present.
The driver and the conductor climbed in together and the bus groaned to a start. There were at least fifteen passengers clinging to the broad steps of the vehicle, making it tilt precariously. If Hansel and Gretel were to be taken to the forest in this bus they would have an easy time tracing their way back home, following the fumes belched out by the bus.
The bus didn't stop until it reached Manohar Talkies. The regular commuters got in and some unfamiliar people got off. Then there were stops at the clock tower, Minerva Talkies, Ramgopal Statue and Raniganj. And then began the mile-long Tank Bund. This hassle-free run with no stops between seemed to soothe the bus into a smooth crawl. Although Chandru could not see the lake from his perch in the bus, the breeze that played over the waters did not deflect itself from him. The whole bus felt its impartial caress. Tank Bund had changed its appearance periodically with every change of the Nizam's Chief Minister. It was the ñrst thing that struck the eye of every visitor to Hyderabad city and everyone tried his hand at beautifying it. It started with a wall running along the road. Railings rather than a wall, said someone, and the wall was demolished. Then came the changes in those balconies. Let them be brought down to the level of the pavement, said someone else. Sir Mirza Ismail. And so it was demolished; and rebuilt. Beautification of the cities in the princely states seemed to have been an obsession with Sir Mirza Ismail. It was said that he left Mysore a beautiful city. But here in Hyderabad, he lost his minister-ship too soon to effect much change. He was followed by the Nawab of Chattari, a man with a moustache that reminded you of a cow's horns. One half of it was pulled out by its roots by Kasim Razvi's Razakars. Poor man, that must have hurt. He left and the one who came after him, the latest in the line, was Laiq Ali. Mountbatten and Sardar Patel were now in Delhi. And India had become free. As were Bhopal and Junagadh. After all that dilly dallying, they had finally opted to join the Indian Union. The Indian tricolour was flying atop Delhi's Red Fort. The day for Bharati's joyous song of liberation in D.K. Pattammal's resonant voice had at last dawned. But here was Hyderabad still holding out against independent India. The Congress party had organised a join-the-Indian Union Day and someone had managed to secretly hoist the Indian flag at dawn in Sultan Bazaar. The police were in a quandary. 'Bring down the damn thing.'
In the meantime the Razakars and refugges intensified their sloganeering—
Azad Haiderabad rahenga, Lal Quile par chalenga!
On the other hand, there was this Narasimha Rao asking him to put his name in blood to a piece of paper. The bus had crossed the lake. Five minutes, and he should be in college.
Chandru got off the bus at Fateh Maidan along with a several others, and the bus left the place. The principal of Nizam College was standing at the college gate. Shorn of the forbidding aura of his own room, he no longer looked like some great mythical hero. Just another person, out in the open. He was herding the students at the gate and on the pavement outside into the college: 'Get in, Get in.' The old bicycle keeper was there with him. He would let you escape for a consideration even now. Hyderabad's two–anna bit, a small thin disc less than a half-inch in diameter, was very handy to slip into palms.
Chandru stopped a good distance from the college gate, where he stood undecided. The Nampalli Road, which converted this place into a three-road junction ran alongside the Fateh Maidan and curved out of sight. There wasn't much traffic on it. A large peepal tree stood at the intersection of the roads. Chandru would have to stand under the tree to catch the bus home. A single large tree amidst the broad paved roads and buildings built to last centuries. No Chief Minister seemed to have ordered it cut down as yet. A police inspector and
The driver and the conductor climbed in together and the bus groaned to a start. There were at least fifteen passengers clinging to the broad steps of the vehicle, making it tilt precariously. If Hansel and Gretel were to be taken to the forest in this bus they would have an easy time tracing their way back home, following the fumes belched out by the bus.
The bus didn't stop until it reached Manohar Talkies. The regular commuters got in and some unfamiliar people got off. Then there were stops at the clock tower, Minerva Talkies, Ramgopal Statue and Raniganj. And then began the mile-long Tank Bund. This hassle-free run with no stops between seemed to soothe the bus into a smooth crawl. Although Chandru could not see the lake from his perch in the bus, the breeze that played over the waters did not deflect itself from him. The whole bus felt its impartial caress. Tank Bund had changed its appearance periodically with every change of the Nizam's Chief Minister. It was the ñrst thing that struck the eye of every visitor to Hyderabad city and everyone tried his hand at beautifying it. It started with a wall running along the road. Railings rather than a wall, said someone, and the wall was demolished. Then came the changes in those balconies. Let them be brought down to the level of the pavement, said someone else. Sir Mirza Ismail. And so it was demolished; and rebuilt. Beautification of the cities in the princely states seemed to have been an obsession with Sir Mirza Ismail. It was said that he left Mysore a beautiful city. But here in Hyderabad, he lost his minister-ship too soon to effect much change. He was followed by the Nawab of Chattari, a man with a moustache that reminded you of a cow's horns. One half of it was pulled out by its roots by Kasim Razvi's Razakars. Poor man, that must have hurt. He left and the one who came after him, the latest in the line, was Laiq Ali. Mountbatten and Sardar Patel were now in Delhi. And India had become free. As were Bhopal and Junagadh. After all that dilly dallying, they had finally opted to join the Indian Union. The Indian tricolour was flying atop Delhi's Red Fort. The day for Bharati's joyous song of liberation in D.K. Pattammal's resonant voice had at last dawned. But here was Hyderabad still holding out against independent India. The Congress party had organised a join-the-Indian Union Day and someone had managed to secretly hoist the Indian flag at dawn in Sultan Bazaar. The police were in a quandary. 'Bring down the damn thing.'
In the meantime the Razakars and refugges intensified their sloganeering—
Azad Haiderabad rahenga, Lal Quile par chalenga!
On the other hand, there was this Narasimha Rao asking him to put his name in blood to a piece of paper. The bus had crossed the lake. Five minutes, and he should be in college.
Chandru got off the bus at Fateh Maidan along with a several others, and the bus left the place. The principal of Nizam College was standing at the college gate. Shorn of the forbidding aura of his own room, he no longer looked like some great mythical hero. Just another person, out in the open. He was herding the students at the gate and on the pavement outside into the college: 'Get in, Get in.' The old bicycle keeper was there with him. He would let you escape for a consideration even now. Hyderabad's two–anna bit, a small thin disc less than a half-inch in diameter, was very handy to slip into palms.
Chandru stopped a good distance from the college gate, where he stood undecided. The Nampalli Road, which converted this place into a three-road junction ran alongside the Fateh Maidan and curved out of sight. There wasn't much traffic on it. A large peepal tree stood at the intersection of the roads. Chandru would have to stand under the tree to catch the bus home. A single large tree amidst the broad paved roads and buildings built to last centuries. No Chief Minister seemed to have ordered it cut down as yet. A police inspector and
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