“There is truth to the whispers, that Hyderabad doesn’t have an Instagrammable face. And yet, as I left I realized, this city has truly been one of the most Instagram-worthy destinations I have had the honour of meeting, in a very long time.”

India seems to exist to mark chapters in my life. It’s a sentiment that has echoed across my entire adulthood.

In 2013, at the age of 26 and slap bang in my first year of solo travelling, I found myself in India for the first time (somewhat) on my own, plans made in haste just weeks prior (after months of fantasizing ‘maybes’) and on my way to see my cousin for the second time in our entire lives. We both have our roots in India – me, my father; her, her entire world – and even as the lands and seas separate us from London all the way to Singapore; in 2013, having met each other only once 11 years back in 2002, we were both crazy enough to think of each other and say, hey, let’s meet again, for the second time ever, me without knowing a word of Tamil and you with the entire Brady bunch, in Mothercrazy India.

THREE YEARS LATER
It turned out to be our finest hours; and in 2016, at the age of 29, a little older but none the wiser, we found ourselves back together once more, successfully pulling off the same ruse of meeting in the Motherland, catching up on three years of life in seven days – except this time, it was corroborated by two very momentous occasions: a wedding (her brother’s), planned and celebrated by all; and a spontaneous visit to family (my dad), unplanned and unbeknownst to most.

I wrapped it all up with a quick sneak to Kerala, and that year ended with a blast.

THREE YEARS LATER: A REPRISE
In 2019, in the midst of a hot, blistering summer, May found me back in the arms of the Motherland once again.

She was nowhere near my radar this time; and yet somehow, there I was, stumbling back into her boiling embrace, baking and crumbling for a week in her oppressive heat. This visit, though most recent of the three, I recall with a little more haze. I don’t remember the days, I don’t remember the faces. But I do remember that it was one of those trips so commanding in its nature that it possessed in its very being, the power to reach back into the past and amend history as you know it.

It made 2016 the last time I ever saw my dad alive.

It was also then that I was finally made aware, how she calls to me.

India calls to me.

For every three years since 2013, she has been throwing out her arms- in a way only a mother can- and she has been calling to me. In between she doesn’t mind where I go, or how I fill my time; but when three years have come and gone and I choose not to hear her when she calls- in a way only a mother does- she finds her own way to bring me back to her.

Last year, in 2022; I woke up one day in a jolt when I realized that yet another three years had passed since I had last returned to India.

Dare I test my own fate? Dare I end this year without casting my eyes toward her – and if I did, would she find one more perverse reason for me to crawl back to her on my knees?

More importantly of course, was that I was now at the cusp of keeping a nine-year tradition going – one made up of three separate trips to India, pulled together into an accidental pattern by incredible happenstance. If I didn’t jump on this and turn it into a personal folklore, am I really Indian – and if I am; well, then what kind of Indian would I be?

THREE YEARS LATER: 2022
My dad lives? lived in Velankanni, a small town in the state of Tamil Nadu about eight hours out of Chennai (if you don’t stop to pee). For every occasion that has led me back to India since 2013, I’d always made a point to, apart from time with family, explore a new sliver of India on my own. In 2013, I saw Chennai; 2016, Kerala as mentioned; and in 2019, of course, impossible.

In 2022, without home on the itinerary, I was finally free to spend my full allotment of time in India however and whereever I wanted to. A full 7 days, all to myself; without distance or time forming invisible parameters on my decision. I could finally take on, with full gumption, the endless pulse of New Delhi; dance in the delicate hues of Jaipur; perhaps even call upon Agra and her Taj Mahal… but as time played out and my decision drew to a close, I found that I could not shake off the glimmer of the one place that truly outshone the rest for the very reason you cannot imagine anything outshining its counterparts for – and it was that this place promised to be a place where I could totally, unequivocally, resolutely, do- quite absolutely, nothing.

A PLAN WITHOUT PLANS
It felt about as last-minute a decision as my 2013 ticket to India. Hints of a haphazard, spontaneous, pre-social media holiday that didn’t compel me to feel like I had to travel with a list of saved places or a plan. Perhaps, a part of me wanted to go back to that beginning, pay homage to the trip that started it all; where, more out of naivety than anything else, I was confident that I could navigate a country as complex and multi-layered as India without the need to first be acquainted with her reputation.

No itineraties, no lists. Just me and a thousand tuk-tuks in between.

And it was like Magic.

THE ART OF, BEING
It is liberating in a way I cannot explain, the feeling of being in a place so utterly foreign and new, and to then decide that you are going to be there and do nothing. I slept at 10 every night, woke up at 2 in the afternoon, did very little else in those few hours between – and yet, as it turned out, ‘very little else’ felt like so much more than any jam-packed itinerary could have ever given me. I indulged in too much street food, discovered a blossoming- and now, unwavering- love for Dahi Puri, mingled in too many local markets, wasted time in too many local malls (oh, the shame), and fashioned daily itineraries out of palaces and forts that were too far out to explore, just so I could nap on 40-minute tuk tuk rides and explore the very realistic possibility of falling out the side, if I napped too hard.

I went where I wanted to go, saw what I wanted to see; my six-hour walking detours a vivid representation of my own mind and little of everyone else’s. I would start the day at a temple or a mosque I wanted to see; and then, with little more than my feet (and Google Maps); I would meander from street to alley, lane to lane, drifting from one suburb to the next until the central focus is no longer on the places and buildings and landmarks and things before me – but rather, the life that inhabits them, and the history it breathes.

And this went on for seven days, straight.

No Instagram-worthy frames in my mind to chase. No listicle-led itineraries in my pocket to follow. Just the scrambled chaos of dusty bazaars and weaving tuk-tuks and jostling humans of Hyderabad. All for my own mind to explore.

Finally. I could finally, make memories that were my own.

INSTAGRAM SHOWS YOU PLACES
But ultimately, it’s your heart that leads you there.

Because Hyderabad made no pretense of being a tourist hotspot; I found in her the space I needed to sidestep all the typical ways we had been taught to see new places (i.e. through someone else’s eyes); and to extend to her the courtesy of nuance; to explore her with a little more intention.

And in that space I also found, that Hyderabad is:

– Culturally audacious; in that it pays no attention to which part of India (or the world) you’re from.
– But also beautifully simple at the same time; because unlike the tangled web of Indian culture woven from thousands of years of history, traditions, religions, and languages, here, people are just, people. While caste distinctions are still prevalent in India as a whole, Hyderabad seems to be brewing a culture that is inclusive and and innovative, cosmopolitan and yet traditional at the same time.

– And for that, such a savoury fusion of old and new.

– Robust, and striking; and fast-paced, and forward-thinking.

– Highly worthy, of any traveller’s attention.

A NEW CHAPTER
India seems to exist to mark chapters in my life.

In 2022, after years of having my viewfinder shackled by the photographic ideals of Instagram, I think I might finally be outgrowing the superficial specificity of social media; and its viciously tiresome feedback loop that continues to reward quantity, and trends, and same-ness. I am unlearning the notion that destinations can only be experienced via their ‘hotspots’; and that places can only be captured via one angle (which is usually the angle best ranked). I am finally starting to enjoy the process of stopping to appreciate the beauty of ordinary, average things, and transforming them into extraordinary, outstanding subjects. And I relish showing my friends and anyone who would stop to listen therafter; that sometimes, onions piled up at the back of a truck can be just as remarkable too.

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There is truth to the whispers, that Hyderabad doesn’t have an Instagrammable face.

And yet, as I left I realized, this city has truly been one of the most Instagram-worthy destinations I have had the honour of meeting, in a very long time.

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Enjoy Hyderabad. I know I did.