The below poem, Madras, is by Sangamitra Nataraj, my friend Natty’s daughter.

Madras

The word reminds me
Of a vast dome of blue sky
Whose sultry silence
Is unbroken
But for the rumbling
Of hungry aircraft
On that hot baking terrace.
Hot baking sand
With rosy waves coloured
Reddish orange in the eventide
Reddish orange sparks
Hot and spiteful
Flying from the corn stall
Where the corn steadily
Blackens angrily
In the lap of glowering embers.
A place of hot savoury food and terracotta tiles.
A place to cook idlis made of mud, water and holiday excitement,
Mixed together with gusto.
A grandfather, his face now only half remembered,
With glasses
And a penchant for books and sweet things,
Both of which he bequeathed to me.
Madras.
What a name.
An odd, quaint, almost dead name.
Rich, royal, decadent.
It sure does bring back memories.