The Charminar, Hyderabad’s trademark monument, is unlike other iconic monuments you have seen elsewhere. Serving as a rotary around a U-turn in the middle of a heavily congested predominantly Muslim locality – it presents an explostion of experience on the Ramzan eve. The intermittent showers had kept my camera indoors. Pictures or videos would not have captured the platter of delight – words are needed anyway.
The evening prayers had just finished when I landed there. The street leading to it were adorned with two lanes, totaling four rows, of makeshift stalls selling almost everything the visitor might buy on the festive eve: from haleem to underwear, surma to beef, lime soda to buckets, jewellery to banana chips. The new shops are in addition to the two rows of permanent shops along the street. Nobody was idle – and huddles of entropy swarmed chaotically, jamming everything else. The parking attendant was auctioning parking slots.
The mild drizzle had not made any difference. Till a brief spurt of heavier shower made the place almost vacant in less than a minute. A thela of chocolate wafers was lying across one of the streets when the owner, a lad of 13-14 ran back to cover it. The rain was gone already – he swore and slapped his forehead. No one noticed, as he was in business in a few minutes.
There were unusually high number of burquas today. Burquas were more common around sellers of clothes and leather items. A bevy in all black, probably wives or daughters of one man, with just slits to see, carried exact replicas of pink shining vanity bags. They tried cheap jewellery at the street corner, with a middle aged bearded man in guard. A fair and tall Middle Eastern man with sharp features, wearing a traditional white robe roamed around, accompanied by a strikingly beautiful fair woman in a colorful attire, covering everything but her face. They behaved like European tourists, keeping a safe distance from anything filthy.
It must be a paradise for Pickpockets and shoplifters. Petty snatchers made hay in the gloom and crowd. More organized schemes involve fake Haleem delivery boys with a fake badge with a fake name and ID number. A gentleman shouting at the shop owner had paid the tout real money – to avoid the fistfight at the queue for haleem. A real delivery boy does not earn a salary – he earns only the tip – about 5 rupees for a hundred rupee portion, from every second customer. After some futile bargaining, I bought a knit skullcap, to feel as one with the everything else. With my skullcap on, I savored some Haleem after generously tipping the sweet and honest delivery boy. He was keen to go but I asked him how it was so tasty. His master rears his own goats, feeds them with his own hands, and before cooking the recipe, butchers them himself. “That is what makes it so tasty”.
An old beggar woman on a walker repeatedly reinforced the frown on her face. She has made hay too. Unlike practicing Muslims fasting for the month, she fasts for 10 months. And unlike practicing Muslims who enjoy goodies for a day, her whole month of evening goodies has climaxed today. I don’t know why I enjoyed watching this circus of man’s most profound invention – and perhaps his worst. I may crib about it, but I cannot ignore it.
Honest Blabber 