Chennai: What Would I Carry in a Suitcase?

Cities in a suitcase: Chennai

I have had a very interesting relationship with Chennai. Over nearly a decade and a half, I experienced the city in three different phases of life — staying there, working there, and returning for many short visits in between.

If I had to carry Chennai with me in a suitcase, these are the five things I would pack.

As a child, I had a friend in primary school (let’s call her B) whose mother was from Chennai, then Madras. Every summer, they would travel there to visit her grandparents. Those annual trips fascinated me. Long before I saw the city, I had already built stories around it in my head.

My first opportunity to visit Chennai came in the early 2000s. We took a bus from Bangalore, and the first thing that struck me was how green everything was. The morning light felt unusually bright, almost yellow, but the trees along the route softened it beautifully. The quiet tamarind trees and shikakai trees and the majestic bougainvillea bursting in deep orange, pink, red, yellow and white.

I remember being surprised by that abundance of green because, from afar, most conversations about Chennai seemed to revolve around water shortages and heat.

The second thing I would pack is the memory of evening tiffin. At the small restaurants along the highway, there was no elaborate thali meal at night. Instead, evenings belonged to idlis, dosas, adais and vadas. It took us some time to adjust because, for us, dinner had always meant a full meal. But slowly, the comfort of tiffin became part of the rhythm of the city.

The third would definitely be sukkapi Mama. Around 5:30 every morning, he would walk through the neighbourhood calling out 'sukkapi in his deep, unmistakable voice. Every now and again, we would run out, still slightly sleepy, collect the sukkapi in our small cups, and sip the hot, gingery drink on our way to the beach. That small milky shot of sukkapi carried a surprising zing and warmth.

Another memory that stayed with me came from evening walks. I often saw people strolling around casually with tiny disposable cups in their hands, sipping slowly. I remember thinking, rather admiringly, that Chennai must have a wonderful post-dinner coffee culture. Only later did I discover that many of those cups actually contained alcohol served from nearby liquor shops. The revelation was both amusing and oddly endearing.

And finally, I would carry the beach.

Our stretch along the East Coast Road felt comparatively quiet then. Early mornings and evenings there had their own pace. A few vendors would appear at dusk selling spicy sundal, served in paper cones. The air would slowly cool, darkness would descend, and one by one the city lights would flicker on in the distance.

Even now, when I think of Chennai, I think first of that coastline and the feeling of walking beside it at the end of the day.