Madras Morning and Chennai Chronicles

Nostalgic Brew.

Watching “Kaaram-Sweet-coffee” was like sipping a cup of nostalgia, strong and bittersweet. It made me realize that the Madras I seek probably no longer exists, swallowed whole by Chennai’s modern sprawl. Madras Day on August 22nd marks the birth of this vibrant city, starting from the humble roots of Puliyar Kottam, a small fishing village, to becoming the bustling metropolis of Chennai. Once upon a time, this was the province of Tondaimandalam, nestled between the Penna and Ponnaiyar rivers, a rich piece of history now confined to textbooks.

In 1639, the East India Company bought the town of Madrasapattana from Damarla Venkatadri Naicka, the viceroy of the Vijayanagara kings, and slowly, the city began to absorb the nearby temple towns of Thiruvellakini (Triplicane) and Thirumayillai (Mylapore). With each new addition, Madras grew, eventually becoming the Madras Presidency under British rule. The city’s journey from a sleepy village to a key administrative center is a tale that’s still celebrated, though I wonder if the old spirit is lost amidst the high-rises and traffic jams.

Chennai may have evolved, but my heart still beats for the old Madras. I remember Adyar as a village, now the throbbing heart of a metropolis. The Madras in my mind has iconic landmarks like Eros Theatre, Parry’s Corner, and my sister’s house in Parshuvakam. But some things have faded, like the old Brahmanical house of Broadway Mama, or my first half-sari set, called Perkini, from Radha’s in Mylapore. And what about the Robertson Road at Mandavalli? Does it still carry the same charm? My school, Padmasheshadri Balabhavan, might still stand, but the memories of buying shoes at Moore Market or books at Higginbottoms are now part of a past that seems almost fictional.

One of the lesser-known nuggets of Madras history is the story of the Brahmin boys from Tulunaad who worked in ‘hotels’ (what we call restaurants) in exchange for food and lodging so that they could attend college. These boys, with dreams bigger than their pockets, became a part of the city’s fabric, balancing plates of idli and dosa in the morning and books in the evening, embodying the spirit of perseverance that defined old Madras.

Fast forward to today, where the term “Madrasan” might pop up in a Bollywood movie, used with a smirk by a very Punjabi Amrita Singh. But what would happen if a real Madarasan, moustache twirling and all, stepped up and asked if anyone remembered the Madras of old? The city might have moved on, but some things are too stubborn to change, like the essence of Madras that still lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of jasmine and filter coffee.

When I came across Madras on My Mind, an anthology of stories about the city, I knew I had to pick it up. Each story is a time capsule, bringing back memories of Moore Market, Spencer’s Circle, the Marina Beach, and, of course, the mami’s and their gossip sessions. The humor in these stories is dry, like the Chennai heat, yet with a warmth that only a true Madarasan could appreciate.

Juluri Vamsee’s tale about actress Jamuna’s journey from Andhra to Madras made me chuckle, while Anirudh Sengupta’s trip to the IIT campus, with its deer and iconic archway, brought back memories of my own academic aspirations. Chitra Viraraghavan’s “mood out-an” felt like a linguistic hug from home, and Kalpana Komal’s Rendungattan—a word that had slipped out of my vocabulary with my grandmother’s passing—brought back vivid images of shared pet peeves and middle-class moralistic dilemmas. Her observation that scolding was just another form of love brought back memories of my own incessantly reprimanding mother.

Each story in the book offers a unique glimpse into Madras, from the bustling streets of Triplicane to the quiet lanes of Mylapore. And while Chennai might be on the book’s mind, for me, it will always be Madras—the mami’s, the rasam, the Brahmin boys from Tulunaad, all tucked into its pages, waiting for another read.