The proposal to subsume historic Secunderabad into later-sprung, administratively amorphous regions such as Malkajgiri and Rachakonda is not a mere bureaucratic exercise—it is an assault on history, identity, and civic memory. Cities are not Lego blocks to be rearranged at the convenience of governments. They are living organisms shaped over decades by culture, discipline, geography, and civic ethos. By every such measure, Secunderabad stands apart—and must remain so.
The Telangana government’s proposal, presently under active consideration, seeks to split the Greater Hyderabad Municipal Corporation (GHMC) into three separate civic bodies—Greater Hyderabad, Greater Malkajgiri, and Greater Cyberabad. This move comes despite a long-standing and widely articulated demand by residents of Secunderabad that their historic city be granted the status of a separate municipal corporation. Instead of respecting this aspiration, the proposal turns logic on its head. Areas like Malkajgiri and its surrounding regions, which seek a new administrative identity, are being elevated—while Secunderabad is sought to be diluted and merged into an entity that neither reflects its heritage nor its civic character. This is not merely administrative insensitivity; it is an insult to the people of Telangana and to Secunderabadis in particular.
Founded in 1806 as a British cantonment, Secunderabad predates most modern urban planning concepts in the region. It evolved not as an appendage of Hyderabad, but as a parallel city with a distinct DNA—cleaner, greener, more disciplined, and genuinely cosmopolitan long before such terms became fashionable in urban policy jargon. To erase this distinction in the name of so-called “administrative efficiency” is to commit nothing short of historical vandalism.
Hyderabad and Secunderabad were never twins in the literal sense—more like neighbours separated by Hussain Sagar, not just geographically but culturally. Hyderabad was the capital of a princely state; Secunderabad grew under British administration, governed by military order, civic discipline, and municipal accountability. English was once the official language here. Roads were planned, sanitation enforced, and public spaces respected.
Contrast this with the anarchic urban sprawl that defined Hyderabad in the late 1950s, when Andhra Pradesh was formed on linguistic lines and Hyderabad was chosen as capital purely due to existing infrastructure inherited from the Nizam, not because it represented the best urban practices. Those who grew up in Secunderabad remember the stark difference—tree-lined avenues, orderly bazaars, functional drainage, and a civic sense largely absent elsewhere.
Secunderabad is not just old—it is institutionally historic. It is the largest cantonment in India, headquarters to key Army and Air Force establishments, and once the nerve centre of the British-Indian Army in the Deccan. Landmarks like Trimulgherry, Regimental Bazaar, General Bazaar, Gandhi Hospital (formerly Edward Memorial Hospital), Secunderabad Railway Station (1874), and Rashtrapati Nilayam are not relics—they are living institutions.
This city had its own municipality as early as 1945, later upgraded to a Municipal Corporation under the Hyderabad Corporation Act of 1950. The forced merger with Hyderabad in 1960 itself diluted local governance. Any further merger—especially with regions that lack historical cohesion or civic continuity—will only accelerate administrative decay.
Opposing the merger is not about nostalgia or elitism. It is about urban logic. Malkajgiri and Rachakonda are products of recent, unplanned expansion—areas still struggling with infrastructure, traffic management, policing, and civic order. Lumping them together with Secunderabad does not uplift them; it drags Secunderabad down.
Urban history across the world shows that cities which lose their administrative autonomy also lose their character. Secunderabad’s famed cleanliness, greenery, and discipline are not accidents—they are outcomes of a specific governance culture shaped over two centuries. Diluting that culture in a larger, unwieldy administrative unit will destroy what remains of it.
Secunderabad celebrated 200 years in 2006. Few Indian cities can claim such continuity of civic identity. From Sir Ronald Ross’s malaria research to its role in global trade in cloth, diamonds, and steel, Secunderabad has contributed far beyond its size. Even global figures like Winston Churchill passed through its military ecosystem.
To now reduce this city to a sub-zone in a bureaucratic map is not progress—it is amnesia.
Secunderabad does not oppose growth. It opposes thoughtless homogenisation. Development can and must happen, but with clear administrative boundaries, heritage conservation, and local governance mechanisms that respect history. Sustainable development demands balance—between industrial growth and environmental conservation, between expansion and identity.
The solution lies not in mergers, but in decentralised governance, empowered local bodies, and heritage-sensitive urban planning.
Secunderabad is not asking for privilege. It is asking for recognition of its uniqueness. Cities, like people, suffer when their identities are erased. Merge Secunderabad into a faceless administrative sprawl, and you will lose not just a city, but a model of urban discipline that this region desperately needs.
Let Secunderabad remain Secunderabad—distinct, dignified, and deserving of its own place in history and governance. (The author is a senior BJP state leader)
