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Bionote

Very briefly then,

I am middle class

and very Madras.

Born and raised in

West Mambalam —

the other side of the railway tracks

where fabled mosquitoes turn peo-

ple into

elephants.

Went to college in

Khushboo sarees stripped

right off the absurdly voluptuous

mannequins at

Saravana Stores T. Nagar Chennai

17.

To weddings I wore,

in deference to my mother,

silk kanjeevarams with temple

borders.

Every other girl

was a designer-sequined shimmer.

I thought nothing of

throwing away

my dreaming hours on

MTC’s 47 A,

sitting beside women who ruined my

view,

leaning casually across to

spit or

chuck

through the grime of windows

spinach stems they didn’t fancy

in their evening Kuzhambu,

hurling motherly advice at

young men who dared death by

swinging,

two-fingered,

from other women’s windows.

My idea of a holiday

was rolling down the hillsides

of Ooty,

dressed in white

like Sridevi.

Objects of love-hate:

the auto annas.

And of course it is coffee that de

fines

the limits of my imagination.

I never could think of it as

cappuccino or mocha or

anything other than

decoction coffee,

deep brown like my own Dravidian

skin.

Lunch:

10.30 sharp: sambhar rasam curry

Tiffin:

5 sharp: idli dosa vada

My idea of arctic winter:

twenty six degree centigrade.

And so on and so forth

as they don’t say in Tamil.

Never mind this new upstart

Chennai.

Madras, my dear, here I come!

About me, rest assured,

there is

no Bombay, no Delhi, no London

and certainly no New York.

I am all yours,

Madras, my dear,

wrap and filling!

Prof.K.Srilata

Found here.

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