My newspaper office in Madurai is now a Caratlane
I've just stepped into my newspaper's office in Madurai and all the orange chairs that Vasanth and I used to sit in about four years ago are outside, stacked in dishevelled rows. A security guard is placing his rear in each, looking to pick the best one. A hand-me-down from our different-sized butts to new owners who will surely care for the office furniture far better than us brash reporters who would storm in and flop on them after a hectic day of being in the hot Madurai sun.
There are shiny new black chairs in their place. They spin the full circle unlike the previous ones. They also seem to have lumbar support, a revelation. The bubble wrap is still intact. A new reporter is sitting in what was once my desk. Vasanth's has been converted into a burial ground of rival newspapers. Somewhere on the table, there should be several pen marks and notes including one which I had written back in 2018 saying 'Vasanth is an idiot'. Have they scrubbed it clean?
The rest of the office's contours have changed too. The old press, a dungeon where I used to once take all my calls in the afternoon, is now a Caratlane, a jewellery shop selling expensive dreams. My paper used to do that for me once.
I must declare right away that I am deeply unhappy about these changes.
Some years ago, when I was a 22-year-old attempting to figure my way in this world, I chose to move to Madurai to figure out life as a journalist. I never thought twice and made my way to this tiny city full of temples, where people drink a tea so saccharine sweet and eat vadai dunked and fried in litres of reused oil for the phenomenon that is breakfast.
Here, I wrote articles as I saw them without any fear. Armed with my scooter and no sunscreen, I roamed street after street, hunting sewers for gambusia fish that the corporation had promised to release (to combat the ever-burgeoning mosquito population). I also walked the halls of the Government Rajaji Hospital amidst disease and the distinct smell of chlorine. I wrote every day. A 1,000 words. Sometimes, there would be a nice article to be proud of and cherish.
Today, I write other kinds of words. The 1,000 remain but I write less often and about book fairs and restaurants some 600 kilometres away in Chennai, the head office.
I tell everyone who has remained here, “Everything has changed, no?”. Look at the KK Nagar road, I say, pointing to a host of new shops outside the office. There was once an Ibaco here where I would stop to grab a post-work ice cream. On other occasions, a maggi for a skipped meal outside Remuki supermarket. There is a Popeye's and a KFC next door now. The longest surviving chain when I existed was Domino's.
To figure out what has changed, I embark on this now unfamiliar route, on an investigative journey. My notebook and black pen in hand to note every little transformation.
The problem is that I am left with a dilemma.
Although so much has changed, Madurai’s people remain the same.
I meet the bureau chief of Tamil Hindu outside a tea shop. He still dyes his moustache black and is even-toned when we speak as he enquires about my day and about my trip back.
Another colleague in the housekeeping department spots me on the road, waving frantically. “Why have you lost so much weight? You are looking dull,” she declares. In the same breath, she asks me when I am to bear a child. She also says that I am looking good. Dull and good is a good takeaway if you ask me.
The owners of the grocery shop near my house are all mostly well. “Uncle as usual does not take care of his health. He is at the shop all the time. What is the point? Can you tell him to at least eat his meals on time,” she asks me.
All the owners and waiters of Vasantham and Appam and Hoppers, my favourite breakfast and dinner spots, stop by to say hello. “Why are you only here for three days? Can you not stay back and roam around the city for longer,” they ask.
Everyone wants to know how Vasanth is too. They are invested in his career and his health. While digressing into a discussing about bodies and exercise, they recount awful incidents of cardiac arrests and people dying at 50. “That is no age to go,” they say. Walking is the only solution, they declare munching on vadai.
I walk past the shop where I bought my first cooker and the wine shop with my first bottle of ‘1,000 NIGHTS’, the worst rum you can drink. Here, I was filmed for buying alcohol. It is a rarity in the TASMACs of Madurai to spot a dainty girl in a salwar kameez and dupatta, requesting a full, the same one that many others will drink too and subsequently die a million deaths due to the hangover the next day.
I also see several Zomato delivery personnel lining up outside Rahman biryani. I was here when Zomato and Ola came to Madurai in 2019. Until then, we had to parcel food at night like neanderthals and hail autos to Maatuthavani bus stand if we had a bus to catch.
The place I used to buy fruits and vegetables at has a Miniso next to it. A Miniso? I stop to buy colour pens for a colleague’s daughters who spent all afternoon showing me their several greeting cards. One for mother's day, father's day and independence day each. They have promised to make me one the next time I'm here.
Enough with the investigation, I think. After a hearty meal of chicken curry, rasam, omelette and rice at this colleague’s house, I decide that I must stop with the thoughts. I have a small belly from inhaling all the food. This fat pocket is exactly as it once was back in 2020 when I hurriedly left the city without a proper goodbye during the thick of the pandemic. I eat better here.
A stray “Madurai has changed” escapes me as I see the changing city lights and the signboards during my walk back to the hotel. I trip over a gaping hole in the road and curse aloud.
So much of Madurai has changed. The potholes remain. The same can be said of me too.
