I wonder what prompted me to the twin cities at fifty six. Was it Biryani, Khubani ka Meetha, or its soulfuness?

Was it the faint childhood memory of Hyderabad, or the desire to see Khala Jaan on her deathbed? For that long weekend I had decided to put up in that endearing old house that I visited every summer. Yet, I had hidden the fact that I would have the last day to myself. Each time guilt raked my conscience, I whispered, “I have done my duty.”

On Monday, Khalu looked at me with a crinkled smile spreading into his eyes and said, “ No mischief this time, Asifa!” 

 A docile look disguised my intent, Khalu wouldn't get a hint of my plan. I smiled and said: “Khalu, I  head early today, I'll take an Ola to the station.” 

Khalu’s no nonsense look  countered any answer. Soon, I sat astride his old scooter. I mumbled, “The Lambretta must have suddenly come to life today!” 

On our ride to the station, I counted each  tortuous turn and bump. Finally at the Nampally Station, Khalu left, muttering a hurried Allah Hafiz. He urged me to walk towards the station, and I resisted, perhaps in his heart of hearts he'd intuited.  With an air of finality he left, a dying Khalajan needed him more, than did my rascality.

With alacrity I put my plan into action. “A day touring Hyderabad alone, without my husband and his brood of  children! Asifa, pat yourself!”

A tall built, bushy eyebrowed man thundered: “Idhar aao,  kidhar ko jana maaji?” How could I refuse his offer for a paltry one thousand rupees: General Bazar, Paradise finally the Airport.

Lost in a daze of thoughts, I was stunned by the explosion, I realised the single-handed rick driver was revving up his rick.

Amazed at his prowess, I didn't sense the coat of dust settling on my body. As the wobbling-rick spluttered to life,  I was struck by its unkemptness. 

I kept pinching my nostrils to prevent the paroxysm of coughing and sneezing, and tears streamed down my grime-coated cheeks.  Shrugging off Khalu’s warning, I placed my bag beside me, on a musty, torn seat ready for an urban adventure.

And then began our raucous journey through the treacherous and twisting gullies. Each screw in the rick rattled as he coughed the names of each locale we zipped through- “ San Jans Road Maaji” he said coming to such a sudden halt, that I almost spilt out of the auto. 

Before I could say anything he raced through Bhoiguda. My mind was in a maze as this hoodlum was criss-crossing Bhoiguda, throwing caution to the winds. Each time I opened my mouth to yell I shut it. Ah that ear splitting noise! Loose bolts jangled, filling  me with a suffocating dread through Chilkalguda. “Aur das minitaan maaji ”

Cold sweat dotted my palms and forehead as he mercilessly jammed the brake as we touched the Musheerabad Road Main crossing. And out went my mobile, it slipped from my clammy palms. 

In the midst of wailing sirens, my  yells were lost. Before I could lay hands on  my splintered mobile, he had kick-started and was racing past streets. 

My mind yearned to get in touch with my family now that my broken phone lay beneath god-alone-knows-how-many passing vehicles! 

I was openly bawling but to no avail,  he snapped at every commuter.If his mouth opened, it was either to spew out cuss words or that wretched red liquid. 

A pot bellied man tried to reach out, but our one handed man dismissed his gestures, scurrying past the narrow lanes of Kachiguda, exclaiming, “ Shortcutaan maaji.” 

Who had given this freaking man a licence, I wondered as fury choked me.  And then came Narayanguda. That he was in such a bolting hurry, I sensed. A strong revulsion shook my body, I finally mustered courage to yell out loudly. My eyes flashed into his in the mirror. And I opened my mouth to scream just to muffle it instead. A wave of nausea hit me.

The rick screeched to a halt, as I held my rocking body, bile poured out. 

 All stood still, I sat on a pavement, “Poora din ka karobar bigad diya, fandraso rupay dijiye.”

 In belligerence he threw the two five hundred notes on my face. I crumpled yearning for the comfort of Khala’s old house behind the cyan wall, and Khalu’s prussian-blue Lambretta. 

©Mumtaz Khorakiwala