Good reporting by PP on his blog.. [I can guess which hotel he is staying in

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http://www.prempanicker.com/index.php?/site/schizophrenic_city/Schizophrenic city
landed in Hyderabad at 9.30. 15 minutes later, I was out of the airport and on the road, driving towards the Masab Tank region, near Banjara Hills, where my hotel is located.
I could have sworn I was driving through Mumbai, or Chennai, or Bangalore, or any of the other big cities in India that, at this time, is peacefully going about its business.
There are cars and autorickshaws and bikes with young couples rushing about; while the majority of shops are shut, enough restaurants are open to permit of some decent late evening outings.
You wouldn’t know that earlier today, this city had seen bomb blasts that have at last count killed 12; police firings that have killed three; where many others lie injured in the emergency ward of a local hospital; where police and protestors fought a pitched battle with the former using teargas, water cannons and rifles (filled with rubber bullets, if you ask the cops, and real ones, according to the locals).
Long story short, all is quiet.
“This is new Hyderabad, sir, here and in Secunderabad, there is never any problems,” says Mohan, the driver of the cab that is taking me to the hotel. “Old Hyderabad, ab woh ek alag hi maamla hai.”
Mohan spends the drive selling me on how peaceful Hyderabad is, how everyone goes about his or her business, how there is never any problems.
I reach the hotel, check in, dump my bags, come down to the travel desk—and immediately encounter the ‘other’ Hyderabad. This happens when I try to get a taxi to take me to the site of the bomb blasts.
“Taxi sir? Sure sir”, says the guy at the travel desk; within minutes, a Tata Indica rolls up, the driver opens the door and bows me in, the car is rolling.
“Kahan jaana hai saab?”
Charminar area, I tell him.
The car comes to an abrupt stop. “Nahin saab, udhar hamein nahin jaana hai.”
No amount of convincing—including an offer of double the fare—triggers a change of mind.
I go back to the hotel, and the flustered travel desk guy—who by now is tripping over himself with embarrassment that he couldn’t fulfill a guest’s request—hits the phones. He calls three different travel agents the hotel does regular business with; they all have cars ready, but not one of them is ready to go to the Old City, let alone anywhere near the Charminar region.
I walk back out on the road; soon enough, an empty autorickshaw comes cruising by. Charminar, I ask him. He shakes his head, looks at me like I am mad, and zips off. Wiser, I flag down the next empty auto, and tell him I am a journalist, I want to go to the Charminar region, will he please take me?
No.
Righto, how close can he take me? I’ll walk from there, I offer. The auto driver says he won’t go within five kilometers of the place and in any case, I am mad if I think I can walk through there.
Why so?
Aap patrakaar ho aur aapko nahin maloom? There has been rioting there, police firing, people have been killed, everyone is angry with the police, they have called for a bandh tomorrow—you go there, no one is going to ask you who you are; either the police will get you or the stones will.
It is not, says the travel desk guy, quite that bad—paramilitary forces have been deployed there, there is curfew in the entire region, no trouble just now, but no, not a good idea to go there at this time of the night.
Indeed—so, I’m here, back in the hotel room, doing the next best thing; blogging to tell you all about it.