The Chickadpally Bazaar : A Modern Blueprint
For The Timeless Triumph of Lifelong Friendship
Distant Homes, Enduring Bonds,
And Echo of a Vanished Era
By
Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao
Settled
permanently in Hyderabad due to professional obligations, my wife, now 73, and
I, at 78, often find ourselves reflecting on the golden decades of our earlier
life. A quiet melancholy occasionally stirs within us when we compare the deep
bonds, shared responsibilities, and warm human connections of five or six
decades ago with the fragmented, fast-paced nature of modern urban life. Change
is inevitable, yet every change leaves something behind.
That
feeling returned vividly one recent afternoon when my wife's sister's daughter,
Satyavathi, affectionately called Chinapapa, came to visit us. As she and my
wife sat at our dining table, an ordinary conversation gradually became a
journey into the past, carrying us back forty or fifty years. What unfolded
between them was far more than a conversation between two close relatives.
Instead, it was the living echo of a generation's way of life, friendship, and
human warmth.
It
was more than a conversation between two close relatives. It was the echo of an
entire generation's way of life, a remarkable story of friendship and kinship,
and a reflection of a warmth in human relationships that younger generations
may find difficult to imagine today. What follows is a faithful account of that
conversation by me: unfiltered, unembellished, and drawn directly from lived
experience.
Our
journey in Hyderabad began around 1974 when I joined the BHEL Higher Secondary
School as a librarian. We first lived in the neighbourhoods of Chickadpally,
Ashok Nagar, and Gandhi Nagar. Around the same time, many of our relatives and
close friends also moved to Hyderabad and gradually settled in these very
localities, creating a close-knit circle that would shape our lives for
decades.
They
were: Bhandaru Srinivasa Rao: my childhood classmate and, later, my wife's
younger maternal uncle, who worked as News Correspondent in the News Division
of All India Radio (Akash Vani), Hyderabad, and his wife Nirmala,
affectionately known to all as Durga Attayya. Vanam Ranga Rao, my college
classmate, close relative, and fellow cricket player, worked in the State Bank
of Hyderabad (SBH), while his wife Geetha, who was born and brought up in
Hyderabad, was known for her intelligence and lively conversation.
My
wife's elder sister's daughter, Chinapapa (Satyavati), and her husband SH
Prasad, a senior officer in the Central Bank, were also part of this circle.
Bhandaru Ramachandra Rao, who joined the State Bank of India (SBI) as a
Probationary Officer and rose to the position of Chief General Manager, lived
with his wife Vimaladevi, fondly called Vimala Attayya are part of the circle.
Then there were Dr Aitharaju Venu Manohar Rao and his wife Usha Rani, and later
his elder brother Dr Aitharaju Pandu Ranga Rao and his wife Karuna. Together,
they formed a close-knit group bound by affection, trust, and mutual support.
In
those early years, our homes were small, usually consisting of just two or
three rooms, with few comforts and hardly any amenities. Yet, whenever
relatives or friends visited Hyderabad on work, they stayed with us without
hesitation, sharing our modest homes, discomforts, and simple meals until their
work was completed. It was, in a way, an extension of the traditional
joint-family system: a shared network of relatives and friends in which
emotional closeness easily overcame physical limitations.
Within
this circle, each person had a distinct place. Srinivasa Rao and his wife
Nirmala were known for their generosity and willingness to help. Any problem
seemed closer to a solution the moment Srinivasa Rao became involved. Geetha
brought intelligence, alertness, and a practical outlook. Vimaladevi, being the
eldest among the women, naturally assumed the role of a guide and elder sister.
Chinapapa,
the youngest of the group, possessed a remarkable ability to get things done.
Whether it was groceries or household items, she could obtain them on credit
from almost any shopkeeper. Even when she had little money of her own, she
always found a way to make arrangements whenever the need arose. While the men
attended to their professional responsibilities, the real force that bound our
families together was the friendship among the women of our households.
At
the heart of it were five remarkable women: my wife Vijayalakshmi (Bujji),
Satyavathi (Chinapapa), Nirmala (Durga Attayya, affectionately known as Amma
Odi Nirmala), Geetha, and Vimaladevi (Vimala Attayya). Though connected by
family ties, the affection they shared went far beyond the obligations of
kinship. Their friendship was marked by an extraordinary sense of togetherness
that found expression in their daily lives.
Within
half an hour of the children leaving for school and the husbands departing for
their offices, Chinapapa would invariably appear at our doorstep, usually by
ten o'clock. As she chatted with my wife, household chores would be completed,
and after lunch the two would walk to Durga Attayya's house. However busy she
might be, Durga Attayya would quickly finish or assign her pending work and
join them. Before long, Geetha, who lived nearby, would also come along, and
their daily outing would begin.
Their
daily outings, which the family members fondly remember as the ‘Great
Chickadpally Bazaar Expeditions,’ became an unbroken routine. They set out
without any fixed plan, predetermined route, or shopping list. The joy lay not
in buying things but in being together. If they happened to pass a cobbler's
shop, they would stop to get the children's school shoes repaired. A grocery
store along the way might prompt the purchase of a few household necessities.
They
would browse through sarees at Lakshmi Showroom, examine stainless-steel
utensils in a hardware shop, or spend a long time selecting colourful glass
bangles. What they bought was often of little consequence. The real pleasure
came from walking together, chatting, laughing, and sharing each other's
company. To today's generation, a necessity to get accustomed to malls, online
shopping, and instant digital payments, such a lifestyle may seem simple or
even outdated. Yet those were days when money was limited, but affection,
companionship, and contentment were abundant.
If
one of them happened to be short of cash while making a purchase, another would
quietly pay without a second thought. No one kept track of who owed whom, nor
did anyone bother about settling accounts. When they grew tired, all of them
would squeeze into a single cycle-rickshaw, laughing and chatting all the way,
and by the next day no one would remember who paid the fare. If hunger struck,
they would stop at the local Sudha Hotel and share a plate of idly, a
half-plate of puri, or a single dosa among themselves.
The
real taste of that food lay in the joy of sharing. There were no separate
orders, separate bills, or separate lives. Happiness itself seemed to be their
constant companion. Around one o'clock, their wanderings would usually bring
them to Vimala Attayya's house. Even before they knocked on the door, they
would be welcomed inside and served tumblers of hot filter coffee. That was the
signal for another round of cheerful afternoon conversation.
Some
may dismiss such gatherings as mere gossip, but they were, in reality, a form
of companionship and emotional support: what they fondly called as Lokabhi
Ramayanam (Passing the time with leisurely conversation). Their
conversations were free from malice, backbiting, or self-glorification. They
revolved around the ordinary yet meaningful events of everyday life: a child's
studies, a family concern, someone's illness, a forthcoming function, or a
small domestic happiness.
By
three o'clock, my wife would invariably return home so that she could be
present when our school-going children arrived, ready with refreshments and a
warm welcome. On some days, the routine would be reversed, with Chinapapa going
first to Vimala Attayya's house and later joined by Durga Attayya, Geetha, and
my wife. On Saturdays, when our son returned early from Hyderabad Public
School, Begumpet, all four or five women would gather at the bus stop to
receive him. Even that brief time at the bus stop would turn into a cheerful
social gathering.
Had
someone documented those lively conversations at the bus stop, they would
surely have made a delightful volume of humour and human interest. The economic
realities of the 1970s and 1980s were far from easy. Whenever a family faced
financial difficulty, the others would readily come forward to help. Even if
nobody had much money to spare, small contributions from several friends were
often enough to meet the immediate need. Borrowing five or ten rupees carried
neither embarrassment nor social stigma.
Whether
it was the cost of a milk bottle, wedding expenses, sudden hospital bills, or
even the unexpected need to purchase a new cooking-gas cylinder, such expenses
were often managed through this informal network of mutual trust and support.
Salaries were modest, but the sense of security that came from affection and
togetherness was immense. This spirit extended to the older generation as well.
Whenever my maternal parents-in-law visited Hyderabad, their arrival was a
joyful occasion for all five friends, who treated them with the affection and
respect they would have shown to their own parents.
My
wife and Chinapapa laughed while recalling an incident involving my
mother-in-law. One day, as they were returning from the market in an auto rickshaw,
a frightened maid rushed up to them with the news that a thief had stolen all
the costly sarees drying on the clothesline at our house while my wife was
away. Anyone else would have been upset, but my mother-in-law remained
remarkably calm. Turning to them, she said, ‘The stolen sarees are not going to
come back to us. Why should we lose our present peace and happiness by worrying
about something that has already happened? Let the auto move on.’
That
simple remark reflected her philosophy of life: a refusal to allow material
losses to disturb one's peace of mind. On another occasion, just a few days
after undergoing major surgery, she insisted on accompanying my wife, Durga
Attayya, and Chinapapa on a walk to a steel factory near Gandhi Nagar. On the
way, they met Dr Manohar Rao, who jokingly admonished them: ‘She has just come
out of the operation theatre! You should have kept Amma at home resting instead
of taking her on a march.’ His words left everyone laughing.
In
those days, even a gentle scolding from the family doctor carried the warmth
and reassurance of genuine affection. They also fondly recalled an incident
involving my father-in-law, Ram Rao. During a visit to Chinapapa's house, he
gladly accepted her invitation for lunch. With great care, she prepared a
ladies' finger (Benda Kaya) curry, only to discover later that she had
forgotten to add both salt and spice.
Known
for his wit and good humour, Ram Rao remarked, ‘Only because your husband
Prasad is such a gentle and patient man does he eat whatever you serve without
a word of complaint!’ Instead of feeling embarrassed or offended, Chinapapa
laughed heartily. Taking the comment in the right spirit, she became determined
to perfect the dish. In time, her ladies' finger curry became a favourite with
the entire family.
The
friendship shared by these five women went far beyond shopping trips, cups of
coffee, and afternoon conversations. They were each other's strongest support
during every important event in life. Whether it was a Satyanarayana Vratam, a
small family function, a child's birthday celebration, or a Gruhapravesham,
they were always among the first to arrive. Within their means, they pooled
their resources to buy clothes or gifts, making sure that something befitting
the occasion was presented to their friend.
Their
concern for one another became even more evident during times of illness.
Whenever someone from the extended circle was admitted to a hospital, the
others would immediately set aside their own work and responsibilities to help.
During major operations, they would wait anxiously outside the operating
theatre, offering comfort and reassurance to worried family members. They took
turns staying at the hospital, helping with patient care and providing
emotional support.
In
their circle, the troubles of one family were regarded as the concern of all,
and every challenge was faced together. Years turned into decades, and the
world changed around them. The children grew up, received higher education, and
built successful careers in different parts of the world. Though distance
separated families geographically, the bonds between parents and children
remained strong. Wherever they settled, the children continued to care for
their parents with affection, concern, and a deep sense of responsibility,
extending support in countless ways.
As
families moved to different neighbourhoods and advancing age gradually reduced the
physical vitality, the long afternoon walks through the bustling bazaars of
Chickadpally and the shared cycle-rickshaw rides became memories of another
time. Yet the love, care, and connectedness that sustained those relationships
continue to endure across generations and distances. One thing however, has
remained unchanged.
Whenever
the children return home from their places of work: whether from another city
or another country, their conversations invariably turn to the enduring
friendships of their mothers. They enquire about (Late) Durga Attayya, Geetha,
Vimala Attayya, Chinapapa, and Bujji, and are delighted to learn that the
affection and closeness among them continue as warmly as ever. In a way, the
friendship nurtured by these women has become a cherished inheritance, admired
and valued by the next generation as much as by those who lived it.
Yet
time has failed to diminish the essence of their friendship. Even today,
whenever they speak over the telephone, or meet as frequently as possible, the
same warmth, affection, and enthusiasm resonate in their voices. The mere
mention of one another's names brings an immediate sparkle to their eyes.
Though age and distance may have separated them physically, in their minds they
still walk together through the familiar streets of Ashok Nagar and
Chickadpally, reliving countless cherished memories.
As
I listened to my wife and Chinapapa talking the other day, I felt as though I
was listening to the echo of a bygone era. It reminded me of a time when
relationships were nurtured not by convenience or expectation, but by genuine
affection, mutual trust, and selfless concern for one another. Our lifestyles,
surroundings, and technologies may have changed beyond recognition, yet
friendships of this kind possess a rare strength that transcends time and
circumstance.
Even
as distances widen, age advances, and life takes each family in different
directions, the affection and regard shared by Chinapapa, Bujji, Durga Attayya
(though no longer with us), Geetha, and Vimala Attayya remain unchanged. Their
enduring friendship stands as a living example of how true happiness lies in
meaningful human relationships.
It
is a legacy cherished not only by their generation but also by their children,
who continue to enquire about these bonds whenever they return home from
distant places, whether in India or abroad. Witnessing a bond so pure, one
cannot help but bow their head in absolute reverence and admiration for their
friendship.
