Mohul Bhowmick takes us Hyderabad on Eid in March 2026[1]
Nayaab was closed, and Shadab peeked past its closed arches. The doors that proclaimed ‘Madina Hotel – Best Biryani in Hyderabad Since 1947’ were promiscuously shut in the presence of foreigners who had no business being awake at that hour, and the road leading up to the Charminar from Naya Pul — Hyderabad’s high street — was littered with polythene covers that had seen better days. Gulzar Houz was empty save the loitering youth who had faltered on their way home from Chand Raat[2]; Eid was here, the namaaz was slated for 10 AM at Mecca Masjid, and the scent of sheer khurma [3]wafted in the air. The Charminar was erected in 1591, the year in which Hyderabad was founded by Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah (1565-1612), and the minarets of this emblem stretched out in an embrace, welcoming everyone with its all-forgiving, benevolent gaze.
Laad Bazaar — with the door of every store shut — stretched to its west, the Bhagyalakshmi temple to its east, and the wide expanse leading up to Lal Darwaza to its south. Café Nimrah – which was in high demand on Eid — did not even bat an eyelid when its shutters were hammered at with a ferocity unbecoming of pious young men, while Café Farasha next door, seizing the opportunity with both hands, did brisk business. An acne-wrecked student with a pockmarked face who had paid twice his pocket money as bus fare to arrive from the northern peripheries of town complained about the steep hike in the price of a cup of tea; a Turkish couple were seen encouraging their five-year-old daughter to sip the frothy liquid. Farasha, chambermaid to Nimrah all year, sparkled brighter than Cinderella had on her anointed night.
The loveliness of the morning was marred by policemen on horses, patrolling in as swift a manner as was last seen during Operation Polo. Arabs, Afghans, Emiratis, Bangladeshis and Biharis traded wishes but gave each other a wide berth when looking up at the beseeching image of the deceased Ayatollah. The aroma of the air grew manifold when a few shifty-eyed young men, berated by the mounted police with their lacquered batons to not practice their pickpocketing on this holy day, hugged each other with a gay abandon one had not known them to possess. The atmosphere grew thick with rumour that today might be the last day that Pista House still have their haleem[4] — if they did at all — and one hurried towards Shah Ali Banda as one would after the final boarding call at an airport gate.
The azaan[5] for the Eid prayers from Mecca Masjid could be heard bellowing its message an hour before time. Milan Juice Centre, Matwale Doodh Ghar and Tajalli Milkshakes and More had firmly decided to abandon the festivities in favour of religiosity — economic and otherwise. One walked past the mosque, berated by one-eyed cripples hanging on to their faith for support; beggars — unequivocally of a secular nature — paraded their naked pride to a group of Sikhs who found the entire spectacle amusing. The rising of the sun was foreshadowed by the empty streets — unlike what one must have seen the previous night — and a foreboding could be felt when one turned towards Mir Chowk and peeped at Machli Kaman. The temple dedicated to Siva had chosen this to be the day on which its new loudspeakers would be tested.
[1] Referred to as Hari Raya in Southeast Asia
[2] Full moon night
[3] Desert made with vermicelli and milk eaten on Eid
[4] A South Asian dish made of vegetables meat and cereal
[5] Call
Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, sports journalist, poet, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published five collections of poems and one travelogue so far. His latest book, The Past Is Another Country, came out in 2025. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.
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