Before metro lines and food delivery apps.

I was never fully from Madras, aka Chennai. Neither officially nor completely. I didn’t grow up there. I didn’t go to school there. I didn’t know every street by heart. But I always felt I belonged to it in fragments, like a part of me has always belonged to it in ways I cannot explain.

I was a typical half-resident. A recurring memory in its calendar. At least once a month, like clockwork, we would go. Every small shopping trip, every festival purchase, every “important” thing had to happen in Madras. Clothes for festivals, gifts, all the big decisions. It didn’t feel real unless it came from there. As if the city had to witness our milestones. As if it pressed a quiet stamp on our lives that said, this matters.

The Chennai of the early 2000s wasn’t just a place. It was like a warm hug. A softness. A rhythm that didn’t shove you forward. It moved, but it allowed you to breathe in its stillness.

Mount Road was my anchor, the place that is and will always be closest to my heart. My aunt lived there back then, in a quaint apartment that felt like a second world. People called it the heart of the city, and I believed it. From the window, I watched life unfold.

Across those posh buildings and glittering glamour, in a small slum house, lived an old British couple. Someone once said they had failed to migrate back. I don’t know if that was true. Maybe it was just a story adults told to fill the silence. Every single morning, without fail, I would watch them sit outside together with tea in delicate cups and saucers, legs crossed, gently sipping their tea calmly, as if time moved differently around them. The uncle had wavy silver hair and carried a boxy smile. He mostly wore trousers and T-shirts. The aunty had a neat bob, big round glasses, and wandered around in a knee-length frock, like she belonged to a different decade. They looked misplaced and yet perfectly placed at the same time.

Watching them became my private ritual. I never spoke to them. I never waved. I don’t know their names. They never once looked up at me. And yet, they belong to the Madras that I know. Their stillness in that noisy, chaotic city felt like a secret I was lucky enough to witness. Sometimes I wonder if they are still there. And sometimes I’m terrified they aren’t. And sometimes I wonder if they ever existed at all, or if my memory has softened them into something poetic because I needed something steady to look back on.

My aunt would dry machine-washed clothes on the terrace at night. Such a small, ordinary chore. And yet, it was my favorite time of day. I would follow her upstairs, talking endlessly about random things just so I could stay there longer. The terrace would glow under scattered city lights. Not as blinding as today. Softer. Warmer. The breeze would move through the wet clothes and brush past my face. I would stand there, small, quiet, and unnoticed, staring at the skyline as if it held answers. As if it knew things I didn’t yet know about life.

One building I clearly remember spotting from there was an IT company named Polaris; its lights stayed on until 6 in the morning. That fascinated me. Who were those people? What were they doing? It felt like something grand and important was happening inside those walls while I stood there, just being a child.

We went often to St. Anthony’s Church, Egmore, near Presentation Convent. It was the first church I ever stepped into. I didn’t understand the prayers. I didn’t understand the rituals. But I remember feeling small in a way that was comforting. A quiet closeness, like something larger was holding the silence for me. It has been ages since I went there, and sometimes I feel guilty about that. As if I left a part of myself sitting in one of those pews.

Most of my evenings meant FM radio playing in the background. 104.8 Chennai Live. English songs drifting through the house. “Love The Way You Lie” was on constant repeat. Back then, it was just a song. Now it’s a time machine. One line, and I’m back in that living room — the fan spinning lazily, the city humming outside, and that little version of me who didn’t know how fast life could become.

Spencer Plaza was magical, mysterious, and enormous in its own way. It was walking distance from my aunt’s place, and every walk felt like anticipation. We’d pass Taj Connemara, secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of cricketers. My first pizza. My first burger. My first escalator — that terrifying, thrilling step onto moving stairs. Landmark Bookstore on the second floor meant CDs, books, and time disappearing quietly. Softy ice creams that tasted better than they ever did anywhere else or maybe it was just that I tasted them differently then.

Twice or thrice a week during the late afternoons, around 3 p.m., when the sun turned golden and mild, my sister would take me to a tiny, quiet café named Kwality Confectionery on Montieth Road. Tiny, quiet, and almost hidden from the world. Buttercream cakes and flaky pastries that felt indulgent. Coffee that was too good to be ordinary. It felt like we owned a small corner of the city there. I still feel that flicker of excitement when I think about it. And now it’s permanently closed after Covid.

There was less traffic back then. Less aggression. Fewer horns. The air didn’t feel heavy with impatience. People seemed to have time. Even boredom existed, and somehow it felt peaceful and safe. Now, when I visit, the skyline feels unfamiliar. The OG mall of old Madras stands quieter as new malls have bloomed everywhere. Metro pillars rise where open skies once stretched. Roads feel tighter. Trees that once shaded entire lanes are gone. Time moves faster now. Everyone is rushing.

Sometimes I stand there and feel like a stranger in a place that once felt like an extension of me. And maybe the city hasn’t changed as much as I think. Maybe I have. Maybe what I’m grieving isn’t just old Madras. Maybe I’m grieving the little girl who stood on that terrace at night, believing the world was endless and gentle. The girl who once thought cities and their people stayed the same. The girl who didn’t yet understand that everything, the places, people, versions of ourselves quietly moves on. And sometimes, when life feels too fast, too loud, too sharp, those memories don’t hurt loudly. They ache quietly instead, on a random afternoon, when your mind drifts back and reminds you of how things once were.

Some festivals don’t end—they quietly live on as memories.

Pongal during my childhood in Tamil Nadu wasn’t just a festival—it was a lingering season of anticipation, gentle warmth, and deep-rooted belonging. Days before Pongal, even the air felt different—cleaner, crisper, quietly expectant. Homes were scrubbed until they gleamed, old calendars torn away with finality, and mornings began with the soft, rhythmic scratch of kolam powder kissing the earth. We counted days for Pongal the way one waits for something sacred, asking endlessly, “Innum ethana naal?” Every sunrise felt like a small, hopeful step closer to joy.

Before Pongal truly arrived, it began with Bhogi—in the darkest, coldest hours of the morning. Around 4 or 5 a.m., while the world was still wrapped in sleep, old things were gathered and discarded, set aflame in a small fire that crackled softly against the silence. We stood around it, hands stretched out for warmth, talking about the most mundane things—school, neighbours, nothing and everything at once. There was something deeply cosy about those moments: the cold air, the shared quiet, the flicker of firelight on familiar faces. Today, hardly anyone wakes up that early—let alone gathers together to mark beginnings that way.

The night before Pongal was magical in a way words still struggle to hold. Streets came alive after sunset—not with chaos, but with a hushed, collective purpose. Mothers gathered outside their homes, bent low to the ground, fingers dusted white with kolam maavu, creating patterns that felt more like offerings and whispered prayers than mere designs. Under flickering tube lights and tender moonlight, the streets transformed into open-air galleries of care, patience, and pride. My mother was always there—focused, calm, unhurried. And every year, without fail, she won the first prize. I remember the quiet swell of pride, the knowing smiles from neighbours, and the comforting sense that everyone was watching out for each other. That night felt like the true, beating heart of Pongal.

Pongal mornings began early. The familiar music of vessels clanging, milk bubbling and joyfully boiling over, and elders calling out “Pongalo Pongal!” echoed through the street like blessings carried on sound. The day began with enna thechi kulithal—oil warmed, poured gently, massaged in slow, deliberate circles. It felt ceremonial, like washing away the old year before stepping into the new. Pongal was cooked the traditional way then, in earthen pots balanced over firewood, watched closely until the milk rose and spilled over, marking abundance and prosperity. Everyone waited for that moment, voices rising together as it happened. Today, earthen pots and firewood have largely been replaced by pressure cookers and electric stoves—choices shaped by time constraints and a faster, more hurried life.

Before the clock strikes 11 a.m., without fail, our neighbourhood paati would arrive. She lived next door with her husband—a pair everyone associated with warmth, devotion, and tradition. After completing her Pongal pooja, she would walk slowly through the street, balancing neatly stacked dishes on her hands—sweet pongal glistening with ghee, crisp vadai, fresh fruits—bringing them home. We were always called out before 11, gently reminded that blessings had a time and rhythm of their own. That act felt sacred, as though the festival itself had stepped into our doorway.

She doesn’t live there anymore. After her husband passed, the house was sold, and the doors that once opened every Pongal morning now remain shut. The absence is achingly loud, in a way only memories can be. The streets back then were never empty. From morning till night, there were voices spilling into one another, barefoot footsteps, shared laughter, half-finished conversations.

Pongal also came with its share of excitement beyond rituals. New films released during the festive season were discussed endlessly—songs played on loop, dialogues repeated, opinions exchanged even before watching them. Television stayed on longer than usual, filled with special shows, debates, festive programmes, and reruns that became part of the background noise of celebration. My sister’s childhood friend lived just two houses away. He was part of our everyday life—our festivals, our games, our noise. Then one day, he left the city quietly, without ceremony. Years later, we heard he had settled abroad, chasing bigger fortunes and a different life. His house, too, changed hands. The street grew noticeably quieter, a little lonelier.

Maatu Pongal carried its own energy. We watched Jallikattu live on television, eyes glued to the screen, hearts racing with every charge and cheer. Even from our living rooms, it felt raw and powerful—tradition unfolding in real time, stirring pride and debate in equal measure. The best part of Pongal was going to our native place. Even the journey felt celebratory—bags packed with excitement, minds already there. Grandparents waited at the doorstep; blessings came first—warm, familiar palms on our heads, whispered prayers, plates filled before questions were asked. Those few days felt endless in the best way. We slept on mats, ate from shared plates, listened to stories that had been told a hundred times, and lived slowly, simply, deeply rooted in something real. Kaanum Pongal was about movement and connection. Relatives were visited, homes were entered without formality, meals were shared, conversations stretched long. It was a day meant to see and be seen, to hold on to relationships beyond routine. And then it would end. School would reopen. Bags were unpacked reluctantly, uniforms ironed with heavy hearts and lingering reluctance. We returned home with frowny faces, already counting days for the next leave, carrying village mornings and our grandparents’ love quietly folded inside us.

Today, Pongal still comes, but the streets feel different. This year, hardly three houses made rangoli. The rest stayed quiet—doors shut, lives rushing elsewhere. The street that once felt like a living, breathing organism now feels paused, waiting for people who may never return. I realise now that I don’t just miss the celebration. I miss the people—our favourite paati, the neighbours who felt like extended family, the friends who grew up alongside us and then gently drifted away. I miss a version of life where everyone mattered, where festivals were shared, and where childhood was shaped by faces that felt permanent. Pongal still reminds me of joy—but it also reminds me of loss. Of time passing softly but relentlessly. Of people moving on. And of how some seasons don’t just celebrate harvests, but quietly, tenderly harvest memories too.

The Cold That Felt Warm.

Winters during my childhood felt like a different lifetime, almost as if the season itself has changed since then. The cold arrived quietly, without announcements or weather apps warning us days in advance. One morning you simply woke up and knew—winter was here. The air felt sharper, mornings darker, and getting out of bed required a kind of bravery that only children seemed capable of summoning half-asleep. Blankets felt heavier, warmer, more protective, and leaving them felt like betrayal. The floor was ice-cold, and every step reminded you that comfort had to be earned.

Mornings began slowly. Bathing was an act of courage, often negotiated with parents, delayed until the sun rose just a little higher. Warm water felt like luxury. School uniforms were layered—vests under shirts, socks pulled up higher than usual, sweaters that always felt slightly oversized. Those sweaters carried a familiar smell: cupboards, old paper, mothballs, and home. Some were hand-knitted, slightly itchy, but worn proudly because they were made with care. Gloves never matched, caps slipped over ears, and breath turned visible for the first time, making us feel oddly powerful, like tiny dragons.

The sun in winter was different—soft, pale, almost shy. It didn’t scorch or glare; it warmed gently, the kind of warmth that invited you to sit still. Afternoons were spent chasing patches of sunlight across terraces, verandas, or school playgrounds. Elders sat basking in the sun, talking slowly, sipping tea, while we played nearby, pretending we weren’t cold anymore. Time moved differently then. No one was rushing. Winter allowed pauses.

Food tasted better in the cold. Hot breakfasts felt more comforting, steam rising from plates, hands warming around cups. Evenings meant something special—hot milk, soups, roasted snacks, the smell of something warm filling the house. Kitchens felt like the heart of winter, always alive, always warm. Families gathered closer, not just physically but emotionally. Conversations lingered longer. Stories were told again and again, and somehow never got boring.

Nights were my favourite. The sky felt closer, quieter. We slept wrapped in layers, sometimes sharing beds, sometimes sneaking closer to siblings just for warmth. There was a deep sense of safety in those nights—the kind you don’t realise is precious until it’s gone. Outside, the world felt still, almost hushed, while inside everything felt held together.

What I miss most about childhood winters is how uncomplicated they were. The cold didn’t feel like an inconvenience; it felt like a shared experience. There was no urgency to escape it, no constant attempt to control it. We adapted, adjusted, and lived within it. Winter taught us patience—how to wait for warmth, how to appreciate it when it arrived, how to slow down without feeling guilty.

Now, winters come and go quickly. We warm rooms instantly, layer efficiently, complain endlessly. But back then, winter felt like a season you lived through, not just endured. It shaped days, routines, relationships. It made homes warmer, conversations softer, and memories stronger.

Those winters still live somewhere inside me—in the smell of old sweaters, in the comfort of hot drinks, in the quiet joy of sitting in the sun. They remind me of a time when life was slower, warmth came from people more than appliances, and happiness was found in the simplest rituals of the season.

Now, winters feel shorter, faster, almost impatient. Rooms warm at the press of a button. Life doesn’t pause anymore. But a part of me still longs for those childhood winters—for the durries on cold floors, the glow of firewood, the smell of woollen sweaters, and the quiet joy of sitting together with nothing to do. I miss childhood winters deeply, not just for the season itself, but for the life they held—a time when warmth came from people, days moved slowly, and happiness lived in the simplest moments.