From Fathery Hospital to Saloon-Salon >>>>> An Evening of Names, Memory, and Meaning >>>>> Twenty-First Friday Evening meeting: Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 From Fathery Hospital to Saloon-Salon

An Evening of Names, Memory, and Meaning

Twenty-First Friday Evening meeting 

(Press Club Hyderabad)

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (July 3, 2026)

            Twenty-one uninterrupted Friday evenings have now transformed what began as an informal gathering of like-minded professionals into a living chronicle of shared experience. Each meeting has drawn strength from its predecessors while contributing a fresh layer to an expanding repository of collective memory. The Twenty-First Friday Evening, held on July 3, 2026, continued that journey in the same spirit of curiosity, fellowship, and thoughtful conversation.

As like-minded members gathered one after another in the AC Room at the Press Club Hyderabad on July 3, 2026, for their regular Friday Evening Meeting, the Twenty First in uninterrupted succession, intermittent rain prompted many to remain indoors instead of occupying the usual open area. The resulting buzz of animated conversation created a lively atmosphere, with enthusiasm momentarily outweighing order. Sensing a trace of impatience among a few of us, Amar recalled an expression often used by his granddaughter, still in her early teens, yet familiar with concepts that, he smilingly admitted, had remained unknown to him despite his advanced age: ‘Read the Room.’

It was indeed interesting to learn about it. ‘Reading the room’ means adjusting our behaviour to suit the mood, energy, and unspoken expectations of a particular group or situation. It calls for emotional intelligence and situational awareness. Its essential elements are Observation, Adaptation, and Empathy: noticing body language, facial expressions, and the overall atmosphere; adjusting our tone, subject, and humour to suit the occasion; and understanding what others may be feeling without being told. That simple expression said it all. We quietly settled into the environment for the evening.

As has become the normal practice, some participants initiated the conversation by referring to the recent address delivered by Amar Devulapalli at the Telangana Saraswat Parishad Auditorium on his life's journey and five decades of experience in journalism. Instead of recounting the entire address, Amar shared a few interesting highlights. One of them was that he was born at the Missionaries Hospital in Hanamkonda, popularly known then as the "Fathery Hospital." From there, the discussion naturally moved to the terminology associated with different institutions, particularly hospitals.

Participants fondly recalled several such instances. It was observed that, in many parts of the erstwhile Andhra Pradesh, including Hanamkonda and Warangal, early missionary hospitals were popularly known as ‘Fathery’ hospitals or ‘Padri’ hospitals. One participant explained that this colloquial linguistic adaptation followed a pattern similar to the transformation of ‘Quarantine’ into ‘Koranti,’ a usage that can best be understood in its historical and cultural context.

The local Telugu and Urdu speaking population frequently interacted with Christian missionaries, whom they addressed as ‘Father’ or ‘Padri,’ a term for Christian priests introduced during the Portuguese and British colonial periods. In local dialects, adding a ‘Y’ or ‘EE’ sound to a noun to denote ownership or association is quite common. Thus, a hospital managed by Christian Fathers naturally came to be known in everyday parlance as the ‘Fathery’ Davakhana or ‘Padri’ Hospital.

In Hanamkonda, this specifically refers to the historic Baptist Mission Hospital, associated with the American Baptist Telugu Mission, completed in 1902 during the Nizam's rule. As the institution stood alongside the Centenary Baptist Church and was managed by missionary doctors and ordained ministers, the entire complex in Lashkar Bazar came to be popularly known among older generations as the ‘Fathery Hospital’ or ‘Padri Hospital.’

This naming convention was not confined to Hanamkonda. Across the Deccan region, whenever a Christian mission established the first modern dispensary or school in a district, local people usually bypassed the long official English names and simply identified the institution by the people who managed it. The conversation then naturally shifted to other hospitals in Hyderabad, their old and new names, and the evolution of those identities.

Almost all the participants, either born and brought up in Telangana or associated with the region for decades, readily recalled many of these interesting names. A broad understanding emerged from the discussion that, during the Asaf Jahi, or Nizam era, and for several years, if not decades, after the integration of Hyderabad State into India, many of the city's iconic healthcare institutions continued to be popularly known by their historical or colonial names.

A prime example is the Nizam's Orthopaedic Hospital, which later evolved into the Nizam's Institute of Medical Sciences, popularly known as NIMS. Like many other institutions of that era, its name reflected its founder, patron, or the locality it served. Several such medical institutions came to be identified by localized Urdu expressions, colonial titles, or the names of royal patrons. Established during the reign of the Seventh Nizam, Mir Osman Ali Khan, it eventually evolved into the present-day NIMS.

Similarly, the majestic Indo Saracenic structure of Osmania General Hospital, completed in 1925, was widely known as Afzal Gunj Hospital, after its original 1866 patron, Nizam Afzal ud Doula, or simply as Dar ul Shifa. In Secunderabad, the institution now known as Gandhi Hospital began in 1853, later became the British era Prince Edward Memorial Hospital, subsequently the King Edward Memorial Hospital, or KEM Hospital, before being renamed in 1956 in honour of Mahatma Gandhi.

Specialty care also gave rise to distinct colloquial names across the city. The Government Nizamia General Hospital, established near the historic Charminar in 1938 to provide Unani treatment, came to be popularly known as the Charminar Unani Hospital. In Yerragadda, the mental health institution, originally known in Urdu as Darul Majaneen or the Jalaluddin Lunatic Asylum, later became the Government Mental Health Centre.

The neighbouring Government Chest Hospital found its home in the heritage Irranuma Palace, originally built by the Paigah noble Vikar ul Umra, before being converted by the Nizam into a Tuberculosis, or TB, Sanatorium because of its elevated and breezy location. The participants then turned their attention to the tradition of localized names and royal patronage that shaped women's and children's healthcare, infectious disease control, and several other prominent hospitals across Hyderabad.

The Government ENT Hospital in Koti originally functioned in the private estate of the wealthy nobleman and banker Raja Pratap Girji, retaining his name for generations as the Raja Pratap Girji ENT Hospital. Maternal and child healthcare witnessed the emergence of Niloufer Hospital, initially established as the Nizam's Children and Women Hospital, with the support of Princess Niloufer of the Ottoman Empire in 1949 after she witnessed the tragic death of a maid during childbirth.

This institution was closely associated with the older concept of the Jajgi Khana or Zajgi Davakhana, the traditional Urdu expression for a maternity home or childbirth house. Originally, this term became synonymous with the Victoria Zenana Hospital, later known as the Victoria Maternity Hospital, a women's hospital established near the Musi River in 1907. Decades later, the historic premises became part of the Telangana High Court campus, now functioning as its H Block, while the medical institution was relocated nearby as the Modern Government Maternity Hospital. Even today, many locals and older auto drivers continue to refer to it as the Petlaburj Maternity Hospital or simply the old Jajgi Khana.

Likewise, the city's principal institution for combating epidemics, the Sir Ronald Ross Institute of Tropical and Communicable Diseases in Nallakunta, continues to be remembered by its simpler popular names. Established by the Nizam in 1915 as a Quarantine Facility during a cholera outbreak, the local adaptation of the English word "Quarantine" gradually gave rise to the familiar name Koranti Davakhana, or simply Couranty. Although officially renamed in 1997 to mark the centenary of Sir Ronald Ross's Nobel Prize winning research on malaria, it continues to be widely known as the Government Fever Hospital.

The conversation then moved to an interesting observation by an Indian journalist and writer who, while in the United Kingdom, discovered that a ‘Saloon’ referred to a bar and not to a barber's ‘Salon,’ as he had understood it in India before leaving for abroad. The discussion was initiated by Dr Bharatbabu, the only guest who participated in the Twenty First Friday Evening Meeting. Soft spoken Bharat recalled a book recommended by his father, Late Dr A P Ranga Rao, once a long-time resident of the United Kingdom and a member of the Press Club, where this distinction was clearly explained.

The conversation soon became even more informative as participants, step by step, recalled further details about the writer. It was Sasthi Brata Chakravarti, popularly known as Sasthi Brata, the fiercely provocative British Indian Indo Anglian writer and journalist. A brief clarification followed regarding his bibliography. My God Died Young, published in 1968, was in fact his debut work, a cult classic autobiography centred on youthful angst, alienation from his conservative Calcutta roots, and his eventual self-exile in the West.

 Sasthi Brata's later work, Confessions of an Indian Woman Eater, published in 1971, was a highly controversial, semi-autobiographical novel tracing the mischievous and often self-indulgent adventures of an Indian protagonist wandering through Europe. Brata's writing was marked by uncompromising honesty, sharp irreverence, and wit. He frequently employed this style to examine both traditional Indian social norms and the cultural shocks he experienced while adapting to life in the West.

The jocular confusion over the word ‘Saloon’ highlights the classic linguistic and cultural contrast that Brata so masterfully portrayed in his writings. In mid twentieth century India, particularly in local dialects, a ‘Saloon’ commonly referred, and perhaps still does in some places, to a modest neighbourhood barber shop or ‘Hair Cutting Salon.’ However, on arriving in the West, an Indian traveller relying on that usage could easily be confused, for there a saloon is a drinking establishment or bar.

Brata employed precisely such linguistic misunderstandings to portray the humour of the uprooted immigrant experience, illustrating how a naive traveller in search of a quick haircut could inadvertently walk through the swinging doors of a bustling pub. In this context, one of the Friday Evening Meeting participants referred to the recent book Avoid Blunders: Write Right English by Vinay Bhushan Bhagwaty, who aptly cautions that, ‘A Word can make a World of Difference.’

Elaborating on this, the author cites modern examples such as writing ‘Please ADVICE me’ instead of ‘Please ADVISE me,’ and the humorous anecdote, ‘Nun takes care of Monk's needs’ instead of ‘None takes care of my needs.’ Such examples are not merely amusing but also illustrate how a single word can cause confusion, embarrassment, or even reputational damage. ‘Saloon’ and ‘Salon’ present similar instances.

Had the discussion ended there, the meeting would have quietly concluded for the evening. However, an enthusiastic participant referred to the ‘World's Oldest Luxury Barbershop,’ which has served London's elite since its establishment in 1805. Another participant added that it is the world's oldest luxury barbershop chain, built upon British royal heritage and distinguished by its premium services. In Hyderabad, it stands in striking contrast to the modest neighbourhood salon, with branches in Banjara Hills and Gachibowli. Its name is ‘Truefitt & Hill.’

One or two participants shared their personal experience of visiting the establishment. Their observations suggested that the experience seemed carefully designed to shift attention from the cost of a haircut to the ambience and the overall grooming ritual, something they felt a neighbourhood barber could accomplish far more simply and economically. Those who had visited remarked, with a touch of humour, that the process resembled an elaborate forty-five-minute sequence of hot towels, pre shave oils, and badger hair brushes.

Although no participant recalled the exact charges, it was generally observed that the cost of a haircut varied considerably according to the services chosen. The discussion also touched upon the establishment's annual membership, said to cost around Rs 1.10 lakh, offering unlimited grooming services for a year with validity across its outlets worldwide. Rather than dwelling on the commercial aspects, the conversation examined how ambience, heritage, branding, and exclusivity together shape perceptions of value, often extending well beyond the service itself.

The Twenty First Friday Evening had, in fact, commenced quite modestly with Amar Devulapalli, one of the regular participants, responding to the request of friends to recount a few significant episodes from his remarkable life's journey, taking cue from the address he had delivered a few days earlier at the Telangana Saraswat Parishad. Speaking with his characteristic simplicity and humility, Amar briefly reflected on his evolution from childhood to becoming one of the most respected journalists, editors, trade union leaders, and media personalities in the Telugu speaking world.

As already noted earlier, his narration was not merely a personal memoir but also an illuminating account of the evolution of journalism, the media landscape, and the socio-political movements that shaped his five-decade long career. Since several participants had been unable to attend his earlier address, they requested him to share a few highlights. His reference to being born on June 10, 1956, at the Missionaries Hospital in Hanamkonda, popularly remembered as the ‘Fathery Hospital,’ became the point of departure for the fascinating discussion on historical names, linguistic transformations, and collective memory that unfolded through the evening.

As has become an enriching feature of these Friday Evening Meetings, thoughts that could not be shared during the discussion if not often, at times, find expression later. In that spirit, Bhandaru Srinivasa Rao, owing to paucity of time, could not speak during the meeting, but later communicated an informative message through WhatsApp. Being both timely and contextual, it is appended here as a fitting tailpiece to this week's narrative. ‘Every reform should be viewed through the eyes of the ordinary citizen. Millions of sincere voters have been faithfully exercising their democratic right over the years.’

‘This they do despite facing often, struggling with changing constituencies, polling stations, and electoral records. They seek neither privilege nor favour, only the assurance that their identity as voters remains secure and respected. Fear of losing an existing right, coupled with uncertainty about the future, breeds frustration and distrust. Governance earns lasting public confidence only when policies are designed with simplicity, accessibility, and the convenience of ordinary people foremost, ensuring every citizen continues to feel counted, valued, and heard.’

With yet another evening of shared memories, thoughtful exchanges, and enriching conversations becoming part of this continuing chronicle, the participants dispersed with the quiet satisfaction of having jointly learnt something new, looking forward to meeting again on the coming Friday, as usual.