The artist formerly known as Madras

christy bharath
Aug 28, 2017 · 4 min read
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It is tough to pigeonhole an Indian metropolitan like Madras. Such cities are Dickensian by nature. Often, their identities shift, like tectonic plates, under the pretext of urbanization. All the while, they play a game of cat-and-mouse with the past, whether good, bad or ugly.

They are works in progress or experiments in terror, depending on how you see it. The twists and turns in our personal journeys. Our social circles and economic circumstances. The experience tends to be subjective.

I was born, bred and fed here. I am a local. But I do not drink filter coffee. Thus far, I have only been to two or three temples. You will not find me hanging around in Carnatic music festivals. Or lollygagging with my friends at one of our beaches, movie theaters or shopping centers before dunking idlis in sambar with ghee-soaked glee at some Bhavan. I do not know the lungi dance. Bollywood is as alien to me as Mongolian throat-singing.

So, the chances are that you have not heard about people like me.

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But there are plenty of us. We are not lurking in the shadows, like some discolored ninjas. We can be spotted in broad daylight. The media, the Internet, and historians ignore us because we do not fit their description of a typical “Madrasi”. Opportunities are harder to come by too, on certain platforms. And many of us feel like the stepchildren locked away in the basement.

Still, we love Madras. It is our home as much as anyone else’s. Our traditions may not be represented but our roots grow deep in this soil. It is why, at times, we hate the city. Because along with love comes a set of expectations. Whether ethnic monarchy, public apathy or infrastructure expansion, we have issues with our past, present, and future. We pay our taxes and contribute to local businesses, so I suppose we can complain.

But, there are plenty of things to love about it.

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The residential birds that are some of the sub-continent’s prettiest alarm clocks - with songs in their throats and dazzling hues in their plumage. The migratory waterbirds that visit us every year, from different parts of the world.

The stillness on Sundays that takes us back to the late Nineties when the city was lesser crowded and capricious.

Scattered bookshops that are archaic without the hipster irony of being fashionably retro.

The pristine farmlands in the outskirts that have escaped the clutches of unwarranted development.

Our lakes and rivers that earnestly ebb and flow, like choruses, during the monsoon season.

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Our scenic state highway 49 — with smooth roads — that is calming, warm and safe — no matter the time of the year.

Our non-vegetarian cuisine — from fried garlic beef, crispy bacon, and chicken liver to goat head soup, crunchy anchovies, and assorted biriyanis.

Our folk musicians and dancers, who pay tribute to our history — using the oldest language in the world

The tenacity and spirit of our filmmakers with small budgets, who have turned the Kodambakam street into a dream sequence supply.

Our aging Anglo-Indian uncles, who drink too much and tell wonderful stories about the glories and guffaws of the past.

Our fishermen and the relationships they share with the ocean, rising above the murky politics of its troubled waters.

Our oddball ability to be xenophobic and extremely helpful at the same time.

Our awkwardness in having a real conversation about sex which is as quirky as it is infuriating.

Our collective snarl when someone insinuates that Hindi should be the national language.

A mosaic of refinements brought in by settlers from other Indian states.

The eagerness in most of us to do the right thing during a natural disaster.

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Beyond these unique traits and cutesy character flaws, Madras has been my mothership for over three decades. Every time I had left it to work in some other place, I have dearly missed it. Perhaps, it is my comfort zone. A safety bubble outside which the universe looks a tad crueler. Now, I am unsure whether this is a good way to live. I wish I had traveled more. I wish I had met more people. Seen more cityscapes and climbed more mountains. Found more flea markets, libraries and bird sanctuaries to fall in love with. I hope there is still time for me to discover new places.

And I will be pretty bummed out if it turned out that I live the rest of my life in Madras. Because after yet another decade of so-called urban progress, I will probably feel like more of a stranger in the city.

Still, though, I will have the pleasure and privilege on remembering that Madras once was my home. My window, front door and rooftop to the world.

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christy bharath

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My 1st-ever career aspiration involved a friendly T-Rex with an equestrian saddle & townspeople in need of help. I did the opposite & became a writer instead.

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