I was born in Madras. Not Chennai. Madras.
Chennai is just the name. Madras — that is my emotion. It wasn’t just a city. It was the BGM of my childhood, the stage of my teenage dreams, and the silent witness to my becoming. But today, as I walk through these same streets, I search for my Madras — and I can’t find her. What I see now is a city that has transformed so much, it’s almost as if it forgot who it used to be.
I remember the theatres first. They were temples of wonder.
Alankar Theatre — where I watched every Jackie Chan movie as a wide-eyed kid, snuggled between my parents. From King Solomon’s Mines to Thunderbolt, it was our Sunday ritual, our adventure time. Then came Anand & Little Anand, where I saw Nayagan and Jallikattu with my dad, and Malabar Police with my college buddies. Every show had a memory etched beside it.
Melody Theatre — if it was a Hindi movie, that’s where we went. My mom adored Hindi films, and my dad made sure we saw them all. From Dil to Hum to Baazi, Melody was a family tradition. The last I remember watching there was in 2007 — and then, like everything else, it quietly disappeared.
Then came the dream that never faded: Prarthana Drive-in. As a kid, I heard stories about watching movies from a car. I never went. But once I started my own company near Thiruvanmiyur, I finally did — Kadhal Konden and Anbe Sivam. I didn’t have a car then. I sat on a plastic chair and watched, envious of those inside cars, feeling like I had arrived late to a dream. When I was stressed, I would go there alone, escape for a while, then return to work. A year later, things changed. I went there in a car, and took my cousins too — because they deserved to live that dream.
Udayam. Chandran. Sooriyan: These theatres were where I watched movies solo, with schoolmates, with my parents. They were razed just three months ago — like someone ripped out a part of my diary.
But Madras wasn’t just cinema. It was culture, bookstores, summer escapes.
Landmark: My hideout since 1995. I went there to beat the heat, to explore music, to touch books, to discover authors who sowed the seeds of entrepreneurship in me. It wasn’t a store — it was a sanctuary.
The Park Sheraton: Youthful nights at Dublin, celebrating Dhoni’s T20 World Cup win. That place was our escape, our celebration spot.
Luz Shanthi Sagar for chats. Dasa Prakash for cherry milk and green-pea sandwiches. The roadside podi dosa at Brilliant Tutorials. These weren’t just eateries — they were memories made edible.
I grew up on North Parade Road, in my grandmother’s house. The Malai Thiruvizha was a grand celebration then. Shops would stretch from Kathipara all the way to the Cantonment marriage hall. Today, that grand procession is reduced to the narrow streets around St. Thomas Mount. The horse stud at Alandur, where my parents would walk me, feed me snacks, and let me play — now stands a metro station.
The park where I once learned how to swing? It’s a turf now — professional, synthetic, and soulless.
Chennai has grown. Expanded. Boomed. But in doing so, it has wiped clean the chalkboard of memories. It has replaced nostalgia with glass towers, warmth with air-conditioning, and stories with speed.
I’m not against progress. But what do you do when progress forgets its past?
I don’t want a Madras frozen in time. I just want a city that remembers.
Because I remember. And I still miss her.
Where is my Madras?
In search of gold, I lost my diamond.
AnandNataraj 