Somewhere in Space

No prizes for guessing where I was. And no, I am not surprised when you look shocked to see me in such active environs.

I was just supposed to go there and fetch a friend visiting from Mumbai. But when I walked in…yes, I actually walked from the far away car park to the expo…I saw a whole new world.

People of different shapes and sizes. Of different ages. Different professions. All walking around with a halo. A halo of anticipation, a halo of excitement.

Each one of them had the Marathon Bug. Some were recent victims of the disease. Yet others were many time survivors, itching for the next edition.

Some had fancy gear, and some were more simply attired. But there was a spring in every step, a bounce in every footfall.

The first alien I spotted was my friend Renu Singh, along with Srini and their kid. Renu had this flag stuck on to her back which proclaimed that she was the 2.30 bus. I thought there were buses leaving at fixed times and she was one of the leaders.

Imagine my surprise when she explained to me that she was a pacer and that in the actual race, people wanting to run at her pace would follow her lead and strategy.

Suddenly the 1.45 bus looked formidable.

Then my friend Vaniitha who I had gone to fetch introduced me to a friend who had done 40 Marathons already. And to a bunch of people from her old office who she had initiated into this sport as part of the corporate social responsibility program that she mentored.

Her wards have gone around the world and even taken part in the famous Tour de France after six months preparation in France, courtesy of a company sponsorship.

At the gate I met Sumalata, the FICCI Secretary who, with her gang of ladies, was taking a break from wedding planning and floral arrangements, and running for the fun of it. Amazing, I thought. Just as Harini walked up to me and said hello.

This Event Manager friend who had just walked the ramp for charity, was now all set to run for fun.

My friend from Bombay told me that this was one of the best organized Marathon pre-events she had seen. And as a Hyderabadi, I felt proud.

What kind of madness is this? What kind of passion, insanity. That makes you run, not for glory, but for the self.

Is it a madness I can come to terms with? I looked down at my feet (Sorry, that’s a lie. My stomach does not allow me that privilege) and told myself that if there was an addiction I was ready for, it was this…

it was this…

it was this.

Once upon a time, there was a past. And a respect for it.

Sure the past was full of mistakes, of lavish, extravagant sweeps of architectural indulgence. Sure the high ceilinged, wide corridored laterally luxurious construction style may mot have been energy efficient and air conditioning friendly. But they were things of not just beauty, but they were symbolic of a culture of monumentalising the needs of the people.

Osmania University was created as a place of higher learning. And incorporated higher planes of fusion. The palaces of Hyderabad were functional too…for the Nizams and Nawabs who inhabited them. And many of the palaces have made way for educational institutions…One old palace is now the Administrative Staff College of India. Erramanzil is the Irrigation Department. Another palace became the Mufakkam Jah College. Yet another is the Women’s College.

These palaces became famous, legendary and heritage monuments because of their age, their architectural splendor and also often because of who built them or lived within them.

And they are maintained for several reasons. One because quite frankly, they cannot be replicated. They are unique examples of a life from before, of a life style that may never be repeated, of a largesse that is hard to find now.

The past is reassuring. It gives us a rear view that is comforting. And most importantly, defines the very characters we have become. The bedrock of our society is the strong roots we have in our past.

In the specific case of Hyderabad it is the past and its many symbols that are the only acceptable and logical explanations for the Hyderabadi madness, tardiness, royalty, for the penchant for exaggeration and utter lack of urgency.

Remove the icons and replace them with the steel and glass towers that are coming up everywhere in the world, and you’ll lose the essence of character. And once that is lost, civilization is in danger…history is under threat…and the past becomes meaningless.

It is difficult to make history with skyscrapers. Were you the first…were you the tallest…or were you destroyed in a twin plane attack…these are the only qualifications. The rest of the buildings were like mass produced cars…characterless, convenient…clinical.

Heritage has a warm and comforting aroma. It is the most beautiful display of our roots. It defines us. It defies us. It challenges us. And inspires us. Obliterating signs of heritage is a crime against humanity. And should be punished as such.

In an environment that is measuring heritage monuments on efficiency and ergonomic benchmarks, and looking at the real estate opportunity of demolishment, we need to come together and object…call perhaps the highest of authorities and even complain to the Human Rights people…

The method to build is not by breaking down the old…it is in creating the new. Cyberabad is a perfect example. Of course, the rocks of Hyderabad were the victims here, but at least heritage monuments were not lost…at least not to my knowledge.

I think we should all get together and get the authorities to declare the entire ‘Old City’ as a heritage area and protect it from commercial plans or whimsical insanities.

“Sirf Biskoot he nahee Osmania. Madrasa bhee hai aur dawakhana. Sirf Biskoot he nahee Osmania. Kal hai, aaj hai aur parson bhee hai apna”.