We began our final approach to 20 minutes behind schedule. It surprised me because the first leg of the journey from Atlanta to Frankfurt had gone like clockwork. I pondered for a moment, the existence of some bizarre force, that rendered my flight late as soon as it entered my homeland's borders. So, there I was tired and sleep deprived squinting out of the window of the airplane at my beloved city. It was 12:20 a.m, but the city was still on the move. My heart skipped when I saw the tiny famed auto putt-putting away through a street with those yellow lamps burning down. I was vaguely reminded of how flat the city looked having been used to seeing skyscrapers for the past 3 years.Scattered bolts of lightning suddenly light up the sky and the clouds.There was a storm coming. I smiled at the irony of my supposedly sweltering hot home city, welcoming me with a thunder storm.
As we taxied toward the gate, I was able to make out the moderately sized terminal of the airport still adorned with the glowing red neon sign declaring " Chennai International Airport". The airport hadn't changed a bit in 3 years. I gathered up my bags with a growing impatience as I wanted to get out, stretch my legs a bit and meet mom and dad. I did not have a roaming mobile plan and so couldn't call dad to let him know the flight was late. We filed out of the aircraft slowly and I hurried out of the gate, vaguely noticing the grimy, poorly lit corridors and walls. The terminal seemed small and empty. I was more than slightly irritated due to the delay and hurried out the gate and followed the signs for Immigration. There were 3 queues and all of them moved fairly fast. I couldn't help but notice that none of the Indian passengers so much as said thank you to the immigration officer when they were done (force of habit made sure I did). Good ol' India, I thought - pleasantries and courtesy are for the firangis not for the Desis!!. A Couple more escalators and a short walk brought me to the baggage claim area. After 30 minutes of frenzied searching, cajoling and pushing, like a school of piranhas, I finally managed to extricate my bags and wheeled it out of the airport.
Stepping out, I was immediately aware of the gigantic concrete structure towering over the airport in what was open space 3 years back. This was the metro rail station that had been in construction for the past 2 years. It gave the airport and the surroundings a surreal look not unlike one of those rainy and seedy, yet futuristic streets depicted in the movie "Blade runner". After taking a few minutes to get my bearing, I spotted my parents and walked over. After the hugs, and the usual exclamations of " oh you've gone so thin" and "how was the flight" we started loading the bags in the car just as the first rain drops of the night pattered down. The parking lot was in familiar chaos, with auto rickshaws zipping by helter skelter, incessant honking, security personnel trying in vain to direct traffic, and porters jostling suitcases and haranguing passengers for a few more rupees. The construction had only served to multiply the chaos, miring the parking lot and road in slushy mud and impassable construction material. At long last we got out of the airport onto the trunk road after paying the astronomical parking fee, by which time the rain was pouring down in sheets, causing almost zero visibility. Add to it the fact that parts of the road were blocked off because of the construction and we were left with the herculean task of trying to get home in one piece. So after almost 45 minutes of fighting the deluge, being heckled by every passing vehicle, taking numerous diversions, using choice swear words, and the incessant honking, we finally reached home to my mom's tongue tingling, dosas slathered with onion chutney.
The next few days were a blur lost in between spells of jet lag, power shutdowns and the incessant shuttling to and from my grandfather's place and my house. The heat was buried under intermittent showers of rain, leading to a damp, humid atmosphere that depressed me. Initially the oppressive traffic that I had conveniently forgotten for the past 3 years returned with a vengeance and jolted me. The cacophony of horns and motorbikes, jarring and irritating at first, soon became a sweet melody that endeared me to Chennai all the more. After getting shouted at and honked at a couple of times for politely yielding to traffic and pedestrians, I soon settled into the Chennai way of driving - Have one hand glued to the horn, the other to the gear, one leg to the clutch and the other alternating between the brake and the throttle, and of course be prepared to roll down your windows any instant to give a motorist a piece of your mind - Ah..What Bliss!
In between the inevitable (obligatory) round of visits to all the relatives, I tried to stuff my face with as much south Indian food as I could and having not tasted authentic indian fare for the better part of 3 years, it was like ambrosia to me. Little did I know that, on top of all this voraciousness, I would be forced to down mind boggling quantities of food at all the relatives' places, in between cliched comments of how I had gone thin. The result conspired to enact my bowel's version of "thermonuclear war" (credits to Steve ;P) but thankfully, it wasn't too dreadful. At long last I got some breathing space and managed to meet up with some school friends. Hanging out like old times felt nostalgic and fun at the same time, although the checks at pubs and restaurants felt like they were from another planet.
I hardly had time to visit my old haunts yet managed to drive around a lot of the city. I could scarcely recognize many of the streets I had been on countless times before. The explosion of new buildings, businesses and restaurants had conspired to change the landscape drastically. Added to this, was the construction of the new metro and subway lines, with half erected steel pillars and concrete overhangs looming out of the ground every which way. The construction's steel, and concrete tainted almost every major street and neighborhood, which ended up in endless Take diversion signs and seething masses of disgruntled motorists. Just add rain to the mix and you basically get a Indian version of the "The day after tomorrow". When I left, the city was already bursting at its seams, but now it just felt as if the seams had long been breached and the infrastructure was just trying to play a losing game of catch up to tame the monstrous growth of the city.
I had barely had a whiff at the scent and saltiness of the coastal air, before I was being whisked off to the southern reaches of the state to, wouldn't you know it, visit more relatives. After rushing through 3 cities, paying my college a visit, more good times with college friends and traveling on a train after an eternity, in about as many days, I was ready to just curl up at home and sleep for a day or two. But, voila, the end of my vacation was upon me. So the last few days were spent in frenzied shopping, trying to visit as many places and eat in as many restaurants as possible, while squeezing in time for goodbye lunches and dinners.
The small hole-in-the-wall eatery near my school that had the most delicious (albeit unhealthy) chilly beef. The countless variety stores and mom and pop grocery stores, where I used to call on the "annas" with battered 50 and 100 rupee notes in my hand instead of plastic. The jostling and hustling to catch the "anna"'s eye and shout what you wanted. The musty smell, the momentary relief these shops provided from the fiery heat outside, the small glass jars of candy, the tinkle of coins, and the innocence of 6 year olds on their first visit to the store alone, clutching a 5 rupee coin with a look of awe, glee and bewilderment on their tiny brown faces as they pointed at a candy bar they wanted - No amount of shopping in a Walmart or a Kroger will buy you these experiences and feelings. The corner tea stall, where one sipped tea in dirty glasses even in the most sweltering of days. The hustle and bustle of two wheelers and the cloud of smoke and dust one had to negotiate. The wild celebrations and glee of movie goers in theaters as they jumped, clapped, whistled and grooved to their favorite stars cavorting around on screen to hopelessly illogical plots and heroism. Our cinema might mostly be shit, but we revel in the movie going experience like no American can or will ever understand. The billowing embers from the smoked corn stalls at the marina, impoverished youngsters hawking fried chickpeas and boiled peanuts out of their big steel containers. The city roads bursting with all manner of two wheelers, four wheelers and three wheelers, revving their engines, ignoring stop lines at signals, primed as if for a race and bursting out the blocks seconds before the green signal flashes. The constant tug of war against government officials over basic amenities, the circus of indian politics, of propagandists and their agendas, the loudspeakers proclaiming all manner of political rhetoric and the cluelessness of the public towards it all.I miss all this and much more in this so called American dream that people back home imagine I am living. I don't know when I'll be back again to Chennai, but I do know this - my heart is firmly back in Chennai. Despite its numerous shortcomings, this is what I'll eventually call home and all the little things that make up my beautiful city will forever beckon me back into its bosom.
It had been a whirlwind return to the motherland and it was still difficult to comprehend the path my life had taken me or the radically new lifestyle I was having in the states.Chennai, meanwhile, had kept growing like a juggernaut, devouring more and more of the 90's India and transforming into an alien hybrid of western and local cultures. But for all the western facade the city puts on, there were all these little things about the city that made it
uniquely Chennai and which made me fall in love with it all over again.
All these little things will, I at least like to believe, will never
change.
