It’s a Secret

You don’t expect magic from a cosmopolitan, but it comes to you in little surprises.

Ask a city Indian about home and he’ll tell you the name of his native village. It’s true. For most, home is in that place. Where the fields are. Where you wake up to the chirping birds and breathe freshness in the air. And it’s most certainly not a polluted metropolis with more IT offices than cattle.

But with me, it’s always been Chennai. This is home, the place I was born, the place I embraced after many muddled years in a foreign country.

I grew up despising that my family didn’t travel and that we couldn’t afford beautiful vacations outside the city. But in the last two years, something changed in me. I got to visit the inner parts of Chennai more often and see what my city really felt like in places that bustled with people and culture. They call it the ‘real’ Madras and if you’re a Madrasi yourself, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’m glad that it finally hit me – it’s not the same old spaces and the same old routines I’ve been trapped into. I used to be desperate for newness and the excitement of travel. Now I’m more desperate than I ever was, but this time, for the Madras that I still haven’t laid my feet on.

For it’s Madras that’s made me realize there’s so much – at home – I can’t get enough of. A huge part of who I am, was and is being influenced by my city. I cannot imagine living anywhere else, and I’d like for that to stay the way it is.

I cannot imagine a life without my filter coffee and chai and Pondy Bazaar and Mylapore. I cannot imagine not walking past a kadaiveethi with its sarees elaborately decorating the makeshift entrances.

And then there are things I haven’t been doing as often as I would like. The beach, for instance. I want to visit the Marina every single weekend, but I don’t even remember the last time I did. I want to do so much more kacheri-hopping this December. I don’t know why that wasn’t my thing. I want to randomly walk down the streets of Besant Nagar, spot a rack of books on sale and pick something up. I want to visit Dakshin Chitra whenever I please, and feel like a true connoisseur.

Madras may not hold the allure of a little Indian village. Or the glamour of New York City.

It thrives on in-betweens and the utterly confused culture of a mixed population. But the imperfection only adds to its charm.

And most of all, I’d like to soak in all that the city has to give. I’d like to dress like a Madrasi. Eat like a Madrasi. Live like a Madrasi.

It’s a humid Thursday evening and I’m at a coffee stand finishing a phone call, when a girl wearing an office ID card turns around to face me.

“So,” she says, “why do you still call it that?”.

“Call it what?” I respond, confused.

“Madras. Why do you still call it Madras?”

I think to myself for a heroic explanation but there weren’t any.

“It’s a secret.” I end up saying. I couldn’t understand why she cared about what I called my city.

“You know,” she smiles only slightly, “I still call it that too.” Her eyes gleam as she tells me so, and I find myself giggling.

Just another one of those little connections people make over a cup of coffee.

But here’s the deal- there’s something about the word ‘Madras’ that truly is a secret. To us all. And I don’t think we’d ever be able to explain it, this secret.

This little Madrasi secret.