I left Madras in 1971 and was relieved. Tambrahm pomposity and garish Dravidian political cut-outs represented to me a parochial and avoidable combination. The heat, humidity and the malodorous Cooum river were only partially offset by the glorious beach. Over the years, I have often returned to newly christened Chennai. Prompted by resident historians, the redoubtable Muthiah and the effervescent Randor Guy, I have delved into its history (recorded and unrecorded) and its geography (spatial and metaphorical). My memories and reactions today are more mellow.

St Thomas Mount, the residence of the scary, larger-than-life, red-faced Tommies of my father’s generation, was in my time a place where Anglo-Indians with names like Alistair and Denzil lived and sent in their requests to Radio Ceylon’s ‘Listener’s Choice’. Their preferences were for Cliff Richards and Englelbert Humperdinck. The Thousand Lights Mosque built by the Prince of Arcot was and is a reminder of the creative presence of Mohammedan nobility and commoners in the city. Till not so long ago, most of the land in south Madras belonged to the descendants of two Shia courtiers in the Nawab’s retinue. The Khaleeli and Isfahani families have left their names on countless title deeds in the yellowing files of Ripon Building, the grand Indo-Saracenic structure, which houses the city corporation offices.