That’s where the book The Hyderabadis: From 1947 to the Present Day comes in. With the media often reducing history to political timelines and listicles, author and columnist Daneesh Majid has done something different. His book doesn’t just tell the history of Hyderabad from 1947 to today. It tells it through its people. Drawing from oral histories, family archives, personal stories, and a whole lot of Urdu literature, Majid reconstructs not just events but feelings, fears, and forgotten faces.

Most of us know in the rest of India know Hyderabad as the city of biryani, tech parks, and Charminar selfies. Maybe we also vaguely remember that it wasn’t always part of India. But beyond this surface, there’s a whole world: a living, breathing identity made up of everyday people, their accents, struggles, rebellions, and middle-of-the-night memories.

We caught up with Majid ahead of his conversation with the Hyderabad Literary Festival's Director Vijay Kumar Tadakamalla. What follows is an illuminating conversation with a writer who is part historian, part cultural translator, and full-time Hyderabadi soul.

Where The Idea Came From:

The seed of a book can come from anywhere. For Majid it came from a difficult video interview.

That moment became the trigger. Majid's own paternal family had gone through the same arc: privilege under the Nizam, displacement after 1948, then a rebuild through Gulf migration. “I realised no one was capturing this... how Hyderabadi Muslims, many from elite backgrounds, had to start from scratch post-Police Action.” From that conversation to first draft took two-and-a-half years. The final manuscript came together with the support of his editor, Vikram Shah, in under three months.

“I was interviewing Arshad Pirzada, a former NRI from the Gulf. His family had aristocratic roots going back to the Asaf Jahi dynasty,” he recalls. “But the interview lacked emotional depth. My editor, Mir Ayoob Ali Khan, wasn’t happy. He said, ‘This isn’t just a story of success abroad. This is a story of what we lost, what we rebuilt.’ That hit me.”

Hyderabad is often described as a city of contradictions. Majid didn’t just describe the contradictions. He tried to understand them. “Why were kids from elite families becoming communists in the 1950s?” he asks. It’s a fascinating question, and one that reveals the city’s DNA. Figures like Abid Ali Khan, Raj Bahadur Gour, and even the father of HT’s Srinivasa Rao were all privileged youth drawn to leftist ideals. “It’s paradoxical, yes. But Hyderabad is full of those,” Majid says. “Like how Hi-Tec City and the Old City can exist in the same breath.” Then there’s geography.

“The Mehdipatnam-Tolichowki belt became this physical and emotional bridge. Families who made money in the Gulf moved there. So you’ve got real estate dreams funded by Riyals sitting right next to centuries-old graveyards.”

In other words, Hyderabad doesn’t just live with contradiction. It thrives on it. The most moving stories in the book come from the oral histories. One of them changed how Majid saw Hyderabad forever. “There’s a chapter on Umar Faruq Quadri, whose family went from aristocracy to hand-to-mouth after 1948,” he says. “But what helped them rebuild was Jamaat-e-Islami.”

A Mind-blowing Letter:

What blew his mind, though, was a letter. A forgotten one, written by Maulana Maududi urging MIM leader Qasim Razvi to peacefully negotiate Hyderabad’s accession to India. “This was a man seen as a hardliner, even by my own great-grandfather. But here he was, being the voice of reason. It made me realise that so much of what we think we know about history is incomplete. Sometimes it’s the forgotten footnotes that hold the real truth.”

What connects 1948 to 2014? In Majid’s book, it’s not dates that connect time but the city's people adjusting to new realities.

“Whether it was the fall of the Nizam, the Andhra Pradesh merger, or the Telangana movement, every shift forced Hyderabadis to realign their lives,” he says.

Deccani Muslims faced marginalisation post-1948. Telugu speakers had to cope with the Andhra elite post-1956. He says, “Deccani Muslims are seen as a little too nostalgic about the princely era and thereby mournful about the Police Action.”

These memories differ by community. “I’ve found that to be more true about the ones who have migrated to the West. There are also those who are quick to willingly adopt and amplify revisionist histories that solely look at the past with the 'us versus them' lens. They would have us believe Telugu-speakers welcomed Operation Polo, which is broadly correct. Yet, these revisionists conveniently leave out the fact that quelling the peasant rebellion in the Telangana districts was another facet of the military action in Hyderabad state,” Majid adds. One anecdote stuck with him: Srinivasa Rao’s mother crying when she heard the Nizam’s fall on the radio. “These moments complicate the ‘us vs them’ narrative we often hear.”

Urdu Musings:

Of course, the book’s beating heart is language. Especially Urdu. “Urdu literature preserved emotional truth in ways political writing never could,” says Majid. He brings up Do Mulk Ek Kahani by Ibrahim Jalees (a memoir by a Razakar-turned-rebel). One chapter describes a surreal jail meeting between Jalees and communist Raj Bahadur Gour. “I recreated that scene in English. It felt like bringing Urdu ghosts into a new century.”

He reveals an interesting insight: “By virtue of being a so-called 'Muslim' language, many regard Urdu literature as being more favourable towards the Asaf Jahi dynasty and the feudal structures it sat atop. On the contrary, even fictional Urdu works like Krishan Chander’s Jab Khet Jaage (which was the source material for the Telugu movie Maa-Bhoomi) don’t paint the landed gentry (both Hindu and Muslim) of the Telangana districts in the most positive light.” Yet, he’s clear-eyed about Urdu’s decline.

“Dakhni isn’t going anywhere. But the Urdu script? That’s disappearing. The literary cliques aren’t helping either. The politics within the Urdu community are as much to blame as outside forces.”

How did he balance personal stories with historical accuracy? Turns out, it helped that he didn’t grow up in Hyderabad. “I came of age in the new millennium. I didn’t carry the emotional baggage older generations do,” he says. That distance helped him maintain balance. He does weave in some personal history (especially in chapters about Urdu literature and his family’s own journey) but never lets it overpower the narrative. “It’s like walking a tightrope between memory and fact. But the reader deserves both.”

What about the younger generation? Do they care about all this? The author says yes; with one caveat. “Young Hyderabadis like Sruthi Apparasu and Umar Quadri were incredibly articulate. They knew their history. But that’s rare,” he says. The challenge is translating complex pasts into something relatable. “History has to be more than dates. It has to feel like your dadi telling you a story after dinner. That’s when it sticks.” That’s exactly what The Hyderabadis does.

What does Majid want readers (especially young ones) to take away? “That history isn’t what’s trending on your WhatsApp groups,” he says bluntly. “It’s what your grandparents lived. It’s the uncomfortable, unedited truth.” He offers hope in the end: “If my book helps even one reader pause, question, and ask: ‘What did our people go through?’ then I’ve done my job.”

Daneesh Majid will discuss many more facets of Hyderabad's history with Vijay Kumar Tadakamalla, Director, Hyderabad Literary Festival on June 14, 2025 at 6.30 pm at Chaurah Auditorium, Our Sacred Space, Sarojini Devi Rd, Regimental Bazaar, Shivaji Nagar, Secunderabad.

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