My Experience with South India specially in Chennai '2013

My idea of Chennai or Tamil Nadu has always been shaped by those Hindi-dubbed South Indian movies—extremely loud. I remember once, while traveling from Puri to Bhubaneswar by bus, there was a video coach showing a movie called Indra the Tiger. It was extreme hot weather, the non-stop shouting and swagger of the characters of the movie made the journey almost unbearable. The villain seemed more terrifying than Bin Laden himself, and the hero? When he danced, rain fell from the clouds; when he got angry, men fell never to rise again! I barely survived that ride after gulping down two glasses of Disprin once we got off the bus. 

One of my elder sisters once told me, “When you see the sea on your left, still and foul-smelling, you’ll know you’re near Chennai!” Sitting inside the train, I couldn’t smell anything, but soon I learned we were at Basin Bridge Junction. After that—Chennai! I wondered if the “basin” of history had found its confluence right there! Our train reached Chennai Central around five in the evening. The moment I stepped out of the compartment, I understood what people meant by Chennai’s heat. By the time we got out of the station, I was drenched in sweat. Outside, long queues of people waited for buses. With all our luggage, getting on a crowded bus seemed impossible. Earlier, Kamal had always taken taxis, but this time it looked like we’d get our first lesson in bus travel! Bus number 54B went toward Porur, just before Poonamallee. After a while, an almost empty bus arrived with “Poonamallee” written on it—but no crowd! Kamal ran and asked the conductor, who replied, “illaa, illaa…” (meaning no), but a Oldman sitting by the window called out, “Yes, come… Come!” Oh God—two opposite answers! In that confusion, with the crowd growing and time slipping away, we quickly got on the bus anyway. At least it wasn’t crowded! We sat wherever we pleased. Then that  Oldman explained that the bus had come from Poonamallee and was now heading toward Broadway Bus Stand, just 5 minutes from here. From there, it would start again for Poonamallee, and then we could get off at Porur. So, we passed our first test successfully! It was around eight at night when we finally reached Porur. Dinner and straight to bed. Next morning, Kamal went off to work, and I tagged along. After lunch around two o’clock, we decided to go see Marina Beach. Now it was my turn to find the way. I asked a coconut vendor nearby. He waved his hands and nodded his head vigorously, saying a lot of things I couldn’t understand. All I could catch were words like “illa, illa,” “seri, seri,” and “appoori yaaya!” After about a minute of chewing over what he said—much like chewing jackfruit leaves—I realized I had asked the wrong person. Then I approached a more respectable-looking gentleman. He said I should take bus number 11H to Broadway, and from there, catch bus number A2 to Marina Beach. One thing about Chennai—if you address any educated, elderly man or woman as Sir or Amma and ask something politely, you’re done for! They’ll pat your head, thump your back, and treat you like their own child—you won’t escape easily!

It was our mistake — in a hurry, we got on bus number 11E instead of 11H. The conductor told us that this one also went toward Broadway, but we’d have to change buses at Vadapalani. Well, so be it! At least we’d get to see more of the place. Every street corner and tall building in the city seemed plastered with political posters, banners, and giant cut-outs. In North India, most of our political posters show leaders with folded hands, politely asking for votes. But in Chennai, things were quite different. Almost at every turn, I saw huge cut-outs of a political leaders — with fiery, red eyes like burning embers, wearing rudraksha beads around their necks, thick rectangular moustaches, white half-shirts, and white lungis. Looking at him, one could easily imagine a hidden dagger tucked into that lungi — and could just as easily believe that the man had moments ago chopped off someone’s head with it! And there hr was, pointing fingers at people, asking for votes with that cruel expression! Such were the posters here! In some places, the same man’s face appeared in multiple roles — in one poster he was Netaji, in another Bhagat Singh, in yet another Mangal Pandey… My God! It was exhausting — one body, in many forms! Later, I understood why everything here seemed so loud. Even politics in Chennai is performed in a cinematic and dramatic way. Jayalalithaa, Karunanidhi — all were once famous film actors or actresses. And, well, the rest just followed the same script! 

At the Vadapalani bus stand there was a cinema hall. I couldn’t read either the name of the movie or the theatre—it was all in Tamil. But I had seen that same movie poster multiple times on the streets of Chennai over the past few days. The poster showed a boy with dishevelled hair running through a mustard field, a Rampuri knife in his hand. The intention needed no explanation! At last, from the Broadway bus stand, we took bus number A2 and finally reached Marina Beach. The fare was only five rupees. The bus dropped us in front of Madras University. A signboard said: “Use the subway—Marina Beach is right ahead.” Marina Beach is one of the best places in Chennai to spend your time. In the evening, it turns into a small fairground. Food, clothes, shoes, toys, balloons—you name it, it’s there! Horses and camels too—you can take a ride if you wish, or click some photos with it. A little farther away, in the middle of the beach, a tent stood with loudspeakers blaring. Inside were lights, fans, even a generator. From where we stood, it looked like a crowd of boys and girls had gathered around it. When we went closer, it looked like a mini carnival! And who wasn’t there? Amitabh, Salman, Shahrukh, Kajol, Rani, Preety—even Jayalalithaa and Karunanidhi—all were present… in cut-outs, of course! Yes, Marina Beach offers you the unique opportunity to take photos with your favourite film stars, political leaders, or cricketers—all at once! Around fifty or sixty life-sized cut-outs were propped up against bamboo poles. You just pick your favourite, stand beside it, put your arm around their shoulder or waist—and there you go! Your photo is ready in ten minutes. The fee: ₹50. I still wonder how many people actually take those photos home and mount them proudly on their walls! Truly, Incredible India!

After that, we went to Anna Square. Just right beside Marina Beach stands the grand memorial built in honour of Tamil Nadu’s beloved former Chief Minister, C.N. Annadurai (whom locals affectionately call Anna). The tomb structure looks a lot like Gandhiji’s memorial at Rajghat, Delhi—an eternal flame burns there as well. It is said that if you press your ear to the marble platform, you can still hear the word “Anna” being whispered! I tried it two or three times… but that was enough—any more and I’d have started feeling like a fool myself! The entire area is surrounded by trees, and in this scorching heat, it felt wonderful to sit in the shade for a while. Not far from there stood the Chepauk Stadium. We went there next, but since the IPL wasn’t on, the huge gate was locked tight. Now we started our return journey, walking along Annie Besant Road.

In these few days, I’ve practically memorised the city—Beach Road, Mount Road or Anna Salai, Prayer Corner, Thousand Lights, Guindy, and KK Nagar—all are now familiar names to me. Today, I planned to visit CMBT—the Chennai Mofussil Bus Terminus at Koyambedu. I needed to find out the bus timings for Pondicherry and Tirupati, and a few other routes as well. It was afternoon, and the roads were almost empty. In front of an office stood a gentleman, wearing a white shirt and black sunglasses, smoking leisurely. I decided to ask him for directions. But the moment he realised I was heading toward him, he suddenly transformed—took on a hero-like stance! Planted one foot dramatically on a big stone, spun his hands around Rajinikanth-style, and then asked me in a deep voice, “Any problem?” Haribba! Startled, I stammered, “No, thanks!” He flashed a dazzling, toothpaste-commercial smile—like a Colgate ad—and walked back into his office. From there, the bus fare to CMBT was ₹14. After gathering all the information—about buses to Pondicherry, Tirupati, and elsewhere—it was quite late by the time I returned.

A Short Trip to Pondicherry & Auroville

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After returning from Pondicherry, we stayed in Chennai at a place called Hotel Ram Lakshmi. It was within walking distance of Chennai Central Railway Station. Right across from the station stood the Ripon Buildings, the Chennai Metropolitan Corporation. From the hotel balcony, we could see local trains leaving Park Station, just ahead. However, the park in front of the Ripon Buildings no longer exists—it has been cleared to make way for the Metro Rail Station construction. Just a two-minute walk down the road from our hotel stood the Nehru Stadium. We went there one evening—it felt quite pleasant. During office hours in Chennai, thousands of men and women race toward their destinations on bikes and scooters. What’s surprising, though, was that hardly anyone wears a helmet! Many even ride barefoot! There’s traffic police at almost every corner, but their attention seems focused only on buses and trucks. In my opinion, the best time to explore Chennai city is in the afternoon. Around that time, the city buses are usually quite empty. Even when they’re crowded, there’s no fear of pickpockets. The conductor won’t come near you unless absolutely necessary—so you’ll have to get up and buy your own ticket! In just a few days, I’ve really grown fond of Chennai. The people here are remarkably honest. There’s much to learn from them. Following the local habit, I too have started offering my seat to elderly men or women on crowded buses—and it actually feels good! The boy who served us at the hotel turned out to be from Agartala. He understood Bengali. From him, I learned that “illa” (which sounds like “yes”) means “no”, and “seri” (which sounds like “sorry”) means “okay.” We North Indians nod our heads up and down to mean “yes,” and side to side to mean “never” or “no.” But in Tamil, it’s just the opposite! We visited Pondicherry on our own without knowing anything about bus schedules. On returning to Chennai, we had some trouble finding a hotel. So, we decided to book the remaining two tours through a travel agency.

A day Tour to Mahabalipuram and Kanchipuram

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We had already visited Mahabalipuram and Kanchipuram. Then came a rest day in between. What to do now? Finally, after making some inquiries, we learned that there were still plenty of things to see right within the city. We took an idea and route chart from the hotel and set off—bus to bus. Our first stop was the Chennai Government Museum. But cameras weren’t allowed inside. Oh God! And there were no lockers either! So we had no choice but to take turns going in. I went through the exhibits rather quickly—just a quick round. Outside, I took as many photos as I could. Still, to be honest, it didn’t quite satisfy me, boss.

The boy at the hotel had told us that the best place for shopping in Chennai was T. Nagar. So we went there. It was full of huge shopping malls, each almost ten stories high. Under a single roof, you could find everything—from gold jewellery to curry leaves! I noticed something interesting—everyone was removing their shoes before entering the shops! Kamal bought a shirt, and I bought a pair of pants. The eateries around this area were quite similar to those in North India, serving good, satisfying food. We had a hearty meal there. Tomorrow, we’ll be going for Lord Tirupati’s darshan. We’ll have to wake up early, so after dinner—we called it a night.

Visiting the shrine of Lord Tirupati, also known Balaji

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We returned to the hotel from Tirupati around 1 a.m. last night. Luckily, we didn’t have to sleep on the streets—the watchman opened the gate for us. Honestly, the commitment and sense of responsibility of the Tamil people is admirable. The previous night, I had told the owner’s brother that we’d be leaving for Tirupati at five in the morning, and he had made sure everything was arranged exactly as promised. Today was another full rest day. In the evening, we planned to go out for some shopping—to buy a few things to take home. While relaxing in the room, I watched a dubbed Tamil movie called Magadheera. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel that bad this time. Maybe by now, I’ve become accustomed to the mix of good and bad—sort of adapted to it!

In about six to seven days, we explored many villages and towns of Tamil Nadu. The villages often reminded me of Mani Ratnam’s movie, Roja, particularly the song “Rukmini… Rukmini…”—a bunch of elderly women surrounding one or two beautiful young women. There’s nothing you can do! "Sometimes ordinary-looking girls are used to encircle the heroine to highlight her unique beauty." I don’t know if that’s why it’s done on screen, but that’s basically how the rural landscape of South India looks. Most of the people are middle-aged, or elderly. Almost everyone I saw had graying hair, with the smell of oil coming off it. In their hair, they wore garlands of morning flowers, half-dried and stiff as wood. Some elderly women had strange little hobbies, sitting around with yellow turmeric paste smeared on their faces. The village boys show great respect for their mothers and grandmothers. They may not have the formal manners of the city, but what they do have is the upbringing of their mothers and grandmothers, the determination to survive under adverse conditions, and an incredible sense of pride in their caste. At most street corners in the villages, you’ll find two statues of gods, sitting side by side. Maybe they’re brothers, or maybe friends—perhaps not unlike us! But even here, the style is the same: fiery, glaring eyes like embers, moustaches like Bhagat Singh’s. Devotion is less, fear is more. At night, if someone suddenly appears, you might even have to spit on your own chest to ward off danger! The games the village boys play are equally strange. They’ll grab a bull by its tail to subdue it, almost like what a matador does in the Roman Colosseum—but here, hundreds of boys do it bare-handed, in the middle of a crowd. What sheer demonic audacity! I read in the newspaper that in a place called Jalikatti, nearly 90 people were injured in a single game. I don’t know about highly educated families, but in middle and lower-class villages, it’s clear from the locals’ behaviour that women are expected to remain under the feet of men.

Now, let’s talk about the people of the city. On the train, near the Andhra Pradesh border, a group of people wearing black shirts, black pants, and black shawls boarded. I honestly thought, Oh no, we’re being robbed! Later, one of them explained that they were devout Tamils, observing a vow: for one month, they would remain barefoot, wear only black clothes, and not cut their beards. In Chennai, despite so many shoe stores from Bata to Woodland, most Tamils either walk barefoot or wear very simple sandals. I also heard that on special days or festivals, they even go barefoot to offices, schools, and colleges—this is considered a status symbol. The men and women wear very simple clothes; nothing flashy or extravagant. The women, too, walk around in plain-coloured saris. On buses, people are either on their mobile phones or reading books quietly. Truly, this seems to reflect the principle of “simple living and high thinking.” Brahmins wear light ochre-coloured dhotis, fair-skinned or slightly brown. Sometimes they even carry gold or religious ornaments, but still, they walk barefoot. The wealth of Chennai’s business class is visible in the shopping malls and showrooms—expensive Mercedes, Audi, and BMW cars are parked right outside their homes on the streets.

What struck me most while traveling through Tamil Nadu was the stark social and economic contrast between the villages and the cities. Thanks to science, agriculture has developed tremendously, yet in comparison to the urban-centric economy, it still seems negligible. Educated boys and girls are leaving the villages for the cities, turning their dreams into reality. As a result, the villages are often deserted. On the other hand, less-educated farmers or low-income people living in city slums can never truly match themselves with the flashy, high-flying professionals of the city—the IT workers, industrialists, and business elites. After backbreaking labour, they are left with only two ways to cope: either to seek refuge in a humble or imaginative life, or to fulfil their inner desires by standing next to a colourful cut-out on the seashore and taking a photo!

Time was running out, so we checked out of the hotel and headed straight off. We had to return home via Kolkata! So, bye bye, green city of Chennai.

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