I have friends from all over the country, and they all have their own opinions of the city I was "born and brought up in", to use common parlance.
With no plans whatsoever to move from here, I am happy to be in my little corner of the world, despite what I keep hearing about needing to expand my horizons and stuff like that.
I like this horizon.
It's safe. It's pretty.
It has a beach where I can see an actual horizon.Where I have watched a pink sun rising on a Saturday morning, and a bright red moon rise out of the sea on a breezy night. Where I have built sand castles. Where I have eaten fried fish and prawn, molaga bajji, Pupil burgers and Nutella pancakes. Where I've been caught in a rainstorm, almost Mills and Boon style.
I've been here all of 22 (okay fine, almost 23) years. Now, I'm reading a book by an author who has made this city his home for the past decade. Tamarind City by Bishwanath Ghosh. And boy, is he making me feel guilty for not exploring my city more!
It's not that I don't know Madras. I prefer the name Madras. After all, I was born there. Chennai came into being only in 1997. Yes, yes, I know Chennapatnam and all. But this is what I like.
Anyway. I know pretty much any place in the city, I can find my way anywhere. No problems.
I get by with a little help from my friends, of course. Helmet on, Google Maps calibrated, and I'm off. I get lost, no problem. Help comes from the nearest auto stand: "Anna, indha address enga irukku? Thank you anna!" My mother finds it amusing, but that simple appeal to the 'sister sentiment' so glorified in the Tamil movies can work wonders.
Reading about all the illustrious people and the buildings that make up my home town makes me want to delve into it's history more. Note to self: go on next tour of North Madras, the place where my father will not allow me to venture alone on a two-wheeler.
That being said, it always makes me sad to see an old house being broken down; the thinnai where several generations might have sat on being reduced to rubble. And the thing is, no one really cares. The fact that the house has a story built into every brick and terracotta tile is romantic nonsense; the only thing that has value is the prime piece of property.
One thing I have noticed is that people in Madras don't really give credit to what the British did for us as a city. Yes, they took over our entire country starting from here. But that doesn't mean it isn't part of our heritage. I do not buy the drivel that if it's colonial, it's bad and deserves to be broken down. Hello, where is our Secretariat housed? It's who we are, like it or not. And we have to celebrate that heritage, be it buildings, parks, statues, whatever.
We are traditional, no doubt about it. But that does not necessarily connect with love for our heritage. Madras week is a good way of bringing this emotion about in the people's minds, and it seems to be having some sort of effect. Here's hoping things get better.
And what is my city? My city will always be the Madras with narrow lanes in Sowcarpet, swanky houses in Besant Nagar, and the traffic filled Mount Road with brick-red buildings standing a stone's throw away from Express Avenue.
With no plans whatsoever to move from here, I am happy to be in my little corner of the world, despite what I keep hearing about needing to expand my horizons and stuff like that.
I like this horizon.
It's safe. It's pretty.
It has a beach where I can see an actual horizon.Where I have watched a pink sun rising on a Saturday morning, and a bright red moon rise out of the sea on a breezy night. Where I have built sand castles. Where I have eaten fried fish and prawn, molaga bajji, Pupil burgers and Nutella pancakes. Where I've been caught in a rainstorm, almost Mills and Boon style.
I've been here all of 22 (okay fine, almost 23) years. Now, I'm reading a book by an author who has made this city his home for the past decade. Tamarind City by Bishwanath Ghosh. And boy, is he making me feel guilty for not exploring my city more!
It's not that I don't know Madras. I prefer the name Madras. After all, I was born there. Chennai came into being only in 1997. Yes, yes, I know Chennapatnam and all. But this is what I like.
Anyway. I know pretty much any place in the city, I can find my way anywhere. No problems.
I get by with a little help from my friends, of course. Helmet on, Google Maps calibrated, and I'm off. I get lost, no problem. Help comes from the nearest auto stand: "Anna, indha address enga irukku? Thank you anna!" My mother finds it amusing, but that simple appeal to the 'sister sentiment' so glorified in the Tamil movies can work wonders.
Reading about all the illustrious people and the buildings that make up my home town makes me want to delve into it's history more. Note to self: go on next tour of North Madras, the place where my father will not allow me to venture alone on a two-wheeler.
That being said, it always makes me sad to see an old house being broken down; the thinnai where several generations might have sat on being reduced to rubble. And the thing is, no one really cares. The fact that the house has a story built into every brick and terracotta tile is romantic nonsense; the only thing that has value is the prime piece of property.
One thing I have noticed is that people in Madras don't really give credit to what the British did for us as a city. Yes, they took over our entire country starting from here. But that doesn't mean it isn't part of our heritage. I do not buy the drivel that if it's colonial, it's bad and deserves to be broken down. Hello, where is our Secretariat housed? It's who we are, like it or not. And we have to celebrate that heritage, be it buildings, parks, statues, whatever.
We are traditional, no doubt about it. But that does not necessarily connect with love for our heritage. Madras week is a good way of bringing this emotion about in the people's minds, and it seems to be having some sort of effect. Here's hoping things get better.
And what is my city? My city will always be the Madras with narrow lanes in Sowcarpet, swanky houses in Besant Nagar, and the traffic filled Mount Road with brick-red buildings standing a stone's throw away from Express Avenue.
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