driving through old hyderabad

As I drove through the old city, I felt a sense of disorientation, like I was navigating a familiar yet strange landscape. The streets were narrower than I remembered, the buildings taller and more crowded. I passed by the Eidgah, where I used to go for prayers as a child, and the bazaars, where my mother would take me to buy clothes and sweets. Everything seemed smaller, yet more overwhelming, like the city was closing in on me. I thought about all the changes that had taken place, the new shops and restaurants, the flyovers and highways. And yet, despite all the growth and development, the city still felt timeless, like it was stuck in a perpetual state of nostalgia. I don't know, maybe that's just the way I remember it, the way I want to remember it. As I turned onto our old street, I felt a pang of sadness, like I was leaving something behind. The house was still there, but it looked different, the walls a lighter shade of yellow, the windows smaller. I parked the car and got out, taking a deep breath of the familiar air. It was still the same, yet utterly changed, like the city itself, like me.