“Collecting Narratives”: Daneesh Majid in conversation with Jhilam Chattaraj and Praharshitha T
- Editor
- 6 days ago
- 7 min read
On a rainy August afternoon at RBVRR Women’s College, a teacher and a student from the P N Panicker Reading Club shared a thoughtful chat over chai with Daneesh Majid, author of The Hyderabadis, 2025, exploring the city’s past and future.
Jhilam Chattaraj: Congratulations, Daneesh! The Hyderabadis was longlisted for the Ramnath Goenka Sahitya Samman Award, 2025! How do you feel?
Daneesh Majid: It feels good that the book is garnering all this attention, but just because one book has been published doesn’t mean it’s a smooth ride from here. As a new author, I’m still carving my space in the publishing world. I had to do most of the yeoman’s work myself — from learning how to use social media to promoting my work. I’m a millennial, part of that cusp generation, so there’s still a learning curve for me in being more digitally savvy in the way Gen-Z is. But it’s been a good ride so far. Plus, I’m looking forward to generating more sales. You know, as the Allama Iqbal couplet goes — “Sitaaron se aagey jahaan aur bhi hai, abhi ishq ke imtihaan aur bhi hai.”
Praharshitha T: I am a Gen Z and I must say, I found your book relatable and was particularly struck when you wrote, “a newspaper could only do so much.”
DM: A newspaper has three main aspects: linguistic, political, and historical — more on an abstract level. Before the accession of princely Hyderabad to India, we had Shoaibullah Khan and the pro-Congress Urdu newspaper he edited called Imroze. Though at the same time, there were newspapers like Rehnuma-e-Deccan and several others that were quite extreme in advocating for an independent Hyderabad. They often did it in the most unsavoury ways.
During the 1947 Partition in Bengal and Punjab, Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs were all dying, but these newspapers, as mentioned in Ibrahim Jalees’s brilliant Urdu memoir Do Mulk Ki Ek Kahani, were run with what could be called sectarian apathy — they only reported the deaths of Muslims. Thus after 1947-1948, it became important for Siasat to build a bridge between the new Indian union and Hyderabad’s Muslims, who were feeling somewhat lost. They were no longer the rulers; the royals and noble Muslims who had the upper hand in securing government jobs — that’s the political aspect.
The second is linguistic: Urdu was surpassing Hindi and English, and it was already serving as a bridge. Even Hindus used to read and write Urdu. Siasat had the responsibility of passing on the news through this shared language.
The third aspect is historical: journalism is the first draft of history. So, newspapers were not only part of the present but also shaping history.
JC: This brings me to the chapter, “Telangana - Andhra Splinters,” where you mention that the term “Andhra” originally symbolised linguistic awareness rather than regional rivalry. Do you think that language served as a unifying identity in contrast to caste, class, or religious differences?
DM: Even though people widely practiced Urdu—back then Urdu held the kind of prestige that English holds today—I don’t want to say it was forced upon a diverse population—people didn’t speak only Telugu, but also Kannada and Marathi. There were many library movements, like Jammu & Kashmir’s Fateh Kadal Reading Room, where people gathered not just to read but to discuss political issues, exchange ideas, and develop awareness. Telugu-speakers from Madras Presidency had access to both English literature and even Fascist literature, and they passed down their knowledge to different communities like a lot of Telangana Telugus who didn’t even have access to basic education.
PT: As a young reader, I was stupefied to read your description of Operation Polo from the viewpoint of common people like Anwar Ali. What were your sources?
DM: Though Anwar Ali left for Pakistan, many family members, including his niece, are still here in Hyderabad. He wasn’t a commoner — he was a close relative of Mir Laiq Ali, the last Prime Minister of Hyderabad. I spoke to Anwar’s son, Ali Adil Khan, who now lives in Toronto. He had once compiled a small book on their family history. Khan gave me that book. There were family archives, and several books from libraries and old Urdu bookstores.
PT: Many narratives either glorify or demonise factions in history. How did you maintain a balanced tone?
DM: A lot of what we see today in mainstream Telugu cinema is a very concise and selective portrayal. I’ve also noticed that people often like to glorify the old Nizam dynasty a little too much. The comparison I draw is with Jammu and Kashmir — where under Hindu rulers, Muslims were often the sufferers — and in Hyderabad, it was the reverse. The Nizams were comparatively more generous. I try to balance this by consulting a wide variety of stories and perspectives, rather than relying on just one narrative.
JC: Do you feel that the story of Hyderabad, 1948 has been underrepresented in mainstream Indian history?
DM: It’s either underrepresented or misrepresented. When I talked to many elders, they always said, “aage badhna ka naam zindagi hai” — life is about moving forward. We can’t keep looking back at the past. Movies like Razakar don’t show the cosmopolitanism of the Deccan that existed alongside the inequality. Plus, there is a lingering Nawabi relaxation in the air of Hyderabad city that also prevents them from doing their due diligence in chronicling these through book-length, accessible works. To uncover these narratives isn’t easy — you have to struggle, move from place to place, and step outside the realm of Instagram. Bringing them into the mainstream, beyond the confines of academia, is a long-term effort. To some extent, it’s even our fault. I just wish more people had done it earlier.
PT: How important was it for you to highlight class dynamics that go beyond the usual religious binaries?
DM: The past 10–15 years of propaganda around the Hindu-Muslim binary is misleading and needs to be revised. As the saying goes, “Until the lion learns to write, every story will glorify the hunter.” The same applies to those who claim that Hyderabad was a Nawabi paradise — it wasn’t. There was a dark side to Hyderabad’s princely state.
PT: In your writing, you seem to argue that class struggle was as central—if not more so—than communal identity in parts of Hyderabad’s history. Is this an intentional corrective to popular narratives?
DM: Absolutely — it’s very intentional. Until you write, no one is going to listen. Instagram has helped a lot, but I think there should also be real, accessible accounts. Social media is useful, but I’m not sure to what extent. You all know it well — you’re Gen Z. I hope more interventions like these, aimed at correcting narratives, continue to emerge.
PT: What inspired you to write this book—was there a particular moment or memory that made you realize the Hyderabad narrative needed to be told differently?
DM: When I was working at Siasat.com for a year at the Lakdikapul branch, the then chief editor, Mir Ayoob Ali Khan, had me conduct interviews with NRIs who had lived in Gulf countries, earned well, and returned to contribute to their communities. Arshad Pirzada is the father of journalist Syed Mohammad of The Hindu newspaper. Pirzada had quite a story — his family was privileged, and one of his close relatives had served as a personal secretary to the Nizam. When I interviewed him, Khan was not very happy with the way the interview went. I had concentrated more on Pirzada’s success rather than his struggles. Khan advised me not only to highlight how someone achieved success but also to show the challenges they faced. We got a bit of a lecture from him — emphasizing that we needed to bring these narratives back and tell our own stories. It was at that exact moment that I realized: “kuch karne ko hai, iske bare mein”— there is something that needs to be done about this.
JC: Do you see literature as a political tool in shaping resistance movements like Telangana’s?
DM: Literature is something that shapes your thoughts and exposes you to new ideas. There’s a reason books get banned — authorities don’t want people to have access to different perspectives. Literature is extremely important; I would even say it is more influential than visual media.
PT: You blend journalistic research with emotional storytelling. How do you navigate the line between historical documentation and literary narrative?
DM: Even for me, this was challenging. In publications today, anything 800 words or more is considered long form. When you write a 3,000-plus-word chapter, you want it to have both a journalistic flair and an academic rigour for research—these are the tones often associated with people who document history. My editor, Vikram Shah, played a key role in shaping the final product. Whenever I leaned more toward an academic tone than a journalistic one, or vice versa, he would advise me to write in a more narrative way. He didn’t rewrite the chapters — it’s not an editor’s job to do that — but in certain parts, where he felt the section could be more accessible and narrative, he did make revisions. Having an editor is incredibly helpful, especially if it’s your first book. I mean, even A Suitable Boy author Vikram Seth had an editor, so who am I to not agree to work with one?
PT: As someone who loves to read, I really admire your work. Could you share any advice on how a beginner can start writing and build a strong foundation?
DM: If you’re going to write for a literary magazine, even if it’s not a book, it’s all about passion. Only truly passionate individuals can do it — they don’t pay much, and honestly, it’s a bit of madness. Journalism might pay your bills, but not all of them. So, I would advise you to read literary magazines — like Caravan or the now defunct online long-form outlet Fifty-Two — and, alongside reading, start contributing to publications. One builds your understanding, and the other builds your voice.
JC: Thank you, Daneesh! It was a pleasure speaking to you.
PT: Thank you, Sir! I have a newfound understanding of your book.
Daneesh Majid is a Hyderabad-based writer who concentrates on South Asian culture, security and Urdu literature. He has worked for Siasat.com, the online English edition of the prominent Urdu daily.
Jhilam Chattaraj is an academic and poet based in Hyderabad. Her works have been published in Michigan Quarterly Review, Mekong Review, World Literature Today, Asian Cha and Colorado Review among others.
Praharshitha T is a student of MBTC II Year, RBVRR Women’s College and an avid reader of English fiction and nonfiction.
Acknowledgement:
This conversation was made possible with the support of Prof. J Achyutha Devi, Principal, RBVRR Women’s College, Dr M Suchitra, Head, Department of English and Foreign Languages, Chairperson, PN Panicker Reading Club and other faculty members and students.
Copy editor: Nancy He