A Disaster Waiting Or Hyderabad’s Ticking Bomb
The devastating fire accident in a Delhi hotel that claimed 21 lives, including a large number of foreign nationals, should not be viewed merely as another tragic headline destined to disappear from public memory after a few days of television debates and official condolences. It should serve as a deafening warning bell for governments and urban planners across India, particularly in Telangana.
Every major disaster carries within it an uncomfortable question: could this happen elsewhere?
The answer, unfortunately, is yes.
And if Hyderabad’s authorities are honest with themselves, they would admit that there are several pockets in the city where a similar tragedy could unfold at any moment.
The Delhi hotel reportedly had approvals for a limited number of rooms but was allegedly operating far beyond permitted capacity. Such stories are hardly unique to Delhi. Across Indian cities, illegal constructions, unauthorized extensions, encroachments, altered building plans, blocked exits, and compromised safety norms have become routine features of urban life. Violations continue until a catastrophe occurs. Only then do governments discover their conscience.
Hyderabad is no exception.
Recently, I revisited parts of Secunderabad where I was born, raised and schooled. Along with childhood friends, what began as a nostalgic walk down memory lane soon turned into a disturbing reality check.
The Secunderabad of our childhood no longer exists.
The open spaces where children played cricket have vanished. The breathing spaces that once gave neighbourhoods a sense of balance have been swallowed by unchecked construction. Every available inch of land appears to have been monetised. Buildings stand shoulder to shoulder. Narrow lanes have become narrower. Structures have emerged in places where common sense would suggest no construction should ever have been permitted.
The area stretching from Secunderabad Railway Station towards Gandhi Hospital, Monda Market, Bandimet and adjoining localities presents a particularly worrying picture. What were once relatively spacious residential pockets have, over the decades, transformed into dense urban clusters where accessibility itself has become a challenge.
The most frightening question is not whether these structures are legal or illegal.
The frightening question is this: what happens if disaster strikes?
Can a fire engine enter many of these lanes?
Can emergency ambulances reach victims in time?
Can hundreds of people evacuate safely if a major fire breaks out?
Can security agencies respond effectively if there is a terror-related incident?
For many of these localities, the answer is deeply uncomfortable.
Urban safety cannot be judged merely by counting buildings. It must be measured by the ability to save lives when things go wrong. That too of the poor and middle-income group families as they cannot afford to dream to buy and live in Gated Community spaces.
A city becomes vulnerable not only because of criminal intent or natural calamities but also because of administrative negligence accumulated over decades. Every unauthorized construction overlooked, every encroachment ignored, every safety certificate granted without proper scrutiny and every political compromise made for electoral convenience contributes to a ticking time bomb.
Successive governments must share responsibility for creating this situation. It would be intellectually dishonest to blame only the present administration. The problem has been decades in the making.
Yet history cannot become an excuse for inaction.
Chief Minister Revanth Reddy’s government has repeatedly projected itself as an administration willing to take difficult decisions. The HYDRA initiative has demonstrated that when political will exists, even powerful encroachments can be challenged. Illegal structures affecting lakes, nalas and public spaces are finally facing scrutiny.
The same urgency must now be extended to densely populated urban clusters that pose serious public safety risks.
This is not an argument against the poor.
Nor is it an argument against old neighbourhoods.
It is an argument for human life.
Residents living in such localities are often victims of poor planning rather than beneficiaries of it. Many have nowhere else to go. Their economic circumstances compel them to remain in areas where safety standards are woefully inadequate. The government’s duty is not to punish such residents but to protect them.
A comprehensive audit of high-risk urban zones should be undertaken immediately. Fire safety compliance, emergency access routes, building occupancy levels, structural stability and evacuation preparedness must be reviewed. Areas surrounding major transport hubs such as Secunderabad Railway Station deserve particular attention because of the enormous daily movement of people.
The irony is impossible to miss.
Secunderabad Railway Station is being transformed into a world-class transportation hub with modern infrastructure and passenger amenities. Yet the surrounding urban ecosystem continues to suffer from chronic congestion, poor planning and serious safety vulnerabilities.
A world-class railway station cannot coexist comfortably with third-world urban chaos around it.
The lessons from the Delhi fire should not be learnt after Hyderabad experiences its own tragedy. Governments often act after lives are lost because the political cost of prevention is immediate while the benefits are invisible.
But true leadership lies in preventing disasters, not merely managing them.
Time is running out.
The question is not whether another urban tragedy will occur somewhere in India.
The question is whether Telangana’s policymakers have the courage and foresight to ensure that Hyderabad is not the next city making national headlines for all the wrong reasons.
When disaster strikes, it is already too late.
The time to act is now.
