The Impermanence of Indian cities- Part 1

CHENNAI 

20^th August 2023, Saturday

As I get off my cab into a long-winded quaint pathway in an upscale neighborhood that leads to a cafe which is like all others in the city; dimly lit exterior turning bright as one opens their blue topaz colored door. I am greeted by the sight of a group of people sitting by a large center table filled with cups of coffee and hot chocolate and piles of books. They are unmistakably the book club that I have come to meet even before my Chennai friend spots me and gets up to greet me. 

I immediately like this group of spirited young people talking animatedly on Young Adult and fictional narratives. I delve in and tell them about my current read- in fact, my fresh read. I had picked it up at Higginbothams titled 'Tamarind City' by Bishwanath Ghosh, an anthology of musings on the city. Surprised with the knowledge that the city also has Tamarind trees in addition with the Drumsticks that find their way into the Tamilian sambar, the writer began this book 10 years ago. Invariably memories of my city, Mumbai with their copper pod and rain tree avenues lining the vast expanses of town streets fill my mind. 

Photo credit: Prof. Saurabh Popli

I began looking for Tamarind trees on my way back home in the bright lights speckled by traffic sounds. Even as I got off the taxi near the narrow by-lane of my guest accommodation, my eyes too tired for spotting details squinted to make out the leaf patterns. The next morning with Tamarind fresh in my head, I walked off towards the busy flower market in Mylapore where the garlands and their heady smell welcome you before the call of the sellers do. You cannot bypass the street without turning at least once to sometimes smile at the old women sitting atop their makeshift flower podium or resisting the temptation to buy a garland before finally halting in your steps. Lotus blooms, mushy scented roses and incense sticks all poke out from their baskets. As I continue reading the faces of the women selling the flowers jostling for attention of passerby, I am acutely aware of the faith they put in their work. With some broken Tamil and hand gestures, I buy a jasmine garland and then struggle to rope it in my hair. The toothless granny sees me and promptly gets off her seat to pin the flowers in my hair. What this gesture of simple help turns out for me throughout the day makes that entire day eventful! There's so much going in my head about this city and the way it barges into a person's senses merely through its names, sights, smells and the general air of busyness it exhibits on its streets. 

I deliberately walk back once again through the Mylapore temple precinct and note the same sellers now with their tired gait still rolling in the flowers. This evening, they sprinkle extra water on the flowers to make them look fresh and the scent still lingers on in the air. The yellow aura surrounds the temple bell sounds and human chatter with the last humidity beads trickling off people’s foreheads. My feet are still active with their energy for traversing the now crowded streets. I duck motorcyclists and pedestrians with grocery bags to walk on the broken pavements with bhajiya stalls perched on them.  Nowhere a tamarind in sight! I reach back and take a long look at the book by my bedside table. Alas! The impermanence of certain visuals we take for granted on the Indian streets comes back for my active pursuit over the next few days.