Growing up in Allahabad—a city that changed its name to Prayagraj but refuses to change its soul—was a masterclass in living inside a time capsule. Navigating its streets feels less like a trip down memory lane and more like playing a high-stakes game of “Where Did My Childhood Go?” The things that defined the daily rhythm of life just a few decades ago have vanished, replaced by the relentless march of modernity. Today, visiting my hometown feels like playing a video game where the developers abruptly deleted half the assets in an overnight software update. So many staple features of an Allahabad childhood have vanished into thin air, leaving those of us born in the mid 20th century feeling like historical relics.
Cycle Rickshaws
Take, for instance, the legendary cycle rickshaw. In my youth, the rickshaw was not just transportation; it was a psychological thriller on three wheels. Boarding a rickshaw involved a complex ritual of bargaining, where the driver would look at your destination, sigh as if you had asked him to pedal to Kabul, and demand an extra rupee. The ride depended entirely on the driver. You either got the “Philosopher King,” who pedaled at the speed of a tectonic plate while debating the decline of Hindi literature, or the “Formula One Wannabe,” who treated the Civil Lines traffic with the chaotic disregard of a stuntman.
Today, the streets are overrun by silent, battery-operated e-rickshaws. They are efficient, clean, and utterly devoid of drama. No one is shouting at a passing cow anymore; they just zip past in eerie, electric silence, depriving a whole generation of the excitement of wondering if they will survive a turn at Subhash Chauraha where the busy Mahatma Gandhi road intersects the Sardar Patel road. The e-rickshaws completely lack that dramatic tension of a manual rickshaw puller narrowly missing a stray cow while aggressively ringing a tiny brass bell with his foot.
Boat Rides
Growing up in Allahabad meant accepting that a “relaxing boat ride” on the Ganges or Yamuna was actually a high-stakes tactical mission masquerading as spiritual tourism. The moment your foot touched the wooden plank, you entered a chaotic floating bazaar where boatmen rowed with one hand and aggressively negotiated the price of pedas with the other. It was amazing how the boatman would effortlessly row against a brutal current while casually narrating highly dubious mythological trivia! My peaceful boat ride past the legendary ghats felt deeply spiritual, right up until a floating marigold garland collided with a discarded plastic bottle, perfectly balancing cosmic enlightenment with earthly reality.
Navigating the Sangam required serious survival skills: you had to duck to avoid the sudden, aggressive kamikaze dives of migratory Siberian gulls chasing your packet of sev, while simultaneously praying your uncles would not tip the entire boat over just to touch the “exact spot” where the two rivers meet. If you went during the Magh Mela, the water wasn’t just sacred; it was crowded enough to cause a mid-river traffic jam. It was a terrifying, beautiful, and soggy rite of passage that taught you early on to trust two things: the strength of an Allahabad boatman’s biceps and the sheer luck keeping your family afloat. By the time you finally made it back to the ghat, drenched in holy water and pure anxiety, you were instantly ready to do it all over again next Sunday.
Oxford of the East
Growing up, you couldn’t spin around in a circle without some proud elder pointing a finger and reminding you that you were living in the “Oxford of the East.” They said it with such profound, misty-eyed reverence that you genuinely expected to see students in heavy tweed robes gliding past the local street food stalls, debating Aristotle over a plate of spicy snacks. Instead, the reality of this eastern academia involved dodging rogue stray cows on the way to class, battling monsoon puddles that could swallow a small two-wheeler, and mastering the high-stakes art of copying an entire semester’s syllabus from a single, crumbling textbook. Yet, the local pride remained entirely unshakeable; every time a ceiling fan rattled violently during a high-stakes exam, you were supposed to feel a deep, intellectual connection to the prestigious, historic halls of England.
The Verandah
Then there was the architecture of hospitality: the veranda. Every house had one, and it served as the original social media feed. People sat there to read the newspaper, yell at the vegetable vendor, and gossip with neighbors. If you walked down a lane, you knew exactly who was having an argument, who was frying pakoras, and whose son had failed his exams. Now, those sprawling bungalows have been demolished to make way for multi-story apartments with tinted glass windows and heavy iron gates. Privacy has won, but community theatre has lost. Neighbors now interact exclusively through hostile WhatsApp groups regarding parking spaces.
Pan Shops
Then there was the unique architecture of local commerce. Every neighborhood had a Paan Ki Gumti—a wooden shack roughly the size of a refrigerator that somehow contained three hundred different items, a radio blaring Hindi film music, and the neighbourhood philosopher. The local paan-seller knew your family history, your school grades, and exactly how much tobacco your uncle consumed. These shacks have been replaced by sterile, glass-fronted convenience stores where nobody cares about your lineage, and the clerk looks visibly offended if you try to discuss local politics over a pack of mints.
Wall Ads
Similarly, the visual landscape of the city has been completely sanitized. Allahabad used to be covered in handcrafted wall advertisements. Before digital billboards, local businesses hired artists to paint directly onto brick walls. The results were magnificent. You could not walk two meters without seeing a giant, slightly terrifying mural of a smiling child promoting a local coaching institute, or a vivid illustration of a tooth to advertise “Vajradanti” tooth powder. These walls were the local newspaper, gossip column and art gallery all rolled into one. Now, municipal paint has coated these masterpieces in uniform shades of yellow and pink, depriving the youth of the joy of learning about hemorrhoid clinics through public art.
Street Food
Even the food landscape has suffered a modern upgrade. In the old days, getting street food was an extreme sport. You stood next to a smoking open-air iron wok, dodging sputtering mustard oil, while a man named Pappu or Monu handed you samoras wrapped in yesterday’s Hindi newspaper. There was a distinct culinary thrill in reading a fragment of a local crime report translucent with grease while eating a potato filling. Today, the street food scene is dominated by hygiene-certified food trucks and cafes serving “fusion chaat” on ceramic plates. It tastes fine, but it lacks the immune-system-building grit of the original experience.
Barf ka Gola
Speaking of food, the street culinary landscape has undergone a tragic upgrade. I grew up in an era where the ultimate summer luxury was baraf ka gola—shaved ice on a stick, doused in synthetic syrups of questionable chemical origins that left your tongue neon green for three days. It was glorious, unhygienic and cost two paise. Today, children are dragged to air-conditioned parlors to eat “artisanal gelato” infused with organic lemongrass. If you have ice cream and your tongue doesn’t even turn a frightening shade of radioactive green, is it even summer? It was not just a treat; it was a full-blown childhood badge of honor.
Budhiya ke Baal
In the good old days of Allahabad, buying budhiya ke baal (cotton candy) was less of a transaction and more of a high-stakes neighborhood event. Long before gourmet desserts invaded the city, the ultimate sugar rush arrived on the back of a rickety bicycle, announced by the frantic, tinny chime of a handheld bell. Children would sprint out of old bungalows, dragging their grandparents by the kurta, desperately trading loose change for a stick of neon-pink joy. The vendor, acting like a street-side magician, would hand over a cloud of spun sugar that looked suspiciously like the wild, uncombed hair of a mythical old lady. Eating it was a race against time in the brutal Allahabad humidity. Within minutes, the fluffy pink mane would shrink, melt, and transform into a sticky, bright pink lacquer that glued your fingers together, coated your face, and left you looking like you had just wrestled a joyful, sugary monster.
Guavas
Growing up in Allahabad meant accepting that no other fruit could ever truly measure up to our legendary guavas. The famous Allahabadi Safeda and the crimson-hearted Lal Surkha aren’t just fruits; they are local celebrities with a serious ego. Crisp, impossibly sweet, and carrying a distinct aroma that could easily compete with high-end French perfumes, these guavas demand total respect. Eating one is a full sensory ritual, usually involving a pocket knife, a generous dusting of secret-recipe kala namak (black salt) from a roadside vendor, and a strategic stance to dodge the flying seeds. It is a known fact that every Allahabadi living abroad becomes a self-appointed guava evangelist, loudly dismissing the sad, rubbery supermarket versions available elsewhere as mere imposters.
Sabzi Mandi
Even the simple act of buying groceries has lost its charm. The weekly trip to the local sabzi mandi was a competitive sport. It involved intense bargaining, where matching wits with the vendor over the price of coriander was a matter of family honor. Today, the modern resident opens an app, clicks three times, and a delivery executive arrives at the door with a perfectly wrapped, sanitized plastic bag of potatoes. There is no shouting, no dramatic sighing, and absolutely no free green chilies thrown into the bag as a token of goodwill.
Siesta Time
The most profound loss, however, is the death of the afternoon siesta. Allahabad once operated on a strict, non-negotiable biological clock. Between 1:30 PM and 4:30 PM, the city simply ceased to exist. Shop shutters came down, stray dogs went to sleep, and human movement stopped. If you dared to ring someone’s doorbell at 2:30 PM, you were viewed with the same suspicion as a bank robber. It was a beautiful, collective rebellion against modern productivity. Now, thanks to the internet and corporate culture, people work through the afternoon. The city stays awake, blinking tiredly, having traded its peace for progress.
Where is My Joy?
Allahabad is still there, holding onto its sacred rivers and its intellectual pride. But the chaotic, colorful and delightfully slow world of my childhood has slipped away, leaving behind a city that is much cleaner, vastly faster, and terribly efficient. Progress is wonderful, of course, but a small part of me will always miss the thrill of a rickshaw ride that felt like an extreme sport. As I walk down wide, paved roads that used to be obstacle courses of mud and memory, I can’t help but miss the chaos. The old city may be fading from view, but for those of us who grew up there, the phantom ring of a rickshaw bell will always be louder than any modern engine.
The author is a retired officer of the Indian Foreign Service (1976 Batch)