57. Nostalgia

Jet lag hit me hard today, the kind that muddles time zones and nudges your mind into memories. Instead of staying in bed, I found myself walking the alleyways of Hyderabad, the city of my childhood, the city that shaped my earliest understanding of the world. There was a strange pull in the early morning haze, something soulful in the quiet breeze. The birds were chirping, the roads were still half asleep, and as I walked through the neighborhood I once called home, I was transported back decades.

It was around 5:30 in the morning. The sky was a canvas of pale orange and blue, with just a whisper of light brushing the old rooftops. A pleasant breeze touched my face, and for a moment, I forgot the burdens of adulthood, the weight of a physician’s life, and the constant demands of being responsible for others’ well-being. All I could feel was the gentle breeze, familiar, carrying with it the scent of old Hyderabad, and of memories long tucked away.

Walking through these lanes, I realized how some things haven’t changed at all — the quiet temples tucked between residential blocks, the smell of morning dosas wafting from small breakfast stalls, and the timeless smiles of early risers sipping their chai by the roadside. However, in other ways, the city has transformed. Especially in the far western corridors of Hyderabad, the city has expanded significantly. Where once there were barren lands and rocky stretches, now rise towers, IT corridors, and high-end cafés with global menus. It’s surreal, the old soul of the city trying to coexist with its new, ambitious face.

There’s something almost magical about coming home after living abroad. It’s not just about the places, it’s the people — childhood friends, neighbors who still remember you, distant relatives who light up when they see you. You begin to feel deeply connected again, as if a puzzle piece is slipping back into its rightful place.

In a city as layered as Hyderabad — with its rich blend of culture, cuisine, and history, this feeling is intensified. You’re not just walking through streets; you’re walking through memories. I met a few of my friends yesterday, and we laughed like we used to when we were ten. Those small moments, that emotional familiarity, reminded me how powerful nostalgia is. It’s not just a feeling, it’s a portal.

As physicians, our lives are often dictated by schedules, emergencies, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. We forget how to pause. We fail to live for ourselves. This trip was a needed reminder that self-care isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity. We care for others every day, but how often do we care for ourselves? This journey reminded me of the importance of personal reflection, of slowing down and reclaiming our balance.

Hyderabad is transforming. The skyline, particularly in areas like Gachibowli and Financial District, resembles something out of Manhattan. The skyline features glass towers, flyovers, metro stations, malls, and tech campuses. This city, which once felt like a sleepy town with royal whispers from the Nizam era, is now racing toward the future.

Yet, what’s most beautiful is the coexistence. You’ll see a centuries-old mosque next to a new-age co-working space—a traditional biryani house beside a global fast-food chain. The spirit of Hyderabad refuses to be buried under development; instead, it dances with it.

One of the most mind-boggling changes is the adoption of digital infrastructure. Even the smallest vendors now accept UPI payments. A layperson can transfer money with just a tap, no delays, no complications. In a country with over a billion people, this kind of access is revolutionary. It fills me with pride, seeing India not just catching up but, in some aspects, leading the way globally.

For someone like me, a confessed foodie, no trip to Hyderabad is complete without indulging in its legendary cuisine. Whether it’s the rich and aromatic Hyderabadi biryani, the soft and spicy haleem, or the sweet, satisfying double ka meetha, the food here is a journey in itself. It’s history on a plate, flavored with royal heritage and the influence of every community that has lived here.

Eating in Hyderabad isn’t just a sensory experience; it’s emotional. Every dish carries a story. And as I sat down to eat at an old Iranian café, I could almost hear a voice from the past, ordering chai and Osmania biscuits. Food has the power to connect generations and serve as a bridge between the past and the present. These cafes are no less than Starbucks in the modern world.

As joyful as nostalgia can be, it carries a melancholic weight too. I stayed at the home where I grew up. The door has been repainted, the wall color changed, and the floor redone. But the echo of laughter from my childhood still seemed to bounce off the walls. That’s the paradox; everything changes, but the memory remains frozen in time.

The hardest part, though, is the absence. My mom and my grandparents are not here anymore. They were the heartbeat of that home. Walking through the same hallways without them is like hearing music without the melody. You feel something is missing, even when everything looks the same.

But I also realize they live on in me, in the values they passed down, in the memories that flood back every time I walk these lanes. That’s how life works. One generation moves on, giving life and purpose to the next. The torch is passed, sometimes silently, but always with significant impact.

This trip, though short, reminded me of the fragility of time and the permanence of memory. Life in India, especially in cities like Hyderabad, is fast-paced for some and frozen for others. If you live here, the changes may seem gradual. But for a returning traveler, they feel dramatic.

It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of work and ignore the soft knocking of your inner self. But travel, especially travel rooted in personal history, forces you to listen. It tells you stories you forgot. It helps you remember what truly matters.

As a physician, I often advocate for a balanced life for my patients. The emotional health, spiritual grounding, family, and culture they’re all part of our overall well-being. I believe in what I call the Triple Eight Agenda: 8 hours of work, 8 hours of rest, and 8 hours of living life intentionally. Few of us manage this balance, but all of us deserve to try.

As I prepare to leave Hyderabad for another city, and eventually back to the United States, I carry more than just souvenirs. I have stories, scents, sounds, and emotions. I carry nostalgia, raw, unfiltered, and irreplaceable.

Sometimes in life, we seek meaning in grand gestures, significant achievements, or faraway dreams. But often, meaning lies in returning to our roots, in revisiting the alleys of our childhood, in tasting the food our mothers made, in laughing with friends who knew us when we were nothing but kids with big dreams.

Hyderabad, to me, is more than a city. It’s a living memory. It’s a reminder that no matter how far we travel, some part of us always belongs to where we began.

And as I board my next flight, I realize something profound: nostalgia isn’t about living in the past — it’s about carrying the past forward, using it to enrich your present, and letting it gently shape your future.

Suman Manchireddy MD