The Hindu Business Line : A piece of Madras in Chennai

"I NEED five minutes to see my uncle. Is it okay?" Chandra asked me before we set out to catch the Jet Airways flight out of Chennai to Mumbai. Kurup and I were sure it would be more than five minutes, but one could not deny Chandra, and we had enough time on hand.

From the rather cramped Sabari Quality Inn, the car drove down empty, morning streets to Perumal Koil Street in West Mambalam. A Hanuman and Perumal temple at either end of the street is the feature of the place, informed Chandra as our car turned into Perumal Koil Street. We did not get down to pray but one could imagine Hanuman with folded hands waiting for orders from his dear Perumal to at least provide some water to Chennai citizens. The area looked aged, with some of the houses being at least 50 years old. "This is old Madras or Chennai," said Chandra who seemed to know a bit about the geography of the city.

We stayed back in the car as Chandra walked into a garden-fronted two-storey home to see his uncle long retired from the Southern Railway. After about five minutes, we were invited into the house by Chandra for a chat with his uncle and his family. An empty hand-pump in the garden stared at us as there was no groundwater left to offer. One did not see a crow or a sparrow in the garden; there is no bird song in the city, they have become as scarce as water.

It was not a traditional Tamil house with a thinnai (portico) in the foreground leading through the rezhi to the inner courtyard with rooms branching on the sides. Standing in front of the house one could see the walkway in the middle lead straight to a sunlit courtyard at the far end. There was little of natural light in the rooms on either side of the walkway. The floor of a small room leading to the house was packed with rows of coloured, plastic kodams, with water being supplied by a lorry tanker on an irregular basis. "We are lucky to get some water," said the old man in a white pancha kaccham. He was tall and thin with his stomach caving in, unlike mine. The white sacred thread and the equally holy sacred ash describing lines on his forehead, arms and torso reminded me of my father at prayers, long, long ago. For some time, this writer did wear the cotton thread after a glamorous upanayanam ceremony and did sandhya vandanams in the mornings after colouring oneself with a paste of ash and water. Then one gave it all up though not my father. For him, it was something that could never happen.

We talked of this and that, with the old man complaining of the water table dropping even in Thanjavur. His wife in madisar brought us good filtered coffee, which tasted better than that served at Sabari.

On the way out, one inquired of the old man the name of a tall bush bearing jasmine-like flowers. "That's a panneer tree. In Tiruchendur, the prasadam is offered in the leaves of a panneer tree," said Chandra's uncle and came up with a shloka of Adi Sankara praising the Lord and the panneer tree. For a moment one turned still. It brought back the melody and music of Vedic poetry in which my father got lost in the mornings while performing Shiva pooja. In Krishnamurti's Journal, the savant writes: "The sound of Sanskrit chants seems to have a strange effect. In a temple, about 50 priests were chanting in Sanskrit and the very walls seemed to be vibrating."

Before setting out for Chennai, one usually spends about five minutes at a New Year greetings card, Mount Road, Madras-1895, that dear old Madhu sent me a few years ago. It's a Madras with less human beings and a Round Tana. "The presence of the tram and the absence of motor cars date this picture to a period between 1895 and 1904," says the caption on the card. Chandra's uncle and Perumal Koil Street belong to that era when one did not have to rush one's very breathing.

Dated to that age belongs the ancient mansion housing Hotel Dasprakash, to which one was taken by Ramki and Balaji. None rushed in and out of the hotel. There was enough space and time to stretch one's legs, gossip and laugh. The waiter listened to you. One ate at one's pace. We were feeling hungry and Balaji helped with some advice on the menu. "Dosas, idlis and vadas are the best here," he said, and one ordered a dosa. It was delicious. One could not have asked for more from Chennai to which city I do not belong.

More Stories on : Lifestyle | Reflections

Article E-Mail :: Comment :: Syndication :: Printer Friendly Page

Stories in this Section
Small comfort

A piece of Madras in Chennai

By design

God's own dish

Bowled over by Indian hospitality