Madras: The Heat of Mordor, The Heart of Middle-earth

In The Lord of the Rings, the Shire is a place where life hums softly — rich soil, simple joys, and a calm so deep you don’t realize its worth until it’s gone. Mordor, on the other hand, is a scorched, unforgiving land where shadows stretch long and nothing grows but dread. Now, I find myself somewhere between those two worlds: no longer in the gentle embrace of my green,quiet home, but standing in the sun-beaten, noise-soaked, unapologetically alive city of Madras.
So yes, when one first steps into this city, one might feel like poor Samwise Gamgee pausing at the edge of a muddy path and whispering, “If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.” And yet, I took that step. Slipped into the city’s rhythm. Fumbled a bit. Fell in love, begrudgingly.
But even Frodo, bruised and weary, knew:
“There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same.”
And neither am I. Madras for all its sharp edges and sweaty bus stops has begun to carve out space in my heart.
I remember a muted, overcast afternoon in Oxford, when I found myself meandering through its still, storybook streets — the kind of quiet that makes you listen inward. Somewhere in that calm, I was struck by the thought that this had once been J.R.R. Tolkien’s world — the very place from which hobbits and their homesick hearts had emerged. I was there for a course, but I didn’t need a signpost to feel his imprint; his tales had long since taken root in my imagination. And in that moment, I realized he knew something deeply true: that home isn’t simply a location. It’s a cadence, a comfort, a narrative we keep returning to, no matter how far we roam.
So I keep walking, a bit like Sam, with some lembas in my pocket — though in my story, it’s more likely to be murukku. Crunchy, spicy, a little unyielding, but just the thing to keep me going. (Lembas, in The Lord of the Rings, is their version of an energy bar — only it’s wrapped in leaves and made with care, not chemical preservatives.)
Madras — or Chennai, as it’s now officially called — is where I’ve found myself. I use both names, but I’ll admit I’m more attached to “Madras.” It has an old-world feel. “Chennai” sounds newer, tidier, maybe even more correct, but “Madras” is the name that feels like home. So yes, I’ll go back and forth between the two — partly out of habit, partly out of love.
Growing up in Madras was like living in a perpetual debate between the sun and the rain. As a child, you'd wake up to the relentless heat, your skin already sizzling by breakfast, and by the time you reached school, the humidity would have you questioning whether you were heading to class or a sauna.
Madras mornings were a unique breed of chaotic tranquility. The streets were alive with the hum of autorickshaws, the occasional horn honking (because why would anyone drive without honking?), and the sweet aroma of filter coffee wafting from every corner.
School in Madras was a daily exercise in endurance. Imagine stepping into a classroom with the fan whirling in an attempt at coolness, but achieving nothing more than creating a slow, sweltering breeze. The stiff, white shirt and pleated skirt would cling to you like they were personal attachments, and the feeling of wet, sticky socks was a universal experience. These school buildings hold history in their walls—each crack, each creak seemed to whisper tales of times before. 
In Chennai, education is serious business — almost a full-time family activity. In this city, a child's first word is often "report card," and dinner table conversations frequently involve exam schedules, cut-off scores, and which cousin got into which college. If you grew up here, you probably still have nightmares about the words rank, cut-off, and entrance exam.
Madras Medical College(MMC), born in 1835, has been training doctors since the days of horse-drawn carriages. Today, MMC alumni are everywhere — from NHS hospitals in London to clinics in the USA, from operating rooms in the Middle East to rural health camps in Africa. And wherever they go, they carry that unique MMC flair: confident, calm, and able to diagnose half a dozen things just by walking into a room. I once met an MMC graduate during a GP visit in London. The moment I spotted her name badge, I couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re from Chennai?” I asked. She laughed and nodded. In that instant, a regular appointment turned into a joyful moment — like running into an old friend in a faraway city. Madras University set up in 1857, is one of India’s oldest and most respected universities. It’s the grand old guardian of academics in the city, having shaped thinkers, professors, and civil servants for generations. And Anna University, is where future techies are made — usually sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, and fluent in both code and last-minute panic. In Chennai, books are sacred, exams are legendary, and somehow, everyone ends up with a cousin doing engineering. And so did I.
Madras is a delightful mix of old-world charm and modern hustle. Streets like Anderson Road, Haddows Road, and Sterling Road are named after British officials, a nod to the city’s colonial roots. Back in the day, these roads were lined with grand houses and a quieter pace of life. I used to take these very roads on my way to my school, where the colonial architecture made me feel like I was walking through history. Today, the area is a bustling hub with shiny office buildings, cafes, and malls—but those old streets still have a way of reminding you of the Madras that once was. It’s like the city grew up but kept some of its vintage flair.
Whites Road is a calm and peaceful street, lined with old trees and buildings that give it a timeless feel, a quiet spot in the middle of the city's hustle. At the end of this road, you'll find Amethyst, a charming café that feels like a hidden retreat. It’s set in a beautiful old bungalow with a lovely garden, offering the perfect place to relax. Whenever I visit Chennai now, I make it a point to stop by Whites Road and Amethyst with my husband and son. It’s one of those places where the modern and the nostalgic meet—where I can enjoy a cup of coffee and reminisce about the city’s old-world charm while soaking in the new energy.
Say “Madras Club” to someone who knows the city’s past, and they’ll likely picture an old-world haven of colonial charm — a place once housed in the elegant Moubray’s Cupola, with its sweeping columns, sparkling chandeliers, and the soft hum of music and conversation drifting over the Adyar River. The stories of this legendary "Ace of Clubs" are too good to miss.
Madras Club, the second oldest surviving club in India after Calcutta’s Bengal Club, opened its doors in 1832. As the membership ballooned, the Club moved houses a few times. By its golden jubilee, it had achieved a status rivaling even the prestigious Melbourne Club. Balls were thrown in honour of visiting British royalty, and the Club became synonymous with elite social life.
Because of the stubborn no-women rule, the Adyar Club came into being in 1890—equally elegant but with a bit more liberal spirit. Eventually, the two clubs merged, setting up base in Adyar’s scenic gardens along the river. By then, Madras itself was growing up—and learning, slowly, to open its doors.
Traditions run deep here. Formal jackets are still mandatory in the main dining hall, but you can enjoy a more relaxed meal by the poolside café. It’s the kind of place where you might bump into corporate tycoons, ambassadors, or long-time members who remember the days when Prince Charles himself dropped by for a visit.
Meanwhile, across the city’s heart, Higginbothams had already cemented its place as the temple of book lovers. Established in 1844, its white colonnaded building on Mount Road became an intellectual lighthouse. I remember wandering through Higginbothams’ maze-like shelves as a child, feeling as if I had stepped into a secret kingdom—where adventure novels, school textbooks, and the smell of old paper lived side by side. Buying books there wasn’t just shopping—it was a ceremony.
And then, there was Boats Club—officially the Madras Boat Club, founded in 1867. If the Madras Club was for social climbing, Boats Club was for rowing… and even more socializing! Originally set up by the British who missed their leisurely Thames afternoons, Boats Club sat idyllically along the Adyar River.
Even now, these old places hold their charm—whether it's a lazy afternoon under Madras Club’s trees, a treasure hunt for books at Higginbothams, or a peaceful boat ride at Boats Club, they are all little pieces of old Madras still alive in Chennai today.
I often felt a unique connection to Madras through St. Thomas—the apostle who made his mark not only on Kerala but on the entire South Indian coastline. When my family would visit San Thome Basilica, it wasn’t just a pilgrimage; it was a rite of passage, almost like I was “checking in” with the past, where the sacred and the historical collided. San Thome was always grand, with its towering spires and holy aura, but my favourite place to reflect on St. Thomas was always St. Thomas Mount.
The hike up was like a mini-adventure, a sweaty one, but an adventure nonetheless. When we finally reached the top, it wasn’t just the city of Madras that unfolded beneath us. It felt as if we were touching history itself, standing on the very ground where St. Thomas once prayed, looking out over the city he had touched with his faith.
At the summit of St. Thomas Mount, it was easy to imagine the apostle gazing over the city, praying for its souls, spreading a message of peace, and enduring a sacrifice that would forever link this spot to him. As a young child, I was in awe of the fact that this was the place where St. Thomas was believed to have been martyred. He was speared by soldiers while kneeling in prayer, and instead of cursing his attackers, he blessed them. The sense of love and forgiveness in the face of such cruelty always struck me deeply. It wasn’t just a martyrdom—it was an act of profound faith, where St. Thomas chose to embrace the violence with a prayer for the very souls who had inflicted it upon him.
For me, that story became a source of strength and reflection throughout my life. Each time we visited the mount, I would stand silently and think about the man who, despite suffering, chose to leave a legacy of peace and faith.
But there is another hidden gem of St. Thomas’s presence in the city, one that held even more personal significance to me—Little Mount. Nestled quietly in the heart of Madras, Little Mount is where St. Thomas is believed to have taken refuge after his life was threatened. It is a place where he prayed, finding solace and strength in the face of persecution. The place is quieter, less visited, but perhaps for that very reason, it feels more intimate. The small chapel there, tucked away on a peaceful street, always felt like a personal space—a place where I could go to escape the world and reflect.
I remember visiting Little Mount as a child with my parents, and the serenity of the place made me feel like I was walking alongside St. Thomas himself. In those quiet moments, I realized that St. Thomas’s story wasn’t one of defeat—it was a story of victory. A victory over fear, over hatred, and over the transient nature of this world. He had left behind not just a historical footprint but a legacy that would endure far beyond his death. And in that sense, every visit to San Thome Basilica, St. Thomas Mount, and Little Mount felt less like a duty and more like a privilege—a chance to connect with a man whose faith had shaped the spiritual life of an entire region.
With its ancient temples, like the Kapaleeshwarar Temple, built by the Pallavas in the 7th century, and its winding streets filled with jasmine vendors and temple priests, Mylapore always felt like the city’s beating heart. The narrow streets, full of colonial-era houses with their latticework windows and banyan trees, seemed frozen in time. In the heart of Chennai, where old and new mix together, you'll find traces of the Portuguese legacy, especially in Luz Church. The name "Luz" means "light" in Portuguese, given because the church was thought to be a beacon for sailors navigating the Bay of Bengal long ago. I loved visiting Luz Church. It always felt like a peaceful retreat from the busy streets of Mylapore. The quiet beauty of the place, with its cool stone walls and soft prayers echoing from the past, made it seem like a secret hiding in plain sight. Luz Church is often overshadowed by the larger, more famous churches in Chennai, but for me, it has always been that quiet, humble place where the past and present seem to coexist in perfect harmony, like a gentle light in the heart of the city.
Growing up, some of my fondest memories of Madras involved days when I’d accompany my father to his office. Visiting my father’s office was an adventure in itself. Those grand old office buildings on the Beach Road had an ancient, dignified air about them, like they had seen empires rise and fall—and yet there I was, treating the place like my personal playground.
My absolute favourite part was the typewriter on his assistant’s desk—a hulking, clattering beast of a machine that looked like it weighed as much as a small elephant. I loved hammering away at the keys, pretending I was typing out secret government orders. In reality, most of what I "typed" looked like pure gibberish, but no matter. In my mind, I was writing dispatches that could change the fate of the world.
The typewriter made the most satisfying clack-clack-ding! sound, and every time I reached the end of a line and got to smack that lever to slide the carriage back, I felt like a true professional. Of course, my father’s office staff were far too polite to mention that I was systematically wasting perfectly good sheets of official stationery.
After visiting my father's office, we’d often stroll down the grand old Beach Road, that stretched out like a silver ribbon someone had carelessly dropped along the Bay of Bengal. On one side, the majestic statues stood stiff and serious, while on the other side, Marina Beach rolled out endlessly like a giant sandy playground. I loved watching the lively chaos—kite flyers battling the winds like seasoned warriors, peanut sellers tossing warm nuts into newspaper cones with magician-like flair, and families chasing after wayward kids and ice creams in equal measure. The salty breeze whipped through everything, carrying with it the smell of fried snacks, wet sand, and a thousand half-finished conversations. And when the sun set in those golden bursts over the horizon, it felt like even the sea was applauding the drama of a perfect Madras evening.
Mount Road (today known officially as Anna Salai) was another adventure altogether. It was always buzzing, always moving. Back then, it was the address for everything important: government buildings, shops that sold everything from fountain pens to fancy textiles, big hotels, and the iconic Spencer’s Plaza, which was every child's paradise and every parent's wallet’s nightmare.
Mount Road itself has a history stretching back to colonial times. It started as a simple road to St. Thomas Mount and grew into the city's business spine. Even crossing the road felt like participating in a grand urban battle, where pedestrians and impatient scooters fought for survival.
Today, Mount Road still carries the same spirit but wears new clothes. Skyscrapers have nudged out some of the old bungalows, malls have replaced old shops, and the metro now zooms silently below the road where once hand-pulled rickshaws clattered. But somehow, Mount Road never lost its soul—it still feels like the place where Madras breathes the loudest.
A little off Mount Road was the chaotic magic of Moore Market—and for me, no trip to the city felt complete without wandering through its noisy, wonderful maze.
Moore Market was where you could find anything if you had enough patience—and enough bargaining skill to impress even the toughest street vendor. The place was a living jigsaw puzzle: rows upon rows of second-hand books, rusty clocks, wooden toys, old coins, caged parrots, gramophone records, you name it. In my mind, it remains a place of endless possibility, where some pocket money and a determined spirit could buy you an entire world.
Further north, George Town felt like stepping into another era altogether. The name George Town itself felt like a step back in time. This was Madras’s old commercial hub, where the British had set up shop centuries ago. Walking through the narrow lanes of Parry’s Corner felt like being on the set of an old black-and-white film, with bustling markets selling everything from spices to textiles. The buildings here were a mix of Victorian and Gothic architecture, their grandeur slightly faded with time, but still majestic. The Fort St. George, built in 1644, stands at the heart of this area, a reminder of Madras's origins as a colonial settlement. It housed the secretariat and was a symbol of British power, but now, it houses the Fort Museum, where history comes to life through displays of ancient weaponry, coins, and relics from a bygone era.

Strangely enough, the secretariat never really left. Well, it did leave for a bit—there was a bold move to shift it to a brand-new building with all the modern trimmings. It made the headlines, stirred the pot, and triggered more debates than most budget sessions. But then came a change in government. The new folks at the top weren’t too fond of the new setup. Whether out of nostalgia, politics, or simply a dislike of too much air-conditioning, they packed their files and came straight back to Fort St. George. The fort, unfazed, took them in like an old landlady watching her boarders return.

And if you needed a break from all the bustling, there was always the serene call of Elliot’s Beach at Besant Nagar. Unlike the noisy, festive Marina Beach, Elliot’s felt quieter, almost contemplative. Here, generations of fishermen had battled the sea long before ships from the West appeared on the horizon. Sitting there, watching the waves lap the shore, it was easy to believe that Madras had seen it all—empires rising and crumbling, fortunes made and lost—and through it all, had somehow kept its easy grace and stubborn charm intact.
Just a little further away, is the "new" Chennai. You’ll find glittering stretch of IT parks, where glass buildings gleamed under the hot sun, and armies of software engineers marched toward their deadlines—laptops slung like modern-day shields. and the East Coast Road is the perfect weekend escape route, leading you down a dreamy stretch of beach towns, seafood shacks, and breezy roads perfect for long drives. If the IT parks are all about tech jargon and clean lines, East Coast Road the road that encouraged you to breathe, laugh, and maybe even get your shoes wet.
Driving down ECR (East Coast Road) to Mahabalipuram feels like crossing through a time portal, where the present and history play tag with each other. The road itself, stretching along the Bay of Bengal, offers more than just a smooth drive—it’s a glimpse into the past. If you drive down ECR, you’re essentially following the same coastal route that was once part of the ancient trade routes, where traders from all over Asia would pass through.
In the early morning, as the waves gently lap at the shore, it’s easy to imagine the Chola dynasty rulers gazing out from their palaces, planning naval expeditions, and perhaps even wondering if the traders had better snacks than the royal court. Maybe that’s why the Cholas were so good at conquering—good food and a view like that can inspire a lot of greatness!
Then, of course, there's the fun part—trying to navigate the crowds of tourists, all while keeping a straight face as they try to take the perfect Instagram shot with the Arjuna’s Penance relief in the background. The beauty of Mahabalipuram is timeless, but the modern tourist hustle is something else entirely!
Now, I’ve saved the best for last — where do the good folk of Chennai do their shopping? For groceries, it’s off to the city's grand wholesale markets, where you can buy enough vegetables to feed a small army. And when it comes to clothing and jewellery? There are several legendary commercial hubs. If you’re looking for a bit of adventure, these shopping areas offer it in spades. The traffic? A challenge. The crowds? A workout. But the payoff is worth it: glittering jewellery, endless rows of clothes that scream “traditional yet trendy,” and the subtle satisfaction of walking out with a bag full of purchases, a bit poorer but a lot wiser. Just remember to leave your patience at the door and every true Chennaite is a seasoned athlete.

In the vegetable market curry leaves and coriander leaves weren’t just herbs; they were the currency of the place. If you bought enough, the vendor would slip in a sprig of coriander and a bunch of curry leaves, like a little bonus—often handed over with a smile or a wink, as though it was part of the bargain. My father, ever the enthusiast for a good deal, accepted them with gratitude, tucking the curry leaves into his bag as though he had just received an exclusive bonus gift. At that moment, the vendor had given him not just vegetables, but a symbol of friendship—as though the curry leaves held an unspoken promise of future visits, continued negotiations, and perhaps even more change in the form of fragrant green sprigs.
No narrative of growing up in Madras would be complete without talking about food. Madras was a city where every meal told a story. The ubiquitous idli and dosa with sambar were served with an extra side of gossip. As you stepped into one of the many old tiffin shops, you could overhear tales of politics, cricket, and the latest news, all while sipping a steaming cup of filter coffee. The food in these humble joints was often so good, it felt like a mini celebration every time you took a bite.
But Chennai had a personality trait that could be as unpredictable as the weather. And by unpredictable, I mean rain. The Monsoon season in Chennai is an event in itself—a chaotic spectacle where the city’s streets transformed into little canals.
I remember days when the rain started softly, almost like a gentle warning, and then—bam!—it would pour down in buckets. The streets would turn into rivers, and what was once a road would vanish beneath the water. In places like Adyar, cars would be half-submerged, and people would try to wade through knee-deep water, balancing umbrellas and bags. You could almost hear the city groan, “Here we go again.”
The funny part? Chennaiites never really seemed bothered by it. There was always someone with a wry smile saying, "Ah, Chennai's annual flood festival!" Meanwhile, we'd all try to navigate the flooded streets, laughing and splashing our way through, pretending it was an adventure. The usually calm Adyar river would swell up, racing through its banks as if it had something to prove.
But when the rain stopped, the city always bounced back. It was like nothing had happened, and the sun would shine, drying everything up just in time for the next downpour. The floods were a reminder of the unpredictability of Chennai's weather—a love-hate relationship with the rain that never really goes away.
But despite all these new faces of Chennai, the memories of tagging along to my father’s old office on Beach Road, feeling the history soak into my curious little soul, remain unmatched. There was a feeling then that I was somehow part of a much larger story—a story that began with ancient apostles like St. Thomas, ran through British corridors, flowed through bustling Mount Road, and danced in the sea winds along Beach Road.
Even today, when I catch a glimpse of those grand old buildings or the sun sinking into the sea off Marina, a part of that wide-eyed child in me still feels very much at home. Okay, I might’ve gotten a bit carried away comparing Madras to Mordor—after all, there’s no Dark Lord lurking in the shadows (unless, of course, you count the traffic). But for anyone moving here from hometowns with a soft tropical cadence, the experience can feel like a journey from the Shire to a land where the sun doesn’t just shine, it practically fries you. It might not be a desolate wasteland, but the weather can sure make it feel like it’s trying to roast you alive. Yet, much like Frodo with his pesky Ring, you push through—dodging autorickshaws, weaving through the noise, and eventually, just like magic, you find yourself falling for this city. Because, surprisingly enough, even in a place that feels like it’s permanently set to 'oven' mode, there’s something enchanting about it.