Remembering my father
I’ve just stumbled upon a lovely article published in your magazine about my late father, P.K. Belliappa (MM, Vol. XXIX No. 24, April 1-15, 2020 by Ramnarayan). I would love to connect with the author – the stories he shared of my dad are so touching – and was wondering if you might have his contact details / would be able to share the best way to connect with him?
Nirupama Belliappa
hello@nipsiandthedeepseas.com
Proof of parking area
The proposal for the need of proof of car parking is a matter of good acclaim, vide “New proof of parking rule for cars hopes to decongest city streets” (MM, April 1-15, 2025). In some foreign countries this is in vogue. But they have sufficient infrastructure built by the government for parking.
In Chennai, this can be effective after a reasonable time post notification so that the house owners lacking the facilities can create the requisite space. Those who cannot should be given the choice of using local Corporation-built garages. Otherwise, it will affect the sale of vehicles and indirectly, employment in Tamil Nadu’s vehicle & parts manufacturing sector.
So, it may be prudent to ramp up efforts once sufficient infrastructure is in place. A future date can be indicated accordingly perhaps after three years or so.
K. Rajendran
mani.rajendran23@gmail.com
Dead End
This is the name board displayed by Greater Chennai Corporation on Kasturirangan Road, Alwarpet. Is there no other word to explain the dead end road better than this? How about Blind Alley or is there any other word for this?
Baskar Seshadri
seshadribaskar@yahoo.com
Where Bajji Meets Brecht: Growing Up with Madras Theatre
The first time I encountered the world of stage drama wasn’t in some posh auditorium or glitzy venue – it was right in the heart of good ol’ Mylapore, at the Fine Arts Club. I was a wide-eyed 5th grader, more interested in Bajji than Brecht, when Amma dragged me along to a play called Maadhu Plus Two. Little did I know then, I was about to be enrolled in an informal PhD in Chennai Theatre 101.
Amma, being a proud employee of Indian Bank, Triplicane branch, had access to the most coveted family tickets during the annual Dramafest. A ten-day celebration of everything witty, wild and wonderfully “namma”, the dramafest was our escape hatch from the mundane. With work done and veshti neatly folded, we would make our way, armed with Mylapore filter kaapi and unlimited curiosity.
We weren’t VIPs, but we always managed good seats – usually third or fourth row. That’s close enough to see the actor’s angry eyebrow raise and the beads of sweat during monologues. And yes, close enough to catch the jokes too. Plays like Crazy Thieves in Palavakkam and Meesai Aanalum Manavi at Sri Parthasarathy Swami Sabha made us laugh till our bellies ached and tears streamed – not from emotion, but from sheer Chennai-style comedy.
One particular play, Kaatla Mazhai, was so uproarious that for days after, even the way Amma sneezed reminded me of a punchline. There was something magical about witnessing live performances – the spontaneous dialogue delivery, the little improvisations, the intentional (and sometimes very unintentional) puns that sent the audience into collective fits of laughter.
These weren’t just dramas. They were cultural time capsules – peppered with humour, steeped in local slang, and full of everyday situations that made you go, “Dei, this is just like our house!” They reminded us to laugh at life, whether it was at a nosy neighbour, a forgetful father-in-law, or a self-declared “modern boy” in veshti and Ray-Bans.
While the drama usually kicked off around 6 in the evening, our preparation began much earlier – Amma wrapping up bank work, me wearing my best ironed shirt, and both of us mentally preparing for the laughs ahead. It was a mother-child ritual, complete with shared jokes, whispered comments mid-scene, and post-show bajji at Jannal Kadai.
And you know what? Those stage lessons stayed with me. Even now, in high-pressure office meetings, when everyone’s fuming over a missed deadline or Excel error, I throw in a well-timed one-liner inspired by those plays – and suddenly, people are smiling, the air’s lighter, and things move forward.
In a world increasingly running on autopilot, these plays reminded us of life’s siru siru santhoshams – the small joys. They were loud, exaggerated, emotional, and brilliant. They didn’t just entertain; they preserved our language, our quirks, our Madras Baashai, and our ability to laugh at ourselves.
Even today, when I recount those memories to my colleagues, it brings spontaneous laughter. Some of them may not understand the references, but the spirit? Oh, that’s universal.
So here’s to those nights under the stage lights. To punch dialogues that echo louder than boardroom jargon. And to Amma, for teaching me that sometimes, the best way to handle life is like a Chennai play: loud, heartfelt, and full of perfectly timed comedy.
– Priyanka Soman