Machaanisms of Madras
A humorous, nostalgic poem about Chennai, its everyday chaos and how the city quietly grows into you.
I knew Madras before I knew it had a name,
when every street corner kept my childhood in frame.
Before nostalgia learnt how to knock at the door,
it was pencil dust, lunch-box steel, and cool marble floor.
This city shows love like it has too much pride,
by yelling "saptiya?" from the kitchen side.
It can fight for two hours, then soften its voice,
and make curd rice look like a peacekeeping choice.
The sun here doesn't rise; it files a case
against your kajal, your plans, and your entire face.
You bathe, you dress, you leave looking neat,
and reach the gate already betrayed by the heat.
Rain in Madras begins like cinema rain,
then someone checks if the current will remain.
We stand by windows, pretending to be deep for a while,
then rescue the clothesline in full family style.
Auto annas reject us with spiritual grace,
as if Adyar has shifted to some foreign place.
We ask "meter?" with the innocence of fate;
he says "Madam, traffic" and invents a rate.
At the beach, we go to heal like main characters do,
then leave with sand in our slippers and salt in us too.
The sundal packet listens, the milagai bajji comes hot,
and for five whole minutes, the crisis does not.
Mylapore mornings perform holiness with flair:
mallipoo, gossip, filter coffee, and perfectly combed hair.
T. Nagar bargains like household GDP is on the line,
then asks, very seriously, if "this colour is fine."
Still, after every mokkai plan and borrowed excuse,
Madras knows how to make even chaos of use.
In every “seri,” every scolding, every familiar fuss,
Madras became less of a place and more of us.