T he function wasn't part of the Madras Week celebrations, but the release of two books by Prof. K. Srilata organised by the Association of British Scholars during that period did provide several echoes of Madras, one of which particularly gladdened me.
Srilata, an Associate Professor in IIT-Madras's Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, which seems to be flourishing to judge by the number of students present, mainly girls, released her first novel, Table for Four , on the occasion as well as a book of poetry, Arriving Shortly , which was one of the last works accepted for publication by that Indian publishing legend, Prof. P. Lal of Writers' Workshop, Kolkata, and one of the first works edited and published by his son, Prof. Anand Lal, after the former passed away some months ago.
It was during the poetry reading that I heard Srilata herself read the poem, ‘Bionote', which to me appeared to strike the right note for the Week I was immersed in at the time. I hope readers will enjoy reading it below as much as I enjoyed hearing it. It's great to find others, especially young persons, saying ‘Madras, my dear'.
Very briefly then,
I am middle class
and very Madras.
Born and raised in
West Mambalam —
the other side of the railway tracks
where fabled mosquitoes turn peo-
ple into
elephants.
Went to college in
Khushboo sarees stripped
right off the absurdly voluptuous
mannequins at
Saravana Stores T. Nagar Chennai
17.
To weddings I wore,
in deference to my mother,
silk kanjeevarams with temple
borders.
Every other girl
was a designer-sequined shimmer.
I thought nothing of
throwing away
my dreaming hours on
MTC's 47 A,
sitting beside women who ruined my
view,
leaning casually across to
spit or
chuck
through the grime of windows
spinach stems they didn't fancy
in their evening Kuzhambu,
hurling motherly advice at
young men who dared death by
swinging,
two-fingered,
from other women's windows.
My idea of a holiday
was rolling down the hillsides
of Ooty,
dressed in white
like Sridevi.
Objects of love-hate:
the auto annas.
And of course it is coffee that de
fines
the limits of my imagination.
I never could think of it as
cappuccino or mocha or
anything other than
decoction coffee,
deep brown like my own Dravidian
skin.
Lunch:
10.30 sharp: sambhar rasam curry
Tiffin:
5 sharp: idli dosa vada
My idea of arctic winter:
twenty six degree centigrade.
And so on and so forth
as they don't say in Tamil.
Never mind this new upstart
Chennai.
Madras, my dear, here I come!
About me, rest assured,
there is
no Bombay, no Delhi, no London
and certainly no New York.
I am all yours,
Madras, my dear,
wrap and filling!
Footnote: Declaring one's affection for Madras that is Chennai in song and verse has been a trend this year. At Padma Seshadri Bala Bhavan, K.K. Nagar, Tamil songs eulogised Madras and Happy Birthday Madras was sung in Sanskrit. Elsewhere Anil Srinivasan composed an Anthem for Madras for INTACH and it was sung by students of Brhaddhvani.
