There was a time when the final bell of a school in Hyderabad signalled the opening note of a daily street carnival. Stepping out of the gates of a school was an entry into a highly specific geography. It was a world mapped not by street signs, but by the precise spots claimed by the bandi wallahs– the small carts who held the keys to the afternoon with their snacks.
Today, if you stand outside a school around 3 pm, you might still see a solitary vendor or two scattered near the entrance, but the scale has shifted. The bustling, shoulder-to-shoulder marketplace that once defined the school perimeter has thinned out, replaced by a more sanitised, hurried urban landscape. With it, we are losing a sensory dialect that was unique to the city.
To understand what is fading, Siasat.com takes a look at the vibrant characters who once anchored these corners around school.
The sweet architects of the school sidewalk
At the centre of this after-school universe stood the performance artists. Chief among them was the Bombay Mithai-wala. He would pull and twist coils of bright orange and white sugar with the dexterity of a glassblower, shaping the malleable sugar into rings, watches, or tiny hand-fans for a small crowd of children holding five-rupee coins.
Just a few feet away from school, usually anchored to a specific lamppost, was the Buddhi ke Baal (candy floss) seller. The candy floss, spun into giant, glowing pink and white clouds, was the ultimate visual landmark of the street. Nearby, the neon orange cubes of Khopra Mithai (coconut sweet) sat stacked in perfect pyramids, their intense sweetness providing the “chew” that defined a bazaar childhood.
While the sweets provided the spectacle, it was the sour snacks that provided the thrill. The crown jewel was the Tota Pari and Kairi (Raw mango). Sliced into fan shapes and rubbed with a heavy hand of salt and red chilli powder, it was the flavour of summers in Hyderabad. In the cooler months, the mangoes gave way to Ber (jujubes). These small, tart fruits were sold in small pudis (paper cones) fashioned from yesterday’s newspapers or old mathematics notebooks.
Then there were the Imli ki Goli– hand-rolled pellets of sticky tamarind pulp and jaggery. They were the slow-burn snacks of the walk home, often followed by Churan on guava—the spicy mix that served as the grand finale to an afternoon of indulgence. To balance the intensity, there was always the humble, earthy crunch of Roasted Chane (chickpeas), carried by vendors in large wicker baskets.
No nostalgic map of the school gate is complete without the Ice Gola vendor, the sidewalk’s ultimate chemist. Armed with a heavy iron shaver, he would transform a block of ice into a snowy mound on a stick, drenching it in a neon palette of rose, kalakhatta, and khus syrups. It was a race against the Hyderabad sun to finish the freezing, syrupy treat before it melted down your fingers, leaving behind a stained tongue and a perfect sugar rush.
As these celebrities of the school gate retire, the vibrant map of Hyderabad’s childhood is being replaced by the sterile convenience of plastic-wrapped snacks. As the last of these glass boxes vanishes, it also threatens the street-level pulse of a city.
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