Fast lanes and fatal fates in Hyderabad’s streets Premium

Tragic road accidents in Hyderabad prompt calls for increased enforcement and public awareness to prevent further loss of life.

The night of January 28 shimmered with devotion and festivity as the Muslim community in Hyderabad gathered to observe Shab-e-Miraj, the first sacred night of worship before Ramzan. At Bahadurpura crossroads in Old City, the rich aroma of biryani curled through the air, wafting from ‘AK Caterers & Cooking Services’ where Mohammed Ilyas battled the chaos of a bustling kitchen. The day had been relentless — orders piled up, customers crowded in, and the rhythmic clatter of pots echoed through his busy office.

Outside, his only son, 10-year-old Mohammed Ahmed, roamed the neighbourhood with his closest friends — 15-year-old Maaz and 17-year-old Syed Imran. Their laughter rippled through the evening air, carefree and unguarded. As the call to prayer echoed through the alleys around dusk, the boys made their way to the mosque, their young voices blending into the city’s solemn chorus of faith. At home, Ilyas’ wife waited for the father-son duo to return for dinner. She called up Ahmed, who informed her that he was heading to Hashtam Khan Masjid for another round of prayers. In reality, the three young boys had other plans — a late-night joyride through the city, chasing the thrill of speed and freedom. They reached out to another childhood friend, Mohd Owais, who chose to stay home, blissfully unaware of the twist of fate that awaited.

An hour and a half later, his phone rang, shattering the night’s calm. The voice on the other end was choked with grief — his best friend was no more.

On the newly inaugurated four-kilometre Aramghar flyover, which lacked CCTV surveillance, the boys’ swanky two-wheeler allegedly spun out of control. The bike crashed into a streetlight pole, the impact hurling them against the divider. The force was brutal. There were no second chances.

Around midnight, Ilyas’ phone rang. He expected to hear his son’s voice, maybe an apology for staying out late or a promise to be home soon. Instead, he was met with the panicked, trembling voice of Quadri’s mother, Munwar Unnisa. There had been an accident. In that moment, the night grew unbearably heavy.

Seated in his office — a modest yet dignified room with a three-seater couch, a cocobolo desk, and his chair — Ilyas recounts the night that shattered his world. His hands tremble as he wipes tears from his eyes, his voice barely steady. “We rushed to the spot,” he says, his words heavy with grief. “The police told us that passersby had taken the boys to Osmania General Hospital,” he pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat before adding, “We went there directly.”

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next. “When I finally saw my son’s body...,” he says as his voice chokes. “It felt like the ground had slipped from under my feet. Blood covered his tall frame. His young, innocent face was unrecognisable.” His breath hitches, his anguish raw and unfiltered. “I didn’t know what to do. I wish they never had the two-wheeler that day. I wish some traffic police personnel had stopped them,” he sighs.