My final day in Chennai dawns slowly and drowsily. I peek my head out from under the pillows to watch the sun stream overhead, soft yellows streaking across the white ceiling. The air conditioning is still running, and the sun is pleasantly warm through the glass – I’m content to lie in bed for a few more minutes, savouring the gentle warmth panning down my face. 

I wake up with a start two hours later; it’s past nine, and the grandparents will soon be home. The rest of the household had left early in the morning to visit the Singaperumal Koil: a traditional stone temple that lies far out of the central city. By the time I’ve brushed my teeth and taken a seat in the kitchen, the four of them traipse in, sweaty and tired from the humidity, yet somehow still eager for a second cup of piping hot coffee. As they drink, I absentmindedly shuffle a deck of cards between my fingers and wait for them to finish; I’m becoming a proper Chennai citizen, waiting for the first card game of the day. Soon enough, paati and Ravi Mama Thatha finish, and I’m quick to deal out the usual thirteen cards. 

Now, I don’t consider myself a genius at cards by any means, but I am decent at rummy, having played it most of my life. The game doesn’t call for an excess of strategy, but usually the three of us are fairly even matched. This time, however, it’s an absolute massacre – paati wins every single round back-to-back, usually within three cycles of play! Everytime she places down her last card, triumphant grin stretching across her face, I start to notice parts of her which feel like a mirror: how we both bite our lips when we're concentrating, or smile with one corner of our mouth before the other. I’m sure, in fact, I’m getting worse at the game as we play more, because I’m too distracted staring at her to focus on the hand in front of me. 

After about an hour of play, I must head out; as it’s my last day here, Sanchu and I are meeting for one final lunch. Today, it’s traditional Andhra Pradesh cuisine, served on a banana leaf the colour of emeralds. Rice with ghee, potato fry, prawn thokku and spiced fish – each part of the meal seems better than the last. As I eat, my hands are soon stained a deep green and bright red, reflective of the flurry of flavours on my plate: hot, comforting kootu, gunpowder podi, and of course, my favourite dahi. Translating the words isn’t enough; you truly have to sit in that moment, fan blasting at full speed, shovelling food into your mouth until you feel as if you’ll burst. And throughout it all, the laughter that is always essential to the best meals, because they are meals shared with friends. 

Sanchu and her husband Santosh drop me back home, and after I doze off on the couch for an hour, it’s time for the trip I’ve eagerly been awaiting. After three failed attempts to get an auto, Ravi Mama Thatha drives me and paati into a nearby neighborhood of Chennai: Mylapore, or Thirumayilai, one of the oldest residential communities in the area. And, as promised, it is here I can see the city streets truly come to life. So sit back, dear readers, grab your cup of tea (or chai, if I have influenced you), and let me tell you about where I am from. 

The first sign I get that we are entering Mylapore is a slow rush of greenery, hanging over the tops of buildings and arching down to meet us. The roads first narrow: snaking paths cracked stone buildings dotted with bright paints and fallen leaves, and a sudden quiet that sets in as if in preparation. But then, out of nowhere, an explosion of colour: film-grain oranges and sunny yellows and a constant rush of movement that grabs hold of your senses. It takes by the hand, drags me into the distant memories of early childhood when I used to play on these streets under the watchful eye of my amma. The sidewalks are lined with stalls and shops, saleswomen shouting about flowers and spices and statues – here, one will yell; no, here, shouts another. Jasmine floats just out of reach, stray blossoms loose from garlands and bracelets.  

As we turn the corner away from the main street, I can see the object of our trip here – the Kapaleeshwarar temple. Built in the 7th century CE, the temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva and boasts an impressive and ancient historical significance; honestly, however, despite my love for history, it’s my own past I’m more enamoured with here – after all, my amma grew up here, in an traditional stone bungalow just a few doors away from the temple itself. I can remember, faintly, stepping outside the building when I was younger and craning my head up to the temple-top. Still, it towers over me now, thousands of feet of painted carvings and brilliance. And memory, I cannot forget; each corner we turn brings back some moment of my childhood. I am struck, indescribably, by an urge to climb the elephant statues in the far corner, a favourite pastime of mine when I was younger. 

It is truly a joy to visit the temple with paati and Ramu thatha. The two of them, I realise, are local celebrities, stopping every few feet to greet an old friend or wave at a street vendor. In some ways, I feel as if a journey has been completed: it’s a homecoming, to end my time in Chennai here. This street, shadowed by the tallness of the temple and the slowly setting sun, is where so much of my family lived and grew, began and ended. Now, after ten years, I’ve returned. 

In other ways, it’s a journey which has just begun. Coming to Chennai, for me, was a much more complicated experience than my trip last year to Mumbai. I have history here – and although I may have forgotten most of it, I can feel the presence of something larger than myself in this city. Call it family, or heritage, or reconnection – I'm not really sure what the right words are yet. I’m sure one day, I’ll be able to describe the feeling, but for now I have nothing but gratitude. Chennai – my city of childhood, my city of reunion, my city that will always hold home. I’m glad I found my way back to you.