Tag: Madras Nostalgia

Madras Lives in My Heart, Even If the World Calls It Chennai


I love Madras more than Chennai.

For many people, it may just be a name change.
But for me, Madras was not just a city.
Madras was a feeling.

The Madras I knew was simple, small, and full of memories.

Watching Jackie Chan movies at Alankar Theatre felt like a festival. The excitement of sitting in the theatre, waiting for the action scenes, cheering with strangers — those moments were pure joy.

Then there was Anand Theatre and Little Anand Theatre.
Simple theatres, but they carried big memories.

In Mylapore, I remember going to Shanthi Sagar just for chaat. It was never about luxury. It was about taste, laughter, and friendship.

Near Alankar Theatre, there was a small lassi shop near Bharat Petroleum.
Nothing fancy. But that one glass of lassi after a movie felt like the perfect ending.

Even food had its own emotion.

At Buhari Hotel, the bun butter jam was always fresh.
Prepared right there and served warm.
That taste still lives somewhere in memory.

And then there were the beaches.

Just going to Marina Beach or Besant Nagar Beach was enough to reset life. No plans. No pressure. Just the sound of waves and the wind.

Sometimes we would end the evening with bhel puri at the old Nic Nac shop in T. Nagar, right next to Nalli Kuppusamy Chetty.

Those small things made the city feel like home.

Back then, Madras felt like a city you could understand.
I knew almost every area name.

Today, Chennai has grown so much that sometimes I hear area names I have never even heard before. Some names sound similar, some confuse me.

Sometimes when someone asks me about an area and I say I don’t know, they jokingly ask,

“Are you really from this city?”

I smile. But inside, it hurts a little.

Because I am from this city.

But I am from Madras.

And the Madras I knew —
the theatres, the bun butter jam, the beaches, the small streets —
is slowly disappearing.

The world may call it Chennai now.

But in my heart,
it will always be Madras.

Where is my Madras?


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.

She was never just a city. She was my story, my Madras.