Sunday evening

I came back to the apartment from my family's house mid-afternoon or so. Spent most of the weekend getting some sorely needed sleep. Also, I read Circus by Alistair MacLean. For probably the sixth of seventh time. It is a book that really enjoyed as a kid, but more so, it is a connection I have with my late aunt. One of the greatest highlights of every one of my visits to India, until her premature death in 1995, was spending time with her. We shared a love for certain books, the most important being the Three Musketeers. Circus was up there as well.

My cousin Bobby came over in the early evening to take me shopping for comic books for my daughter before the team came back from Mumbai. After waiting a few minutes for the drizzle to let up, I got on the back of his Honda motorcycle and we sped off on our mission. We made a left onto the Tarnaka main road, went under the flyover, turned right and worked our way through the expansive campus of Osmania University. This is not an area of the twin cities that I have frequented before this trip, and Bobby is my guide to all things Hyderabad whenever I come here. But it sounded very strange when he pointed the campus out to me. It seemed like such an obvious thing. I guess I am getting to know this place for myself.

The streets were full of the usual masses of humanity. I cannot estimate the numbers of persons one passes on the road even on a brief excursion like this one, but it must number in the thousands. I love traveling by two-wheeler in India. It is second (albeit a distant second) only to travel by rail. Car travel is convenient but too protected if you want the full Indian experience. Countless times, my knees missed by inches motorcycles, cars, autorickshaws, buses, bullock carts and people. It was not until we reached a large intersection that Bobby put on his helmet. I tried to be invisible as we passed the traffic cop, remembering an interaction two-and-a-half years ago, when we got busted for no helmets. Better luck this time, it turned out. After the intersection, we ran into a semi-impromptu parade consisting of about 30 participants, 4 or 5 musicians earnestly blowing into woodwinds and beating on drums, and an innominate deity.

We made our way down a road that I recognized from our week going to Osmania General Hospital. We proceeded to hunt for bookstores and were directed to a strip mall of sorts. We entered the first store and asked for Chandamamas in Telugu and Hindi. The guy looked at us like we were insane. "Only English, saar". I picked out some Amar Chitra Kathas and for some reason got a 10% discount. Which Bobby tried to talk down even more, using such logic as "500 is a round figure, why do you want us to pay 550?". It made sense to me. Next door, still no luck, and next to that was strike three. We got back on the motorcycle and headed back home. Passed roadside carts full of guavas, oranges, fried stuff, and corn. It was dusk now, and the coals on which the corn was being roasted looked and smelled incredible as we sped by. Saw a total of about 10 men relieving themselves on the side of the road. By the time we reached the poorly lit Osmania campus the sun had set completely. We passed another thousand people or so by the time we reached road 12-5-55 and pulled up in front of Samskruthi Heaven apartments.

My hair was coarse with dust kicked up from the road. My lungs burned from smoking the exhaust of 250 two-stroke engines. My blue pants had a rim of black at the cuffs and my back ached from maintaining my position behind Bobby on his Honda. I headed up the steps with a deep sense of contentment. After sixteen days of being here, I finally felt like I was in India.