Early Mornings in Hyderabad

Every morning at dawn I would hear the azan, the call to prayer. The voice of the muezzin drifting through the early morning silence, then repeated in succession by muezzins from neighboring mosques. Lasting a few minutes, the azan never jerked me out of sleep but just awakened me and reminded me it was time to get up. I would linger a little longer taking in the sounds of early mornings in my house and my neighborhood in Hyderabad.

I hear the birds, the rumbling of a truck in the distance, the street sweepers getting ready to begin their work. The familiar sound of a car starting, it's our neighbor, the doctor who goes to work very early in the morning. In Hyderabad, we knew our neighbors well and it was comforting to know everything around us was normal through familiar sights and sounds. We were all getting ready to begin a new day in our city.

The rattling of the gate latch tells me the milkman has arrived with his deliveries. I go downstairs when I hear my father’s voice or the sound of my mother opening the wrought iron side door. I am sure the morning chai is ready by now. Everyone still speaks in their soft morning voice.

My father ready to drive me to college.

As usual, my father has his first cup of chai on the veranda while reading the newspaper. Sometimes he has early morning visitors. A friend or relative who wants to talk to him before he leaves for work, instead of calling him on the phone. Looking back I am amazed that my father was not bothered by these unannounced visits, or worried that it would delay him. He gave everyone his full attention.

The early morning calm comes to an end with the start of breakfast. Our usual breakfast was eggs, toast, butter, and jam. If there was anything special that day, a homemade jam, or fresh honey sent by a friend, my father was sure to praise it. He wanted us children to appreciate every blessing. Some of us would have a second cup of chai. We talked about our schedules for the day. My mother always checked with us to see if we wanted anything special for lunch or dinner. In those days food was cooked twice a day. It was easier for her if the vegetable seller “tarkari wala” came early to our house with his cartload of fresh vegetables.

My gentle, gracious, mother.

After breakfast, I would go upstairs to get ready. My father usually dropped me off at college but if the car was not available I had to take the rickshaw and pick up a friend on the way. Though it was a long rickshaw ride to Women’s College we didn’t mind. The bustling streets, shops, cars, buses kept us distracted.

Once breakfast was over my mother would sit down and read the Urdu newspaper

Rahnuma-e-Deccan. She waited for our cook to have breakfast before she went over to the kitchen to make arrangements for the day.

My father, my first mentor.

Whether I am in Hyderabad or California, mornings are the most special times of the day. When I was working I left the house a little before seven. It was also the time my grandchildren were getting ready to leave for school or college. I left the house with their bright voices echoing in my ears. Some days on my way to work the sky would be lit with the most extravagant hues of yellow, orange, blue, and pink. I almost wished the traffic light stayed “red” a little longer so I could absorb the beauty of a Californian morning.

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” - Robert Brault