An Epistle to Madras

I heard Cumberbatch reading the letter that won the Dear London competition. It persuaded me to write this to my dear Madras.

Dear Madras,

My wish that 2026 is kind to all of us.

In my earliest memory, you are Madras. So even though you became Chennai, you are still Madras. And what’s in a name? You are just as dear. I know of no other city, I have not lived anywhere else, but still I will say you are the best.

In the Black & White era, when the distressed heroine weeping a la Sriranjini came to you with a bundle of whatever in her hands, the camera would show Central Station and Marina beach. And we in the audience knew she has reached you.

You had the first corporation and first medical college and more as Mr. Muthiah told us with pride. But repetitions, like comparisons, are odorous, so I’ll try a different route.

Marina was a silvery stretch, and as school girls we proudly said it was the second-best beach in the world. Now her quality has changed and her length too, because four Chief Ministers are resting in peace there. Can Bombay or Calcutta match this?

To the North Indians, the entire people south of the Vindhyas are ‘Madrasis’ and they also speak ‘Madrasi’. At least they were like that. Which other city has this claim to fame?

You are an inclusive doll, really. Take for example the road off which I live – Luz Church Road. Walk westwards from St. Thomas Church and you will pass a mosque, next a Jain temple, then Navasakthi Vinayakar temple and end in Luz Church. You are without parallel.

One of the Apostles came here and not anywhere else, one of the first Azhvars was born a Madras child, and a miracle was performed by a Saivite saint on a daughter of Madras, Poompavai.

You celebrate Arupathumoovar and Velankanni festival with equal gusto.

If India was put on the world tennis map and world chess map, it is because of Madrasis.

Your name shines in the first four most important cases that shaped our Constitution. A.K. Gopalan vs State of Madras (detention without trial), Romesh Thapar vs State of Madras (freedom of expression), State of Madras vs V.G. Row (State’s power to ban association), and State of Madras vs. Champakam Dorairajan (reservation). You are unmatched, dear.

For you, gaana paattu and keertanams, same same. Indo Saracenic architecture and bright violet houses to align with Vaastu, same same.

“Soltu vanthiyaa”, someone screams when you step in his way on a busy road. But don’t be deceived by that abrasive cry. When my 90-year-old aunt was stuck on the first floor in a drowning Saidapet, it was your children who gently carried her to safety.

I love you Madras, Chennai, Patnam.

Prabha Sridevan
prabha.sridevan@gmail.com

Between Stone & Sentence: What Chennai’s Heritage Taught Me About Writing

Chennai does not rush its history. It layers it.

Stand before the ancient carvings at Kapaleeswarar Temple, and you will notice something remarkable — no line is accidental. Every curve of stone has been chiselled with patience. You cannot hurry granite. It yields only to persistence.

Writing, I have discovered, is very similar.

I did not begin writing because I felt particularly gifted. I began because my thoughts felt overcrowded — like a December music season schedule where three concerts clash at the same time and you are left choosing between a varnam and a pallavi. My mind was full, but not orderly.

When I started writing regularly, something unexpected happened. The noise began to arrange itself.

Writing forced me into the present moment. It does not tolerate vague thinking. The minute I try to hide behind big words, the sentence collapses like an overambitious kolam drawn without symmetry. The page is unforgiving but fair. It asks, “What exactly do you mean?”

That question is uncomfortable.

It is much easier to have opinions than to structure them. In conversation, we can escape with enthusiasm. On paper, enthusiasm must stand in line behind clarity. Writing makes you slow down enough to examine whether you actually understand what you are saying.

And that slowing down has helped me immensely.

Consider Fort St. George. Begun in 1640, it was not constructed in a single burst of inspiration. It evolved, layer by layer, brick by brick. Writing, too, is iterative. My first drafts are rarely dignified. They are enthusiastic, slightly dramatic, and in urgent need of discipline. Editing them feels like restoring an old heritage building — carefully removing what is unnecessary while preserving the structure.

There is also something deeply Chennai about the rhythm of revision. If you have ever listened to an alapana during the December season at Madras Music Academy, you will know it does not leap to the crescendo. It explores, returns, and refines. Writing follows that same arc. You circle an idea, test it, rephrase it, until finally it settles into coherence.

I have also noticed how handwriting sharpens my attention. When I write by hand, distractions reduce. There is no temptation to switch tabs or check notifications. It is just me and the page. The mind engages differently — more steadily, more honestly. Perhaps that is why many great thinkers insisted on writing things down. The physical act anchors thought.

Motivation, I learned, does not arrive grandly like a sabha chief guest. It appears quietly after I begin. Many times I have waited to “feel inspired”. Inspiration, however, behaves like a shy Carnatic student — it only sings after regular practice has begun.

As a teacher, this realisation feels urgent. If students lose the habit of writing — truly writing, not merely typing — they risk losing the discipline of structured thought. Writing strengthens working memory, argument building, and self-awareness. It teaches patience in a culture that increasingly celebrates speed.

Chennai’s heritage stands today because someone valued slow, deliberate craftsmanship. Whether it is the quiet dignity of the Kapaleeswarar Temple’s gopuram or the colonial symmetry of Fort St. George, these structures remind us that endurance is built through process, not haste.

Writing has become that process for me.

It has not made my life dramatic or glamorous. It has made it clearer. It has taught me that before speaking loudly, one must think carefully. Before reacting strongly, one must understand deeply. And before claiming certainty, one must examine one’s own assumptions.

Between stone and sentence, Chennai has been my teacher.

And in a city rich with history, I am learning — slowly, patiently — to carve my thoughts with equal care.

– Priyanka Soman