Childhood in Bolarum was like a chapter out of Malgudi Days, where time moved at a gentle, unhurried pace. Life wasn’t defined by today’s endless race but by a comforting rhythm that guided our days.
Bolarum had its own railway station, where coal-fired steam engines rolled in from Medchal and Falaknuma, filling the air with a warm, earthy scent as they chugged in with daily commuters, small traders, and families setting off on outings. This town wasn’t merely a spot on the map; it was a close-knit world, one that felt self-contained and timeless.
Every morning, the town seemed to wake as one, with cycles gliding along narrow lanes. Men cycled with family members perched on handlebars and carriers, skillfully steering through the town’s winding paths. Nearly every household had a bicycle, treasured as much for errands as for trips to the bazaar or to visit friends.
I remember the thrill of borrowing my father’s cycle, gripping the handle awkwardly with one hand, my other hand clinging to the seat, legs stretched to reach the pedals beneath the crossbar. Scrapes and bruises were inevitable, and even now, faded scars mark my early, wobbly attempts at independence.
A self-sustained village
Bolarum was, in every sense, a self-reliant village. The town had it all: a bank, post office, Udipi restaurant, Kaka hotel (Kerala Muslim restaurant), military stores, pawn shops, paan shops, provision stores, cobblers, cycle rentals, potters, goldsmiths, carpenters, and even a tinsmith.
The market in Macha Bolarum was brimming with fresh produce alongside dairy, poultry, fish, and meat. A large toddy shops brewed palm or date toddy depending on the season, serving frothy, bubbling toddy and country liquor for those who sought it.
Two well-established hospitals served the town: a maternity hospital and the Secunderabad Cantonment Board (SCB) hospital. For just 10 paise, people could seek treatment for anything from a common cold to a more serious ailment. These hospitals, housed in expansive British-era buildings, exuded a sense of calm. The nurses, in their white frocks and Florence Nightingale-style caps, were a reassuring sight, giving us a sense of security that remains unmatched.
Entertainment woven into everyday life
Entertainment in Bolarum wasn’t extravagant but fit the community like a well-worn glove. Two cinemas, Select Talkies and Sri Sai Talkies, brought in eager audiences at just 45 paise a ticket. Theatres with rudimentary seating and slow-turning fans provided an atmosphere that matched the town’s unpretentious vibe.
Street performers, snake charmers, magicians, and the occasional bhalu wala with a performing bear added a touch of spectacle to our routines, while the bioscope brought moving pictures of iconic sites like the Qutub Minar and Taj Mahal, complete with the nostalgic tune of ‘Dilli ka Qutub Minar Dekho.…’
After school, our streets transformed into our playgrounds. Marbles, gulli danda, spinning tops, kite flying, and climbing the grand tamarind and banyan trees filled our afternoons. We also had BRRL — the Bolarum Reading Room & Library, later renamed the Bolarum Reading & Recreational Club—which nurtured my love for books in English and Telugu and opened a window to the wider world through its newspapers.
BRRL encouraged sports like Tenni-Koit, volleyball, and football, producing a few national-level players. Inside, it had table tennis, chess, and carrom boards, and on Sundays, the excitement of Tambola drew a crowd. Yet, today, BRRL is a shadow of its former self, a quiet place that speaks of a time when dedication to community spaces was stronger.
As we grew older, our games moved to the open grounds near Holy Trinity Church, where cricket and football became our main pursuits, with improvised gear and enthusiasm that could make up for any shortcomings. Our daily walk from Doveton Bazar to Valerian Grammar School took us through this playground—a wide, green stretch that now exists only in memory, as the Army has since fenced it off.
Harmony and shared traditions
Despite its modest pace, Bolarum embraced all faiths, with temples, mosques, and the Holy Trinity Church coexisting in harmony. Shared joys and traditions were so deeply woven into our lives that, as a child, I never questioned their uniqueness. It was only later that I realized how special this coexistence was.
Today, the Bolarum has changed. Open spaces have vanished, green patches have been claimed by time and development, and a sense of neglect has crept in. Familiar landmarks, like the once-bustling Boys High School and Girls High School, feel like echoes of a bygone era, though St. Ann’s retains some of its old grace.
Yet, Bolarum’s spirit remains alive in memory. Every scar from those early cycling days, each kite flew during Sankranti, and the sight of Select Talkies and Sri Sai Talkies—even in their now-dilapidated states—reminds me of a Bolarum that lives on in the story of the town and mine.