The sea breeze is stiff with the smell of history. The rollers on the Bay of Bengal rush in to meet these shores from where men have sailed to fame and others have landed to carve empires that unfurled across Asia.
It was from these sands that people were sent in wretched conditions as plantation labour to colonies across oceans; through these dark sludgy waters, a ship tried to decimate this city during the Great War. And, it was from this shore that the 2004 tsunami carved out an amphitheatre — the cranes at the Royapuram harbour are visible at one end, the shore temple of Mamallapuram at the other.
Through it all, there has been one witness — the catamaran. A symbol of the Coromandel coast, it has ridden these waves for centuries; its rise and fall mirroring the life and times of the people who live along it.
So, it seems one weekend morning in Kottivakkam when the sun is already searing as the last of the boats comes in. The fishermen jump off into the frothy waves while others from the fishing hamlet rush in to haul it ashore.
Two of them, sunburnt, taut and with the grace of ebony statues, lug the nets to a pristine cuticle of dry sand. From its crisscross grid glint fish in jewel-like shades. The women help untangle them — there’s a host of false trevally (sudumbu), seer (seela), unfamiliar crustaceans and a dead estuary snake that seems to have lost its way. Janakiraman, who mans the quixotically named ‘Fish and Chicks’, the white boat with a red-and-black pennant that just made it home, drapes the snake around his neck and smiles disarmingly at us.
The women pile the catch into small mounds. “How much?” we ask, desperately trying to look like people who live on fish through the year, despite resembling two straying storks slathered in sunscreen, notebooks tucked under arms. “Rs. 100 for 20,” Shakila, his wife, replies. “Fresh and tasty,” she adds, prising the gills to prove it. “You want?” The fish-eater looks uncertain. At the back of her mind a ticker tape runs — ‘small fish, more bones’. The vegetarian looks on, clueless. “Easy to cook,” grins Shakila. Twelve iridescent pieces dusted in sand go into a plastic bag. “What are your names?” we ask the kids. “Rudra and Sanjay,” answers Shakila and spells out her mobile number in English. “Where did you study?” we ask. “I’m from Besant Nagar; I married the boy next door,” she laughs, gesturing in the direction of her maternal home, a short boat ride away. Janakiraman has lived near the sea all his life and spent half of it being a fisherman. “The boat was named by a merchant marine. I head out at 3 a.m. and return at 9. The sea is my goddess, she has no boundaries, but now we have GPS-enabled devices. In the evenings, I sell kulfi at Thiruvanmiyur beach. And, this shack is my home.”
By now, a crowd of curious onlookers has gathered and we are introduced to cousins twice removed and a gaggle of giggling boys. There’s still almost 20 km to go, and it’s getting impossible to stand in the scorching sand. When we turn to leave, Shakila runs behind us with two frozen kulfis. “For you,” she says with a warm smile. “Come again.”
We head back to the road that runs alongside the beach from Thiruvanmiyur to Injambakkam, past the thick tussocks of grass that grow on the sand heaps, persistent beach morning glory with mauve flowers that hides many an ankle twister, and sea-facing benches erected in memory of loved ones. Seaward Road with its posh beach houses stands close to the congested Thiruvalluvar Nagar, with its multi-coloured buildings that have now become standard housing for fishermen.
Three schoolboys play truant and a man chases giddy-headed goats into the empty beach. From behind us, a black, lithe streak shoots past to retrieve a bottle bobbing on the waves. A man jogs alongside a dog that looks like a whippet. “Aarora was gifted to my son,” says Kaliappan Moorthy, a retired oil company officer, who traded a lonely outpost in Assam for a house near the beach only six months ago. He asks us if we are researching the coast. We tell him about the coastal relay and he stops to chat with us. “Since last week, the beach has eroded here. Aarora, named after aaru (river) loves to swim and we spend at least two hours this time of the day playing ‘fetch’. In the evenings, it gets crowded.”
The heat does little to dampen the enthusiasm of Kishore and Surya, who are busy painting the merry-go-round their mother runs every evening at the beach. It’s their day off from school and the boys have decided to add some colour to their source of livelihood. They’ve dismantled the frame and chairs shaped like cartoon characters, and take turns to draw a freehand line using a stick of charcoal to segment the circle. They then paint the base a vibrant blue. Near them are containers bearing coffee-brown, white and yellow paint — before long, the chairs will sport new colours, and the sun will dry them in time for the evening rides. Of course, the new paint will be speckled with fine sand, but that’s part of the deal.
We walk past a house with roundels for windows that looks like where Hansel and Gretel were imprisoned, and stop to drink tender coconut water. Two curly strips of murukku later, we walk past a woman with a turmeric-coated face, hawking fish on a bicycle. The fish in our bag gives out a whiff of protest. So, we buy no more and hurry past.
One of the roads en route leads to Chinnandi Kuppam in Palavakkam. A group of men sits by the Ellaiamman temple, catching up on the day’s news. There’s a beach there too, but not a patch on what we’ve seen so far. Strangely, the beach, though contiguous, looks different every few kilometres. Here, the waves are gentle, and seem almost hesitant, unlike the rapturous rollers elsewhere. About 15 minutes later, we’re back on the ECR, trying to find our way to the Injambakkam beach.
For someone who’s never seen Chennai but on film, the first reference is usually Chennai Central. The second, invariably, is VGP Golden Beach, where thousands of films, including the viral ‘Why this kolaveri’ song, and serials have been shot. We take the road adjoining the resort; it’s a path you wish never ended. One side is covered with bougainvillea in flaming magenta and sparkling white, and you can spot the beach while walking on the winding road. On the other side is the skeletal frame of a roller-coaster ride.
Once there, we spot familiar reminders from past hits — statues, caparisoned elephants, and the elaborate stone sculptures that dot the area. The pristine stretch is a beauty, even at noon. We walk skirting the sand, and see families having the time of their lives in the blue waters. Wave-watching should be made a national pastime. Monster waves gather steam, but before they hit the clean shore with a thud, a small one quells them into submission. The landscape resembles a watercolour.
We walk on, deftly saving our feet from nimble crabs. The receding waves leave behind a treasure trove of shells and memories. We pick a bleached bone finely etched by the sand and water. Somehow, it does not seem right to remove it from there, and the next wave carries it back home. The wet sand soothes feet scorched by the sun. White caps ripple across and a bird rides the wind. The humidity draws salt maps on our clothes, and the sharp scent of the sea hand-holds us as we explore its bounties.
Just before the Uthandi toll gate, we spot the Juhu Beach, a lovely residential space, with stately homes and well-kept gardens, and a road that almost leads to the beach. But, in parts of Uthandi, there’s not much of a beach to walk on any more. The casuarina groves where every Madras old-timer once picnicked have almost disappeared. Someone’s dumping garbage and another sets it alight. As we walk, we see men bringing back fresh catch from the sea. We decide to take a detour to reach them, hit a dead end, and head right back to the toll booth.
Just a little after DakshinaChitra, we spot the Central Institute of Brackishwater Aquaculture (CIBA). The place is off bounds for the public for the most part, except occasionally. We spy a large expanse of water, flocks of water birds, pelicans, and then, the imposing iron gate closes on us.
At Muttukadu, we stand out in a sea of giggly teenagers out to have a good time with friends, couples who’ve managed to find some privacy and tourists keen on a really expensive ride on the backwaters at 2 p.m. Two employees carry plates of food — rice piled high with fragrant sambar. Sadly, you’re allowed to dine only if you’ve bought a boating pass.
The lake presents a strange sight. At one end, boats ply the water. At the other, people stand knee-deep searching furiously for something. Mussels, apparently, are found in plenty in the backwaters and about 30 people from the nearby villages stand in companiable silence, their hands foraging the bed for the delicacy. A security person at the lake tells us the flesh is consumed and the shells sent to limestone factories.
An article in The Hindu once reported that in most cities the “South will have all the affluence and amenities, North all the hardship and history”. That somehow holds true for Chennai. The pace of life on this stretch of the coast is filled with luxury and languor. As you gaze out from Muttukadu bridge, it’s the highrises that dominate the skyline, even as a boatman flings his net into the water. It’s taken us five hours to get here, but the throat-catching vistas more than make up for the pounding headache.
Behind us lie the backwaters. Ahead, is the bay. Separating the two is a strip of land, reminiscent of a similar stretch of beach that Englishman Francis Day bought from the Raja of Chandragiri in 1639, to found the first city of modern India — Madras.
