An Old Madras Love

My love for Chennai stems from the multitude of experiences I've had in this city. Third main road, where I've lived for a significant fraction of my life. The apartment complex, where we'd chase each other down playing tag or ride our bicycles at breakneck speeds. Pushpa Ice House, where appa would buy me bottles of cold goli soda. Metro, the shoe shop Keerthana and I used to frequent to look at the Siddharth Malhotra cutout. Adyar Stationery, where my parents swear I've spent a small fraction of their wealth. Kamal Stores, where I bought notebooks in bulk, each one filled with math problems by the year's end. Padmanabhaswamy temple on a chilly Margazhi morning, the warm pongal that nearly puts me to sleep, andthe perumaal idol, the only witness to my good days and bad. Pondy Bazaar, where Shreya and I roam the streets and buy silver jhumkhas. GRT, the jewelry store where the achari will give me a withering side eye if I dare walk in for yet another piercing (he's already done a second on my ears and two on either side of my nose). 

There is a certain richness in the familiar company. Tanishta and I have known each other since we were twelve. We find ourselves at Adyar Sangeetha after our morning walk to Besant Nagar beach, sharing a single golden paper roast. We try on clothes at Westside that our mothers would never allow us to own (despite nearly being in our twenties).  We wander into expensive cafes, seduced by the promise of novelty and the polished interiors. We thumb through the menus, with foreign words and elaborate descriptions, tempted to try something new. As we pick at the artfully arranged food that eventually arrives, our dissatisfaction grows. The flavors, though sophisticated, lack the soul we crave. 

Besant Nagar deserves a dedicated ramble of its own. Eden dinners with my parents and sibling are a core memory. Birthdays, anniversaries and post-exam, the restaurant has seen it all. Occasional Besant Nagar evenings with Diwakar and Shashvathi happen when they're home from college in Delhi. There is just enough time for catching up and exchanging the wildest college stories as we walk down the expanse of the beach, sipping on a drink from Chai Kings. Shashvathi drinks chai now. It's the Sonipat showing. We make elaborate plans to have breakfast at Murugan Idli but nobody wakes up on time. It'll happen. Someday.

It is the fleeting moments, the first sip of filter coffee, the conversations over breakfast, the exchange of stories, the people, the familiarity, and ultimately, the comfort, that shape the Chennai experience. I wouldn't trade it for the world.