Guts and Gutters

Business Trip - Chaos and Contemplation

I want to capture my experience from my recent business trip to Hyderabad, which began on March 23, 2025. This wasn’t my first time navigating such a journey, but this time, I felt compelled to express the turmoil inside me—the need to stay calm amidst the storm, and the thoughts that swirled in my head. What follows is my raw, unfiltered account, laced with the emotions that gripped me and the questions that haunt me still.

The Departure from Mysore - A Stinky Start

It all began at the bus stop near Kalyan Jewelers in Mysore. As I stood there, mosquitoes swarmed me like a welcoming party I never asked for. The air was thick with the nauseating sulphur stench of an open drain running alongside a row of glittering jewelry shops. Inside, those stores gleamed with wealth; outside, it was a filthy mess. The irony wasn’t lost on me—how can such richness sit beside such squalor? (I’m not anti-national, just observing.)

The footpath was cramped and disgustingly dirty, forcing me to balance on the edge of a grimy compound wall, covering my mouth with my hand to block the stench. There was no hint of fresh air—just a suffocating, nasty atmosphere. Crossing the road to reach the bus was an ordeal: dragging my luggage, dodging thin streams of traffic, all while heading toward a vehicle parked next to yet another reeking gutter. I felt feverish just standing there, desperate to climb aboard and escape the filth. (Again, not anti-national—just overwhelmed.)

The Bus Ride - Noise and Numbness

Once I boarded, relief was short-lived. The co-passengers turned the bus into a chaotic symphony of noise—shouting, screaming, airing their family dramas, personal woes, and office gossip with no regard for privacy or sensitivity. These weren’t uneducated people; they looked learned, polished even. Yet, their volume drowned out any chance of peace. (Not anti-national, just baffled by the lack of courtesy.) The journey to Hyderabad had begun, but my mind was already wrestling with discomfort and disbelief.

Arrival in Hyderabad - A Brief Respite

When I finally reached Hyderabad, I headed straight to my office—a small oasis of calm and cleanliness amid the madness. A luggage scanner greeted me, followed by a polite nod from the security personnel. I refreshed myself, sipped some coffee, and felt a flicker of normalcy. But that was just a pitstop. My real destination was a public sector bank in Koti, near the famous Gokul Chat Center, so I booked an Uber.

The cab arrived promptly, and the driver—a cheerful, educated man—greeted me warmly. I often chat with drivers to get a pulse of the city, and this guy was a staunch Modi supporter, a "bhakt" through and through. (Not anti-national here, just noting.) He’d clearly graduated from the "WhatsApp University," brimming with opinions—some half-baked, some intriguing.

He ranted about Hyderabad’s traffic, the Congress government, and the city’s do’s and don’ts. When I asked about the military personnel I spotted on the roads, he launched into a tale about Hyderabad’s Muslim interests, the Nizams’ alleged plan to sell the city to Pakistan, and how Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel saved the day. Nehru, he claimed, was useless, compromising security. I stayed quiet, sensing his knowledge was more passion than fact. Then he softened, sharing a brighter story. He and his school friends pooled Rs. 1,000 monthly, saving up for trips. This time, they’d splurged on a cruise from Goa to Lakshadweep—Rs. 35,000 for four days of luxury. He showed me videos and photos, and I couldn’t help but admire their zest for life. He even offered tips on where to stay near Koti. When we reached the bank, I stepped out, grateful for his company.

The Bank - Disgust and Disarray

But the moment my feet hit the ground, reality slapped me again. A man nearby spat a mouthful of paan onto the corridor, then gargled water and spat again—two separate spots, one for paan, one for water. It was shameless, revolting. I stared, hoping for eye contact to silently scold him, but he avoided my gaze. I felt like I’d landed in a cesspit—again.

Inside the bank, I surrendered my laptop to a lazy security guard who barely acknowledged me. My team waited in a cramped 10x10 room, six of us squeezed in, barely able to move our arms. It was suffocating, pitiful. This was a PSU—no planning, no care. (Not anti-national, just frustrated.) I connected to mobile data, and a meeting invite popped up: I was there to install MuleRuntime on their K8 cluster (Tanzu). After a long wait, a kind gentleman stepped up to help, but the process was a nightmare—manual, hierarchical, stuck in time. I wasn’t complaining, just wondering: we’re aiming for Mars, yet struggling with basic systems here. Where are we lagging? Why?

Hunger struck, so I headed to the canteen. Uncleaned tables and a chaotic crowd grabbing food greeted me. It was a mess—unorganized, frantic, a microcosm of the firefighting I’d seen everywhere. (Not anti-national, just reflecting.) Where are we heading? What future awaits our kids?

The Hotel - A False Promise

Back at my desk, approvals for the build machine dragged on, so I booked a hotel rated 4.0 out of 5 on MakeMyTrip, hoping for a decent stay. Another cab took me there, but as we approached, I realised it was in a bustling market—crowded, noisy, a trade hub. Poor planning on my part left me with no alternatives. The hotel was a disaster—dark, reeking of a cheap room freshener (like Iodex), and staffed by an indifferent manager glued to his phone. He handed me the keys to Room 104 without a glance, calling over an assistant—a poor soul from a rural background, scraping by to survive. I felt for him, trapped in this system. The room offered no guidance, no internet info (though it existed—I found out later). How do we improve this? I wondered, exhausted.

A Nighttime Wander - Chaos Unleashed

That night, I stepped out to explore. The sulphur stench hit me again, mingling with the aroma of street carts frying food. Dust swirled into the cooking areas as people queued up to eat. How could they? Metro rails roared overhead, a symbol of unplanned expansion. The population, the mindset, the compromises—why do we live like this? Under a bridge, a massive gutter flowed like a river, its chemical stench unbearable, yet food carts thrived above, people ate, vendors sold flowers and vegetables. Mosquitoes buzzed, and incense burned to mask the smell. Was this hell? (Not anti-national, just reeling.) Do people even know there’s an alternative? Do they care to try?

I don’t believe this can change in 20 years—not without a complete overhaul and a collective will, which feels impossible.

Auto rickshaws and cars washed on footpaths, people littered, beggars survived on handouts. The city cleaned itself only with rain—flyovers crumbled, public property neglected. Why must we endure this? (Not anti-national, just despairing.) I grabbed a mango drink, returned to my room, and collapsed on a bed that felt like a relic of countless others. At least the sheets seemed fresh.

The Return - A Metro Madness

The next morning, back at the office, deployment delays dragged on, but a colleague named Rahul stepped up, bridging the gap between our struggles and theirs. After three grueling days, it was time to head home. I updated my manager, then took the metro from Sultan Bazar to Raidurgam with a colleague’s help booking the ticket. QR codes and tech surrounded us, yet poverty, hunger, and helplessness lingered outside—ironic, jarring. Inside the metro, the air was thick with sweat, the crowd suffocating. People shoved, fought for seats—survival instinct in overdrive.

At the last-but-one station, two security personnel boarded, barking orders and chasing the crowd toward the ends of the train in both directions. They pushed us, herding passengers like cattle, preparing to avoid a stampede at the final stop. It felt dehumanising, chaotic. When we reached Raidurgam, software professionals—I could tell from their demeanour, backed by my 25 years in IT—rushed from the middle of the train to grab seats, as if it were their last shot at life. No polish, no courtesy, just raw desperation. It shook me to my core. Why me? I felt weak, drained, my acid reflux flaring as the picture of this lifeless scramble burned into my mind.

An auto rickshaw took me from there to the Mysore boarding point near Gachibowli. The driver, ignoring the one-way route, sped off in the wrong direction, weaving through traffic. Soon, I realised he was rushing to a fuel station to fill up with gas. He didn’t even switch off the engine while refuelling—just sat there, nonchalant, as the fumes mixed with the already toxic air. I sat in the open rickshaw, breathing carbon monoxide from surrounding vehicles, dust clogging my throat, noise pounding my ears. My acid reflux hit its peak, and I felt sicker by the minute. Somehow, we reached the boarding point.

As I alighted, taxi drivers swarmed me, grabbing my arms, offering airport drops to Rajiv Gandhi International Airport nearby. Their eyes begged for business, but I had to push them off, insisting I was waiting for a Mysore bus. I clutched my stomach, fighting the urge to puke on the road—didn’t want to add to the mess. Finally, I boarded my bus, sank into the seat with its high pillow headrest, and forced myself to rest until Mysore.

Home, Yet Not at Peace

My wife picked me up, and on the way, she mentioned our son’s upcoming upanayanam ceremony, urging me to get my parents’ cooperation. From the frying pan into the fire, I thought. Maybe I’d expected too much—of the trip, of the world.