely earthen ground, and finally the car came to a halt. With big hellos we get out, having reached the place where home truly meant love, and approached the house. We would stop before entering to pay our respects to an old, small, bent man who was sitting on a little bench installed just for him, his back disfigured by spondylitis, leaning against the white wall of the house. ‘Adaab, adaab!’ he would exclaim enthusiastically, raising his frail right hand towards his forehead in the traditional manner of greeting. ‘Adaab, Sheikh Ahmed Sahib!’ we would reply and bow down so his old eyes could see us better, and we could bask in the light of his welcome. Sheikh Ahmed was my uncle’s old cook, now retired, living out his days sitting on this bench, where he could see everyone, greet everyone, and chat with whoever wanted to hear his views on the world. He seemed timelessly ancient, and yet I remember him still cooking in the small kitchen when I was three years old, on a low wooden stool preparing the most delicious meals. The food, oh the food! Hyderabad is famous for a number of reasons, but foremost must stand its indelible love for its signature treats. The biryanis, haleems and neharis one eats at weddings, for Eid, at any reasons for a festivity, are etched forever into my culinary memory. 

Behind the house, there is a lake. At the time when it was built, it was a glistening pool of water with water lilies in which my cousins would swim. The house itself is modest. Designed as a bungalow for one family with two children, it soon housed three families, my aunts and uncles bringing up the next generation together. A separate apartment had been built on top, to accommodate the occupants, and what ensued was a lively hubbub of siblings and cousins. It was here that I first met my family, being only one year old. Many decades later, a new Spanish daughter-in-law was introduced here. After sometime she remarked how happy it made her to be in this house. My aunt apologised for its now somewhat dilapidated state. ‘Oh no,’ said the Spanish girl ‘in this house every brick is made of love.’

My uncle himself, in the words of my friend who knew him well, could make a morose donkey laugh. His marriage was an arranged one, and after they were betrothed he unleashed a festival of romance on his young bride, taking her for rides in an open car, and showering her with the attention, love and generosity that would become the bedrock of a lifetime together and the bedrock of our families’ relationship to each other. His wife prays five times daily, while he happily offered whoever steps through the door a choice of scotch whiskies. Their son and his daughter have become scientists, having been fed a diet of books and learning, next to the delicious foods that ran aplenty. 

One of the earliest memories I have is being taken as a little girl by my cousins, all grown up already and some having children of their own, and then put in the middle of a big bedspread. They would stand around it, grab the fabric and toss me high into the air, and there I was, bouncing up and down, surrounded by the laughter and love of cousin brothers and sisters, me, the single child from Germany, a warm country here, a cold country there, a large family here, a small family there. Two worlds - of which the Hyderabad one seemed more humane, more alive.

From such fragments I piece together an image, trying to capture what it means to belong to one of the old families of Banjara Hills, whose fate was closely intertwined with the Nizams. Originally from Secunderabad, the sister city, tales have been handed down to me, while I filled my cheeks with Biryani, by uncles, and old distant relations for whom my grandfather had provided a point of focus, of dazzle and of never faltering generosity. I recount them over and over, not knowing on which side of the cusp between myth and reality they are located. May I be forgiven if I stray too far into idealisation. 

My great grandfather, Syed Siraj-ul Hassan, was a learned man, sent to do his studies in jurisprudence at Merton College Oxford in 1880. From descriptions of his last surviving son, he was quick witted already then, and not afraid of humorous confrontations. And so he gleefully recounted stories from his days as a student, which his son, himself an avid scholar, noted down:

One of these which he recounted with particular relish related to the morning when he had over-slept somewhat and, in a rush to go over and register himself for breakfast in accordance with Merton College regulations, he hastily pulled a dressing-gown over his pyjamas and dashed out into the corridor. There he was promptly spotted by one of the ‘Dons’. “Hassan!” called out the crusty academician, “you are not properly dressed”. To carry the situation off, Siraj-ul Hassan summoned all the jauntiness of which he was capable and answered: “This is my national dress, Sir!”, “Well then, Mr Hassan” came the mildly sardonic reply, “don’t you think you’d better save it for State occasions?”

Siraj ul-Hassan drew out his studies to the limit, adding a PhD to his titles, and returned with the Anglicised-Indian brand of rational humanism, which shaped the coming elites of Indian administrators, and culminated in the figure of Nehru. But this fusion of influences was part of a wider theme that can still be found in Hyderabad today, the tehzeeb (etiquette), the intertwinement and respect between Hindus and Muslims. I observed it early when walking with my beloved aunt down a road in Bajara Hills, by then dotted with a growing number of single family homes - white, lovely buildings, the walls surrounding the individual compounds dripping in pink bougainvilleas. For us, being Muslims, the greeting is ‘Adaab arz hey’ (our respects) accompanied with a slight bow, the right hand cusped and slowly directed towards the forehead. For my aunt’s acquaintances, being Hindus, it is ‘Namaskaar’, accompanied by the palms of both hands pressed against each other and held against the chest, this, too with a slight bow of the head. ‘Namaskaar’ said my aunt and raised her hand towards her forehead. ‘Adaa barz hey’ replied her neighbours, their hands forming the gesture of the ‘Namaskaar’ against their chests. And while we continued on our way, my young mind marvelled at the mutual and natural respect that this encounter illustrated. 

Hyderabad’s’ location at the navel of India made it a great heaven of pluralism, an example of what India could be at its finest. There seemed to be a general embodied understanding of the mutual enrichment that the various cultural and religious traditions had to offer. My father recounted instances of his childhood in the 1930’s and 40’s where he was given access to the kitchens of Hindu friends, spaces tightly guarded for their ritual purity. At the protests of the children of the house who were denied such access, their mother, having been witness to her own offspring’s mischievousness replied: ‘You are not an honest boy, but he is. That is why he can enter and you cannot.’ Ironically, the same happened in the reverse, when my father was denied a ritual feast, while the Hindu children of the gardeners could partake. ‘Their hearts are innocent, but you are a liar’, my grandmother simply stated, thus proving the universal truth that it is easier to impress the parents of others, rather than one’s own. 

During the great flood of the Musi River in 1908 that cost tens of thousands of lives, the Nizam himself donned a dhoti and stepped into the river to perform a Hindu puja to appease the river goddess. He did that before embarking on a large scale infrastructure project which included dams and tanks, to prevent such a disaster from happening again. In recent commemorations of the event, interviews record the respect the Nizam is afforded for this action to this day. One could observe that a Muslim ruler performing a Hindu ritual for his Hindu subjects was simply the shrewd calculation of a politician wanting to keep his multi- ethnic and multi-faith populace appeased in the wake of a terrible disaster. But even if so, the symbolism of such an act is the kind of medicine that would be healing the world over. One does not have to look far to appreciate the need for such deeds.

Religiosity then, as I gather from such stories and by my own observations today, was lived as a state of honesty and respect, rather than an adherence to strict rules. It is little wonder that it was the particular brand of South Asian Sufism that took hold in such conditions, rather than more fervently dogmatic expressions of Islam. Today I relish in the Quawwalis performed at weddings or other occasions, their melodies transporting me into a realm of great peace while their lyrics of love to God are deeply moving. 

My grandfather was not a religious man. He had been brought up by his mother; his father Siraj had left his mother early. So not wanting her only son to carry the unfaithful husband’s name, she gave her son the surname ‘Panjatan’, referring to the five holy people of Islam: Mohammed, Ali, Fatima, Hassan and Hussain. He bore the name with pride, and while his father grew his family with his second wife, he is said on occasion to have proudly exclaimed: ‘There is one God, and there is one Panjatan!’ Ghulam Panjatan, too, was a lawyer, educated at Aligarh University and soon became a wealthy man, quite probably aided by his mother, an aristocratic lady from Tonk, who had brought gold bars into her marriage. He owned vast lands and estates, but was in no hurry to find a wife. One day, so my father tells me, he heard of a girl in a village of which he was the landlord, the third daughter of farmers, without either a dowry or particular beauty. Her prospects were dire, and in casual conversation she was pitied. Upon hearing this, my grandfather decided to change her fate and marry her. She was a slender and delicately built woman, small and plain looking, with thick round glasses, and judging from the few photographs that remain, a somewhat stern expression. Seeing my grandfather, an imposing man of six foot two, for the first time at their wedding, she reportedly thought her end was near - being about to be married off to a giant!  However, her fears did not materialize and she soon she became the mistress of a house that was to be a centre of Hyderabadi society. She had only one request for her husband, that he prayed five times a day. And so he did to his final day, the mighty high court judge, out of respect for his wife who had come from the village and could hardly read and write. 

Their house was a splendid white pillared bungalow, laid out in a big garden, and the location of many great parties and festivities. My grandfather liked to keep an open house, and one could be sure to be served the finest scotch out of crystal whisky glasses. Never, so my father assures me, was a voice or a hand raised in anger. One anecdote goes like this: At one of the splendid gatherings a small boy was running cheerfully among the guests, undoubtedly encouraged by loving winks of the diverse group of attendees. Maybe while taking a daring turn, he bumped into a table on which the shimmering whisky glasses where placed and knocked one down, which promptly shattered into pieces. His mother, embarrassed by her son’s misbehaviour, gave him a slap. As the boy started crying, my grandfather came to console him. ‘What matters more’ he asked, ‘the joy of a child, or those inanimate glasses?’ And together with the surprised boy and in front of the flabbergasted mother he proceeded to smash every single one of them, undoubtedly enjoying the cheekiness of the situation. 

My grandfather’s first child was his only daughter, six sons followed. Her authority over the brothers was never questioned, and she was the only one of his children who was sent abroad to study, returning after a few years with a degree in Anthropology from the University of Edinburgh. After her return she lived in her own house, unmarried, and by all descriptions forming around her a salon of women who included the Nizam’s daughter-in-law, the Turkish princess Niloufer, Sarojini Naidu, who was a leader of India’s independence movement and confidante of Mahatma Gandhi,  as well as simple crafts women from the opposite end of the social hierarchy. Her interests lay in lively exchanges, her mind not stifled by limitations of class, continuing the spirit of her parents who through their marriage had bridged social divides. 

If today I look at my female cousins with admiration, some of them being dedicated scientists, lawyers and educators, all of us tied together by a strong bond of mutual love and respect, then I see them as fruits coming from a tree that was always watered with a healthy dose of female empowerment. It was never a question that women could and would achieve as highly as men. Today, 40 days after my father’s last brother has passed on, it is his daughter who is a north star to us, who from our origins in Hyderabad now live dispersed across the globe. Herself a doctor of genetics, researcher and professor, she is an institution in the city. I often heard her being compared to our aunt, the same wit, comprised of a sharp intelligence and a warm, encompassing and lovingly mocking humour that expresses itself in a repertoire ranging from a low raspy chuckle to full open-throated laughter. 

It might have been this social flexibility and modern outlook that carried the family through the end of the Raj and into the Indian republic. When the old rule collapsed, many formerly grand families went down with it, holding on to their pride, and mourning the loss of their old ways of living. It was those whose focus was on learning, on education and on open mindedness who made a home within the new social order. And so, while the wealth diminished, the spirit stayed high. It is said that my grandfather in order to avoid conflict amongst his sons (my aunt had already passed away before her time), deliberately left nothing behind. And his prediction was right. As there was nothing left to inherit but intelligence and joy-de-vivre, there was nothing to squabble about, no perceived injustices that would drive wedges between the brothers and their children. When my uncles and my father were made aware of highly valuable lands and buildings that were found to be on my grandfathers name in the land title registry, they all rejected them. Decades after my grandfather had died, their lack of interest in material possessions had become so ingrained that no notion of claiming them was made. Questions by me and my cousins were dismissed with the same retorts: ‘Why are you interested in this? Is it yours, did you earn it?’ And so we accepted, some of us grudgingly. Without doubt their refusal spared us the price of family disunity. 

Few old photographs remain to provide a window into a bygone world of riches. In one I see the six young brothers standing on the veranda of their home, some teenagers, some about seven or eight, the little ones wearing the short white trousers of schoolboys, the older ones clad in sherwanis with fezs on their heads, the Turkish caps popularized by the Nizam. They look proudly into the camera (judging by my father’s age, the picture would have been taken around 1938), my father playfully pointing a stick as it if was a rifle.  In another, earlier one, two young boys with little embellished hats and light brocaded sherwanis are holding the hands of a tall young man with a fez, himself dressed in long dark embroidered sherwani, looking straight into the camera. ‘Two little boys with some prince’ I thought when I first chanced upon this. ‘My brothers with our driver Abdullah on their way to a wedding’ my father explained.  There are other, separate photos of the six boys, staged in pairs of similar age, all carrying the same proud, almost defiant expression. They reflect a habitus that is rarely found these days, a pride so non-deliberately intended that it was easy to let go of the lived reality of it. My father soon trailed off to Bombay and Delhi to try his luck on the stage and in films with some success. There he lived the life of a bohemian, at times eating at the Oberoi Hotel with Mohan Singh Oberoi himself, at other times sleeping on pavements and going without food for days, too proud to ask his father for money. When I look at him today, after decades in Germany, an artist to the bone, I can still see that pride which the images of his eight year old self display.

Hyderabad today is a bustling city, where the relics of the past try to hold their own besides newer and now shinier hubs like the new IT city district aptly named ‘Cyberabad’. The Nizams old palaces have turned into ultra luxurious hotels, are used as glamorous event venues for weddings that out-dazzle any imagination, are museums, or are simply crumbling and decaying. Some of the old private mansions are well maintained, but many buckle under the stress of the upkeep, having become impractical homes. The lovely white bungalows that dotted Banjara Hills are one by one being replaced by multi-storied homes. The erstwhile lakes, built by the Nizams as fresh water reservoirs, have over time turned into stagnant water sewers.  

Driving by the Musi river, in which the memory of the great flood is being enveloped by the stench of wastage pumped into it by nearby factories, I cover my airways with a shawl, a gesture I learned early in life as an imperfect way to ward off the worst of pollution. I see huge advertisements displaying seemingly improbable wedding jewellery, beautiful models with aloof faces turned out in heavy gold embroidered dark red khada duppatas, the traditional Hyderabadi bridal wear. There are gold and gemstone studded pendants over their foreheads, ears and noses, and heavy diamond encrusted chokers draped tightly around their necks, with pearls dripping down their chests. The wealth has moved on to a new generation, one that wants to impress on Instagram and takes a fusion of the luxury of the past and the trappings of Bollywood as a benchmark of aesthetic validity. 

We arrive once more at my uncle’s house. Sheikh Ahmed is long gone, the apartment on the top long deserted. My memories of what used to be are interrupted by the sounds of a new generation. My geneticist cousin’s sons are bustling about, and coming out to great hello. My uncle, now old but still lively follows and greets us excitedly. His wonderful wife who holds it all together, sits on the sofa in the living room that has seen so many stories unfold, and welcomes us with her own brand of loving bemusement. My father soon sits down next to her, and they exchange stories and poetry, her being an acclaimed writer and poet, and my father being a great lover of Urdu literature. Soon others join in and we have a small gathering. The doors of the house, just as back in the 1930s, are still wide open. 

One night I get up to use the bathroom. It is painted in the typical blue that any traveller of the Indian subcontinent would recognise. The toilet sits at the far end, opposite double swing doors that close together with a long horizontal bolt. Pyjama pants down I get somewhat nervous being so exposed, fearing mosquito attacks on my bottom. Suddenly something else catches my attention.  Looking down at the floor, I notice black patches that seem to disintegrate into small streaks. I notice, two, three then more. As if in a dream I look up. From cracks in the ceiling it looks as if thick liquid bundles are forming. To my horror I recognize that these are formations of small ants hanging down, resembling stalactites before dropping onto the floor, where they quickly disperse in all directions with great coordination. Coming out of my shock, I jump up, trying to pull up my bottoms while at the same time protecting my head from the invasion. I wrestle with the bolted door and finally stand outside looking back at the efficiency with which the ants claim the space where three generations of my family have lived.  

My uncle has now passed away, as have all my father’s brothers. The grandchildren have flown the nest, studying abroad. My cousin and my aunt remain, but the house has become quieter now, the ants waiting to take over and devour the limestone out of which it is built. It is hard to imagine not just my family without it, but Hyderabad itself. And yet, the young generation seems determined to keep the light shining and the spirit alive that so much reflects the story of the city itself.  

For many years my family was the only tangible connection I had to any notion of being Muslim, and so my association with Islam is foremost one of fostering a culture of learning and open mindedness. I know now that as in any cultural conglomerate the lived expressions are too many to count, and mine captured but a sliver of a privileged experience. And yet, it serves as a reminder that the chorus of voices that makes up the song which we call religion and culture is polyphonous and complex. If we listen closely, we can hear the melody of a city called Hyderabad, which sits between the North and South, between Hinduism and Islam, spirituality and humanism. And if we are wise, we may join in. 

Citations

On the history of the city, see Eric Beverley, Hyderabad, British India, and the World: Muslim Networks and Minor Sovereignty, c.1850–1950, Cambridge University Press, 2018;  on its heritage, see Madhu Vottery, A Guide to the Heritage of Hyderabad: The Natural and the Built, Rupa, New Delhi, 2010; and on their demise, A G Noorani, Destruction of Hyderabad, Hurst, 2014. Geeta Devi’s The Jewels Of Nizam: Recipes from the Khansamas of Hyderabad, Rupa, New Delhi, 2013, provides a flavour of Hyderabad’s famous cuisine.