Madras, or Chennai as it is now known, is one of India’s most misunderstood metros. Or so I’ve always believed. Having lived here for most of my life, and having only ever experienced other Indian towns for a few weeks at a time, I am perhaps emotionally biased towards the city of my birth.
Unlike the other great Indian metros, Mumbai, Delhi and Kolkata, the Queen of the Coromandel has always been considered not-so-Âgreat by the people who don’t know it. They complain that it lacks the vibrant energy of Mumbai, the derelict grandeur of Kolkata, the power and sophistication of Delhi. All valid complaints, to a degree. Chennai is not a city whose charms are immediately discernible. There are, of course, certain scenes that inspire awe: the glorious stretch of Marina Beach, considered to be the second-longest strip of beach in the world; the gardens of the Theosophical Society; the markets of Mylapore, and the seventh-century rock-cut monuments of Mamallapuram. But there are always other cities where there is a longer, larger, more important something-or-other, so why bother with Chennai?
Because it will prove you wrong. My claim for this underdog of a city is that it has the potential, like no other, to change your mind. You might still go away disliking the place, but not without reconsidering your original misconceptions. It is not easy to peel away the many layers of Chennai. If you stay long enough though, chances are that you may fall in love here, buy a house, make friends for life, vow to return. So while it’s true that strangers get short shrift in this town, it’s also true that if you show a level of commitment, the city will open her arms to you. Once you’re in, of course, it’s a bit like that famous Eagles’ song: You can never leave.
I should know. I was born here in 1975. In those days Madras was a beautiful city; quiet, romantic, with a real port city’s easyÂbreezy feel to it. Mothers pushed their prams along tree-lined streets, children rode their bicycles without supervision, shops were familyÂ-run enterprises, the sea was only ever fifteen minutes away, and nobody minded their own business. Neighbours had names and faces and habits. The roads and rivers, which ran through the city, were lazy and moved with no great sense of urgency. The poor were still poor, but the rich behaved with modesty and caution, stashing their wealth away so no one could cast an evil eye on them. It would appear to an outsider that this was a city of equitable values; that its inhabitants cared about their streets and buildings, and more importantly, about beauty.
I left Madras in 1993. While I was away, I dreamed about it as if it were a person from my family, a beloved. As I dreamed, the name of the city was changed from Madras to Chennai. Just like that. It was as if the new city had been lying underneath the old one all along, waiting to assume its shape.
You learn about a city from its streets and buildings, its trees and neighbourhoods. You remember a city by the footprints you make: the daily routines, the shortcuts, the many journeys out and the journeys back in. Chennai is a quintessential port city filled with comings and goings, arrivals and departures, beginnings and endings: birthplace of the great Tamil poet, Thiruvalluvar; death place of the Christian apostle, St. Thomas.
Ever since my return to Chennai, I have struggled with it. If I’m away too long, I get homesick. If I’m here too long, I get sick of home. It’s a complicated relationship, similar to what the travel writer Bruce Chatwin felt about Russia. “Whenever I’ve been to Russia,” he wrote, “I can’t wait to get away. Then I can’t wait to go back.” That’s how I feel about MadrasChennai, Chennai-Madras, Mad-Chen.
Tishani Doshi is the author of 'The Pleasure Seekers and Everything Begins Elsewhere'
