There’s a saying: if a city attracts you, your destiny is there. For me, that city is Hyderabad.
I still remember stepping into Hyderabad on 18 July 2013, a fresh college grad with a small suitcase and big nerves. I didn’t know then that this place would stitch itself into my life so tightly. On day two, I landed my first job. Destiny didn’t knock; it barged in with a grin and said, “Chalo, kaam shuru.”
Those first days were a comedy of tenderness. While hunting for a hostel, the warden called out, “rendi!”—and my friends and I froze, wide-eyed, wondering what we’d done. Later, we learned it simply means “please come” in Telugu. That’s Hyderabad in a nutshell: it startles you, then it softens you, and soon you’re laughing at your own confusion.
The city taught me a new language without forcing me to change my own. Words like “miya” and “kiraak” slipped into my vocabulary; directions were given with a left hand waving to the right; and somehow I always reached exactly where I needed to be. People here helped without making a show of it. I wasn’t judged for my loud laugh; it was celebrated. My looks were complimented, and my ideas were heard. Hyderabad didn’t make me smaller so it could fit me in—it widened itself so I could belong.
I came from Ranchi and could’ve chosen any city. I visited others. But every time I returned to Hyderabad, a quiet peace settled inside me—the kind you feel when you put a book back on the right shelf. Even when I was alone, I wasn’t lonely. The city made space for me in its rhythm: the RTC buses groaning to a halt, the breeze at bus stops, the hum of conversations, and headphones leaking favorite songs. Those bus rides became my private therapy—my moving Reiki—and the city, my patient healer.
People warned me: “It’s the South—language barrier, no one helps.” And yet, my first circle of friends was all from the South. We spoke in English, laughed in many accents, and understood each other perfectly. We had chai that tasted like long talks, biryani that felt like a festival for no reason, and crisp dosas in Uppal that turned weekday evenings into tiny celebrations. There was never a dull moment—only the good kind of noise.
Three months in, I realized something simple and profound: the feeling was mutual. Hyderabad loved me back. It had already adopted me—quietly, warmly, without paperwork.
What do I love about this city? Its innocence survives even in traffic. It’s a habit of pointing left but guiding you right. It’s easy dignity—“light lo” energy—that tells you everything can be figured out over chai. The way strangers call you Miya, and you suddenly feel like family. The way it lets you arrive as you are and still leave as more.
If places have personalities, Hyderabad is that friend who laughs loudly at your worst joke, saves you a seat on a crowded bus, and texts you “reached?” when you get home. It’s care without noise. It’s love without conditions. It’s life, but easier to carry.
I didn’t just live in Hyderabad. Hyderabad lived in me—in my words, my appetite, my timing, my faith that people are mostly kind. Cities are usually backdrops; this one became a character in my story.
Thank you, Hyderabad, for the first job on the second day, for the bus-stop epiphanies, for friends who turned into family, for biryanis that tasted like belonging, and for teaching me that home isn’t always where you’re from—it’s where you’re accepted.
Shukriya, Hyderabad. Nenu intiki vachchānu.
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