Chennai aka: Madras

i live here…

Disembarking from a second class bogey on the Coromandel Express, a 36 hour journey from Calcutta’s Howrah Station… soot-smudged, sleep deprived, and giddily disoriented by the swirling sensory kaleidoscope of India… the saffron skies of a south Indian sunset, the chitter of Tamil voices, hawkers of incense and salvation, beggars, and of course, a long queue of the ubiquitous bicycle rickshaws, or trishaws, as they’re commonly known.

Like most politically-correct visitors to Asia, I was shocked and repelled when I first encountered human-powered public transportation. It seemed a vulgar anachronism, a throwback to colonial arrogance, to rely on the muscles of a man half my size to propel me through these crowded streets. However, I overcame my revulsion when I realized that these men wanted my business and, further, were able to convey me to places, physical and psychic, unreachable by foot or by taxi.

The men who operate trishaws offer inexpensive transportation and a convenient connection to a wealth of goods and services, licit and illicit. I’ve grown accustomed to efficiently and lucratively unloading my duty-free scotch and cigarettes with them. In a dutiful, diligent workforce of civil servants and shop owners, the trishaw driver is a cheerful maverick: a wheeling, dealing, fringe dweller who offers his customer an easy entree to the black market, drugs, sex, or any other diversion.

As I step from the cool dimness of the station into the dusty slanting rays of a setting sun, stretching muscles cramped and sore from a day and a half on a crowded wooden bench, I’m immediately accosted by several drivers. One stands out from his peers, with dreadlocked hair bleached golden by the tropical sunlight. He catches my glance and I’m startled to meet the amused gaze of eyes as blue as my own.

Hoisting my rucksack into his trishaw, his singsong voice tripping in a rapid onslaught of syllables, the familiar inquiries: Where do I wish to stay? Where am I from? Have I whiskey to sell? Cigarettes? Do I want ganja? A girl? He spoke Indian English, a dialect so foreign it baffles the American ear: a pungent, bubbling, musical stew of colonial British English tarted up with the staccato polyphonic bursts of Hindi and Tamil. Amidst the fusillade of questions, a declarative sentence so quickly offered it takes me a moment to comprehend what I’ve just heard. “I am Australian.”

The rest of our conversation is punctuated by the clamor of buses, lorries, ox carts, and taxis – the normal cacophony of traffic—but I learn a few details. He came to India with his parents at age 15. His father was a carpenter. He’s lived here 20 years, has an Indian wife and family. Unasked questions tantalize me: what must this seaside metropolis, teeming with dark faces, have seemed like to a blond Australian teenager? What happened to his parents? How did he come to operate a trishaw, one of the most menial jobs imaginable?

Like so many other chance meetings, however, this one yields more questions than conclusions. Before I can learn the answers, we reach our destination.

For a few rupees added to the fare, he sells me a tola of tiny Kerala buds, golden and resinous. He drops me at the Broadlands Hotel where, he assures me, “many of your people stay”. With a farewell waggle of his head, he stands barefoot on the pedals of his clattering, garishly decorated vehicle, and disappears into the evening gloom.

All kinds of people can live in chennai. The standard of living suits best for the typical indian middle class person (Family).

I lived here for four years. The people over here are more affectionate to their language. even for all the government offices also name boards will be written in ‘tamil’ (tamilnadu regional language) only.

Hard to find english written boards.

Madras has some great treasures to offer to those willing to dig around.

I live in the heart of the city. Let me know if you want to come here will be glad to show you around.

Chennai, Singara Chennai. Home of Great people like ME.

it is a beautiful place to visit.

I will never forget India.

Was there December 2005 – Jan 2006

I met the love of my life here AND it was my first glimpse into life in the country where I was born—I was raised in the U.S. and had not been back for 30 years! It was just like I had imagined. Beautiful, friendly, bustling, and I felt more at home here than in the U.S. I have visited several times since then and enjoy it even more with each trip and the more I have seen. Hoping to expand my experience to other parts, like my home state of Rajasthan, Goa and my husband’s home state of U.P.