I have returned from a trip to India. I had to dash to Chennai for a day. Whenever I am in the city, I make it a point to visit Mylapore. Mylapore is an area within Chennai. It is one of the oldest residential parts of the city, where my father lived and grew up. As a child, I used to visit the place every year during school holidays and spend time with my grandmother. Every time I visit Chennai now, I make it a point to visit Mylapore. The place has a certain pull over me. I walk around the streets of Mylapore, tracing my childhood, holding the tiny hand of my younger self as I am tugged along the streets of Mylapore. The streets are filled with nostalgia, history, and personal memorabilia. It often feels like I am stepping into an old album and navigating the streets of my childhood. The area has changed so much, yet it has not changed much.

It is not just about aesthetics, temples, or colourful streets and alleyways. Perhaps it’s all of these together, and much more. Mylapore feels very personal to me; it is a fragment of my childhood, etched in my memory—the alleyways,the temples, the shops surrounding the tank, Luz Corner, Amrutanjan factory—each place has its own unique memory, leading to another landmark. Every spot is intricately connected, filled with vivid memories—like a map, my personal memory map.

The gopuram of Kapaleeshwara Temple towering over the Mylapore Tank is the image that instantly comes to mind when I hear the word Mylapore. It’s almost like magic. I vividly remember the early morning walk from my grandmother’s house to the temple. The streets were filled with knick-knacks, garlands of colourful flowers, rows of shops selling glass bangles, sticker pots, and bindis, as well as various types of bananas. They were far too distracting for a 10-year-old on her way to the temple. My mother had to pull me away from each stall sometimes with her stern looks or simple reminders that I was delaying my Patti’s (grandmother in Tamil) visit to the temple. Occasionally, she would lure me with the promise of watching a peacock dance at the temple, causing me to drop whatever I was holding and rush after her. Unlike my grandmother and mother, I loved the temple courtyard at noon, just before it was getting ready to close. The courtyard and temple were empty, the stone path scorching hot, yet the shade inside the pillars felt cool and comforting. The old priests and temple-goers were breathing a sigh of relief after the morning rush. Some leaned against the pillars, chatting and catching up on the morning’s events; some even dozed off. The inside of the temple smelled richly of camphor, tulsi, and flowers. The silence and peace inside were utterly intoxicating. Amidst the murmurs and quiet, I found a sense of serenity and tranquillity—a space to connect with myself. The little girl within me was much wiser than this older version, who recognised the importance of serenity. As I grew older, the pull of the outside world, the university life, work, and daily hustle caused me to lose that connection with peace. Now, whenever I return on trips, I rely on my younger self to lead the way, for she knows those alleyways and twists better than I do.

The eponymous Rasi Silks store, visible from the courtyard of Kapaleshwara Temple, was my mother’s favourite haunt. While most people flocked to Nalli’s for their prized Kanchivaram sarees, she preferred Rasi Silks—a quieter shop where she could browse at ease, away from the rush.

As a child, I was mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of colours stacked neatly on the shelves, the old black‑and‑white photographs on the walls of people I didn’t recognize, and the mingling scents of new fabric and incense. The women who came to shop there fascinated me too: long tresses braided into plaits adorned with jasmine, diamond studs glinting at their ears and noses, moving with quiet authority. To the outside world, they might have seemed demure, but inside those walls, they were fierce and passionate —women who knew their minds, understood arts, and were passionate about culture. This was their sanctuary, a space away from husbands and families.

Each customer carried a vision. Some sought the purest Kancheevaram, in hues as poetic as lotus petals at dawn or vermilion bordered with bottle green. Others asked for mango shades with leaf‑like borders, betelnut with rose‑milk trims, Coca‑Cola tones, or biscuit hues. Colours were never simply red, yellow, or green—they were stories, moods, identities. The shopkeepers, like magicians, always found the exact weave and shade.

My mother favoured Kalakshetra sarees with temple borders, while my grandmother’s signature was the nine‑yard Devendra silk. Every woman who walked into saree shop knew her budget, her style, her choices. I longed to grow up like them—elegant, assured, and self‑aware.

Now, as a woman, I marvel at how six yards of fabric taught me the power of knowing oneself. I don’t wear sarees often—only occasionally, unlike my mother, who drapes them effortlessly every day—but I still love visiting these shops. They are places of nostalgia, reminders of vibrant colours and the beauty of life. Each visit feels like the little girl in me returning, wide‑eyed, to relive that spirit once more.

And usually after the shopping spree, we would go to Sukh Nivas, a restaurant, for a treat. When I was growing up in India in the 80s, eating out was a special treat, and it meant a great deal. Sukh Nivas is a budget-friendly restaurant and, in a way, part of the city’s culinary heritage. It is not a fancy restaurant but a very humble one. It holds a very dear place in my heart, and I recall having cold drinks and crispy vadas as a treat, with many caveats from my mother that I must eat my dinner at home afterwards and that I should not add ice to my cold drinks.

As a college-going student, I have haunted these places, revisiting them as an adult, buying books from Vijaya Stores. I have frequented Mylapore as a married woman, walking the dusty alleyways and chatting with my husband about these shops, which have existed for as long as we can remember. We have both interacted with Mylapore in our own ways: he with his mother as a child, and I with my parents and grandmother. And like my husband and I, I believe countless people have interacted with this vicinity and the inhabitants of Mylapore have innumerable memories and anecdotes of this place.

I still love wandering around Mylapore; I remain captivated by the glass bangles and other shiny objects on sale, watching the flower women quickly string flowers into garlands. I stroll through the temple courtyard, seeking quiet corners and solace, visiting the saree shop and stopping for a snack, creating more memories. Mylapore, to me, is a microcosm—an ecosystem that neatly fits into this grand modern world, holding tightly to the old and revering it, yet embracing changes of the modern age.