HYDERABAD: In an age of invisible music libraries and silent AirPod symphonies, the gramophone demands a different kind of attention. It is unapologetically physical, tactile and communal. It asks for a hand to wind its key, an ear to lean in close and a shared moment to appreciate its warm, analogue soul. In Hyderabad’s antique stores, this nearly-lost ritual of listening is being lovingly preserved.
In the 1970s and 80s, jukeboxes stood in popular cafes in Abids and other parts of the Old City, waiting for a 25-paisa coin to spin a favourite track. A song, a cup of chai and a short pause in a busy day — that was entertainment. Today, while most ears are plugged into apps and AirPods, nostalgia still lingers in the city’s old homes and antique shops.
At Khaja Complex on Masab Tank–Banjara Hills Road, beside Dine Hill Restaurant, sits a fourth-generation antique store started by Mirza Mustafa Ali Baig and now run by his son, Mirza Azhar Ali Baig. Cameras, lamps, chandeliers, Polaroids — the place feels like stepping into a different century. But the showstopper is a 70-year-old gramophone. “It’s the main attraction,” says Azhar, a Nizam enthusiast whose family has spent four decades restoring key-wound players and portable box gramophones, or valise models. Most of his finds come from the homes of Nawabs.
Before Independence, gramophones were luxuries only the wealthy could afford. A single unit costs Rs 250, roughly a common man’s monthly salary. Radios, too, were rare treasures. “If one existed in a lane, everyone gathered to listen to film songs or cricket commentary,” recalls Azhar.
An anchor to the past
Gramophones first arrived in India around 1900 as luxury imports. By 1901, the Gramophone Company had opened its Calcutta branch. In 1902, Gauhar Jaan became the first Indian artist ever recorded — over 500 songs in just six weeks, pressed abroad and shipped back, making her a household name. Women like Gauhar Jaan of Calcutta, Oomda Jaan of Hyderabad and Bangalore Nagaratnamma defied stigma to become pioneers of the industry.
Dr Mohammad Safiullah, honorary managing trustee of the Deccan Heritage Trust, recounts a gem of history. “I recently obtained the audio of a ghazal sung by the legendary Begum Akhtar in 1937, during the Silver Jubilee celebrations of the Nizam VII Mir Osman Ali Khan. Until now, the only known gramophone record from that event was of a ghazal sung by Angoor Bala. Osman Ali Khan himself had been gifted a radio in the 1920s.
When people first heard the ‘Voice of America’ from a metal box, many thought the British were mad. Gramophones too carried their own magic — the needle box, the puff of powder, the hand-cranked sound that seemed to breathe life into melody. Later came commercial giants like HMV, followed by the Nizam’s own record company, immortalising the music of that age.”
Near Charminar, antique dealer Askar Ali continues his family trade of four decades. “We buy antiques, repair gramophones, sometimes sell them outright or on commission,” he says. Sales are unpredictable — 10 gramophones in a good year, five in a slow one. Most youngsters, he admits, buy them as decor, a royal touch to modern homes. Yet a handful still insist on working pieces, craving the old style of listening. Though clay records are no longer made, repairs keep the machines alive; seven days to polish, patch and prepare them for another turn.
Today, gramophones sell upwards of Rs 5,000 in select stores across Banjara Hills and Charminar. “Mostly for decoration,” says Askar Ali with a smile, “but for those who truly use them, it’s about reliving memories.” For many, they are not antiques but emotional anchors. “People in the Instagram age still come looking,” he adds. “Often, they just want to hold on to a piece of family history.”
A shared experience
At Nizam’s Art Gallery near Jama Masjid, Mohammed Bilal and his father source gramophones from across the country, priced between `5,000 and Rs 1 lakh depending on rarity. Spare parts are scavenged, broken pieces restored. “What some discard as junk becomes treasure for us,” Bilal says. Social media helps them reach customers, though some shops, he notes, still refuse photographs.
For 72-year-old retired teacher Anees Fatima, each winding of the key is a journey home. “Every time I lower the needle, I hear my grandfather playing Mohammed Rafi on a Sunday morning,” she recalls.
Collectors see gramophones as more than machines; they are heirlooms, memory boxes and tributes to an age when music was not consumed, but shared. In Hyderabad’s narrow lanes, sellers and collectors alike continue to keep that ritual alive.