Indian cities affect newcomers like a full on assault. There are attacks on all sides—blink while crossing the road and you’re nearly run over by an auto rickshaw, rest for a moment to catch your breath and you’re swarmed by beggars, relax and the entire populace will trample you without a second thought.
A dizzying flurry moves constantly before your eyes. A swirl of rich, deep, exotic colors—saris from every walk of life—are the first things on which my eyes begin to focus. Garlands of flowers are tied to long black tresses and ankles are adorned with tiny tinkling bells. Smooth brown skin, visible only from the neck up and the elbows down, and paradoxically to me, an incongruous window between the high-waisted shirt and the drape of the sari across the torso, glistens with sweat from the daily exertions of living. Some saris are refined and elegant, lending an air of poise and sophistication, an island of calm in a sea of chaos. The silks are translucent and gauzy, but wrapped in so many layers that impropriety cannot be suggested. The long end of the sari, laid over the shoulder flows delicately behind, leaving a barely-there shadow on the scorched ground. More common, simple, cotton saris adorn the hurrying bodies of servants running the day’s errands—the sari end that sophisticates the higher classes is unceremoniously tucked into the waist, so as to not hinder movement.
Walking the streets is a dangerous undertaking. Foot paths are rarely used for their intended purpose, encroached upon by fruit and vegetable vendors, ice cream sellers, beggars, store fronts that spill out onto the street, tiny slums, and the odd, forlorn, lost-looking cow. It is impossible to walk for longer than ten or twenty meters on any one stretch of sidewalk. Therefore, it becomes necessary to brave the heaving, cacophonous river of traffic. Dust and exhaust provide contrasting white and black clouds of suspended particles in the air. Law dictates that traffic moves on the left side of the road, but that suggestion is routinely ignored.
There is a hierarchy of vehicles on the road. At the pinnacle are the lumbering, exhaust spewing buses teeming with people. Before I arrived in India, I thought I understood the concept of a full bus. I was sorely mistaken. Here, bodies crush into the bus and spill out the doors. When there isn’t an inch of space left, men grab the handles intended to help you up the bus’s stairs and using the toes of one foot precariously attach themselves to the bottom step. Trucks come next in the pecking order, painted in bright golds, greens, and blues, with big letters in swirling script spelling out “Please Sound Horn” on the back. These vehicles have the default right of way, on account of their size, but like most big, heavy things, they don’t seem to be in much of a hurry to get anywhere. There are lighter varieties of trucks as well, in a spectrum from their heavy big brothers, all the way down to three-wheel, man-powered bicycles with a flat board on the back that carry everything from produce to mattresses.
Cars, from the light, agile tiny variety to the rare SUV fill in the spaces between buses and trucks. Honking is encouraged. The small cars dart in and out of traffic, crossing the center line, playing chicken with oncoming traffic. I had always measured the capacity of automobiles based loosely on the number of seatbelts. Silly me. Indians are much more industrious, with as many as a dozen people in a car built for five. Auto rickshaws, the sisters of Thai tuk-tuks, are Hyderabad’s taxi cabs. They are essentially motorcycles with three wheels and a soft roof. These too are hand-painted in bright colors—a base of gold, with more swirling script reading “4 in All,” dictating the number of passengers.
Motorcycles and scooters fill in the gaps that aren’t already occupied by buses, trucks, cars, and autos. Entire families ride motorcycles, with the man driving, one child in front of him, two behind him, and his wife, dressed in a sari, seated sidesaddle behind. This is by far the most efficient way to travel the city, if perhaps the most injurious to health. Notwithstanding chaotic traffic, smoke and dust from traffic is probably worse than smoking a pack of cigarettes per day.
There are also bicycles, people on foot, ox-carts, and every now and then, a camel. Traffic moves so close together that I could easily snatch an apple out of a neighboring auto passenger’s grocery bag. Traffic signals are in effect only in the most necessary intersections.
Even breathing, during the day, is exhausting. The oppressive heat saps energy and the constant movement of the city is tiring. After a day about the city, I return to my baking apartment tired, dirty, and sweating. I crave a cold shower to wash the dust from my skin, but in Hyderabad, there is no need for a hot water heater, at least in the summer. Steaming water that has been baking in the sun all day pours out of my showerhead. On especially hot days, it is necessary to leave the water running for a few minutes so you don’t burn yourself.
Mastering the physics of air movement through ventilation, ceiling fans, and my air cooler (which uses water evaporation to cool the air), I have managed to make it just comfortable enough to sleep at night.
By far the most relaxing times of day are at either end—dusk and dawn. At dusk, while the sun goes down, the city heaves a great sigh of relief. The air gets cooler, breezes begin to blow through, and the city prepares to rest for the evening. The dawn brings a new day and literally shines new light on the city. Each sunrise is a mini spring, bringing rejuvenation and revitalization to the city of Hyderabad.
