Last evening I attended a book launch at Badruka College. After the event, my friend Suresh and I stopped at a restaurant in Narayanguda for dinner. By the time we stepped out, the skies had opened up. Staying back wasn’t a clever option. Rain showed no sign of letting up. So we set off: Suresh astride his gleaming Harley Davidson heading to Toli Chowki, I on my dependable Jupiter scooter bound for Alwal.
From the very start, the journey resembled a survival test. The traffic crawled as torrents lashed down. Roads resembled rivers, with SUVs, cars, and autos ploughing through recklessly, splashing sheets of water on either side.
For those of us on two-wheelers, the hazards multiplied. Helmet visors fogged and blurred, droplets danced with incoming headlights and taillights, creating a bokeh haze that blinded rather than guided.
The Oliphant Bridge nightmare
Dodging knee-high water, potholes, and sudden ditches, I crept forward until I reached the Oliphant Bridge underpass near Secunderabad Railway Station. That was when my ordeal truly began. The water here was no longer ponded – it was rushing like a torrent. In the middle of it, my scooter coughed and died.
I was not alone. Dozens of two-wheelers and autos stalled, their riders stranded. I offered a hand to a man pushing his bike, in the hope he would return the favour. He did not. Once past the underpass, he kick-started and sped away. I could hardly blame him. Perhaps the only thing on his mind was to reach home safely.
There I was, water rushing past, a dead scooter refusing to budge, running out of strength and options. Just when despair was setting in, orange-clad rescue workers appeared. With brisk efficiency, they pushed my scooter to safer ground near Blue Sea Café.
A ride from nightmare to nightmare
I tried in vain to restart. Thoughts crowded: Should I call roadside assistance? Leave the scooter behind? Find a tow? Then, mercifully, the engine sputtered back to life. But the relief was short-lived.
From there, every stretch was another nightmare. Sangeet Crossroads, Jubilee Bus Station, Secunderabad Club, Vikrampuri, Kharkhana, Lal Bazar, Lothkunta – each had its own flooded pockets and hidden ditches.
Reckless drivers bore down on scooters, spraying sheets of water. Somewhere near the Club, I gave up on my visor and prescription glasses, stuffing them into my pocket, choosing blurred eyesight over blurred visors.
Further afield, friends reported their own nightmares: rainwater cascading down flyovers like waterfalls at Panjagutta, Begumpet, Banjara Hills, and LB Nagar; traffic marooned at Ameerpet, Masab Tank, and Mehdipatnam; roads resembling lakes near Tolichowki, Dilsukhnagar, Malkajgiri, Uppal, Miyapur, and Kukatpally. In almost every corner of Hyderabad, waterlogging turned commutes into ordeals, shops into islands, and homes into holding ponds.
Finally, the Alwal stretch appeared blessedly dry. By then, I was soaked to the skin, shivering, and exhausted. A ride that should have been thirty minutes dragged on for nearly two hours. The hot shower that awaited me at home felt like deliverance.
Leaders’ promises, citizens’ reality
This was not just my ordeal. It is the ordeal of every Hyderabadi who dares to step out in a downpour despite rain alerts. Roads turn to rivers, flyovers become waterfalls, drains overflow, and potholes multiply.
Our leaders boast of turning Hyderabad into Dallas or Singapore. Perhaps they should first try navigating Hyderabad in a cloudburst. Not from the backseat of an SUV, but astride a scooter – or even driving their own cars – through Oliphant Bridge, Panjagutta, Banjara Hills, Mehdipatnam, Uppal, Tolichowki, or Kukatpally. Only then will they grasp the urgency of fixing drains, redesigning roads, and maintaining infrastructure that collapses with every monsoon.
Chief Minister Revanth Reddy has spoken of a century-long plan to tackle Hyderabad’s flooding. What the city cries out for is not grand visions, but practical, immediate action that makes the next ride home survivable. Until then, every spell of rain will keep drowning both our roads … and our hopes. (Pictures courtesy: Times of India)
