The old city of Hyderabad has always fascinated me. I grew up in Chennai, but Hyderabad was home to my mother, so we visited often. As a child, I had never quite explored the warren of lanes in the shadow of the Charminar. But I had heard stories, of course — of endless conversations over Irani chai and Osmania biscuits, of feeding pigeons outside Mecca Masjid, of the discovery of vintage ebonite pens in a hole-in-the-wall bookstore on Pathergatti Road, of how the streets never sleep in the month of Ramzan.
I finally paid a visit last year during the holy month. As the sound of the azaan echoed in the air, Muslims from all over gathered for the Jumma-tul-wida, the noon prayer offered on the last Friday of Ramzan. I arrived to find that all the roads leading to the Charminar were cordoned off. People of all ages were heading that way though — men in spotless white, women in all black.
Slowly, the trickle of people onto the green carpet on the streets turned into a steady stream. The crowd assembled on the roads leading up to Charminar and in the inner alleys lined with shops on either side. Before long, the faithful arranged themselves into neat files, facing in the direction of the Mecca Masjid, to the west of Charminar; young, old, rich and poor, standing shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed and hands folded. The carpet had nearly disappeared from view. The prayer began and, suddenly, the old city was no longer a bustling marketplace but a sanctuary.
After a few minutes of quiet, the last salaams were exchanged as were the customary hugs. Charminar was open to the public again, and the sea of humanity dispersed as quickly as it had assembled. Carpets were rolled off the road, hawkers returned with their paraphernalia and the old city was thrumming with its diurnal rhythm again.
(Ravikiran Vissa is a commercial photographer based in Chennai)