backwards taxi routes in hyderabad

just woke up to the sounded of my own footsteps on a cobblestone path outside my hostel. that’s the kind of silence where you hear the city whispering, not through words but through the drip of a ceiling fan or the distant talk of a vendor selling rickshaws. i didn’t plan this mess, but hyderabad has a way of dragging you into stories like this.

i just checked and it’s that humid 21-degree weather, exactly the kind of day that makes you question all life choices. not too hot, not too cold-perfect for wandering strip clubs or tripping over monsoon puddles in alleyways. the breeze here feels like it’s carrying secrets from every neighborhood. if you want rain, this is your day. if you want dry air, maybe don’t come here.

heard that the metro here runs on electricity stolen from ghosts. someone told me that. or maybe it’s just the old chap from the bus stand who claims his grandpa worked on the system. either way, avoid the 5:30am trains. i got stuck in a tunnel once because a local insisted we’d see a ‘mythical bus’ called ‘mr. unreliable’. turns out it was just a bus with a broken headlight.

i saw a kid riding a motorbike with a banana taped to the handlebars. another one with a cooler full of soda cans tied to the seat. not sure which is more chaotic, but both were 100% legal. i almost got fined for staring too long.

if you get bored, hyderabad has over a dozen cafes with questionable daemon vibes, but that’s not a bad thing. once, i sat next to a guy who swore the chai here was brewed with sandalwood oil. his name was ram, and he’d been here 12 years. or maybe 13. he didn’t care. the reviews on yelp say he’s a fraud, but i think he’s the real deal. you can check the yelp for real-time chaos at ₹500/night hostels. just don’t ask for a window room. the last guy who asked got a bunk bed in a shed.

you’ll hear whispers about a ‘ghost market’ near the lake. one time, a dive bar owner told me that some people disappear there on tuesdays. maybe it’s true. maybe it’s a myth. either way, i told him i’d come back on thursday. he laughed. said i’d see something by then. probably just coffee stains on the walls.

i wrapped this whole trip in holds at 1185138. don’t ask me why. the number kept appearing in receipts, bus tickets, and a random playlist on a street radio. 1050919505 was the code for my hostel, but i’d already checked out by the time it mattered. maybe it’s just the kind of city where numbers haunt you.

ps: the locals here don’t waste words. if they’re selling a mango, they throw a orange at you. if they’re renting a room, they point. don’t take their gestures lightly. trust the taxis that don’t ask for money. they’re either saints or thieves. probably thieves.

track me if you want. my insta is probably filled with catastrophic selfies and 404 errors. enjoy the chaos.

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