When traffic stops in Chennai, there’s a good chance there’s a cow on the road. This isn’t an exaggeration, or a turn of phrase – in fact, I couldn’t be more literal. It’s one of the first views that greets me as we drive into the city, my aunt laughing at my open-mouthed stare. I’m exhausted, limbs cramped and stiff from the eleven-hour flight, and for a minute I think I might be hallucinating. 

But no, there’s a cow on the road – and about fifteen fruit stands, several parked cars, and too many motorcycles to count. It’s sensory overload, a blur of sights, smells, sounds, and colours, all amalgamated into a single, narrow street. And, perhaps most surprisingly, it’s not even dawn.  

Life in Chennai seems to be constantly moving: a hamster stuck on a spinning wheel, a clock running a couple minutes fast, a strong current sweeping your legs from beneath you. As we spin through the (already) crowded streets, moving into the southern Adyar neighborhood, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. My hand, brushing stray hairs out of my face, is tacky against my forehead, a stark reminder of the steadily rising temperature. Everything here, from the dizzying pace to the sweltering heat to the smell of spices hanging in the air, is different from the small, sleepy town of St Andrews – though you might also see a cow on the road there.  

Chennai is, in many ways, home for me. My parents both grew up here, and a large portion of my family still lives here. And still, as I step out onto the cracked concrete pavement, eyes sweeping my surroundings, it is piercingly foreign. I haven’t set foot in this city for ten years now, and most of my memories lie beyond distinct recollection, lost in a haze of mental snapshots and photographs. I remember the feeling of summer heat, oppressive and blanketing, but I don’t recognise any of the signs we’ve past. I can recall the look of a clothesline drawn across a balcony, but I couldn’t find the nearest grocery store if I tried. I am faced, suddenly and sharply, by a series of contrasts – a deep-rooted, fundamental sense of home within a city I do not know. 

The people, though, are familiar; my mom’s uncle, or mama thatha – whom I call Ravi Mama Thatha – opens the gate for us. I’ve seen him several times growing up, as he’s the grandparent to my second cousins, who I am very close with. His wife, Uma Paati, waits for us inside their first-floor flat, an open-air, breezy unit which is a welcome respite from the morning sun. It’s just about five, and I want nothing more than to say my hellos and collapse into bed, but my stomach demands otherwise, rumbling rather embarrassingly as I lift my suitcase over the threshold. Thankfully, if there is one thing Indian relatives are always prepared for, it’s hunger, and I am beyond joyful when offered a plate of fresh dosas with molgapodi – a spicy dry chutney that stains my nails a vivid red.  

As I eat, and the rest of the household begins their day, I skim through a brief article on the history of Chennai – allow me to summarize it for you here. The city, like many in India, is known by two names: Madras, as identified under British colonial rule, and Chennai, a Tamil-Telugu term reflecting the city’s pre-colonial heritage. The area itself has a history that dates back over two thousand years to early Chola tribes, but the modern city was founded with the British settlement of Fort St. George, which expanded from the coast to encompass numerous native villages. However, while Fort St. George was only founded in 1639, the native temples of Thiruvanmiyur, Thiruvotriyur, Thiruvallikeni, and Thirumayilai have existed for millennia, and are even mentioned in ancient devotional hymns. Like my own personal contrast, Chennai sits in a meeting between ancient and modern, a contradiction without resolution.  

I continue the article until my eyelids are drooping and my hands clatter onto the tin plate – a clear signal that it’s time to sleep. Bidding Ravi Mama Thatha and Uma Paati goodnight (or, perhaps more accurately, good morning) I leave my plate in the sink, wash my hands, and collapse face-first onto a cool pillow. The time difference between Chennai and St Andrews isn’t extreme, only four-and-a-half hours compared to the usual eight I face between California and Scotland, and yet it feels like I’ve crossed the globe three times over, carrying a backpack filled with stones. Despite the drone of the air conditioning and the early light filtering through the window, I’m fast asleep in minutes. 

A soft chatter slowly draws me from my slumber, somewhere beyond the closed door to my room, but I can’t bring myself to wake just yet. This is the first moment I’ve had to myself in several days, and I’ve felt continuously off-kilter, just the slightest bit out of touch with myself. I feel like a cartoon that’s glitched ever-so-slightly, every thought and moment just pixelated enough to feel hazy. There’s good reason: the last few weeks have brought unfortunate family news, the type that flips the world on its head, and I haven’t yet had a minute to process it. The last time I was in India was for this same project, but it was heralded with an overwhelming joy – a new place, the first time I had seen my father in a few months, and the start to a summer that promised adventures upon adventures. While I am still extremely excited to be here, and eagerly looking forward to the work ahead, I would be lying if I didn’t say that this trip has a somewhat more sombre tone. In the back of my mind, behind the anxious buzz that comes before any large project and the general encompassing hum of travel, I am constantly worried about my family. It wouldn’t be fair, to myself or the people around me, to put it aside, so instead, I am learning to walk with the worry, and to experience it alongside everything else. 

And of course, one of the best cures for any type of worry is people, so after a few seconds kept to myself in the dark, I shrug off my thin blanket and emerge into the kitchen. I am immediately met by my paati and thatha – my maternal grandparents – who have just arrived. They’re spending the next few days in Chennai with me, before I fly to Mumbai. We all gather around the table for lunch, and I gradually shake off my grogginess as I listen to my relatives exchange rapid-fire Tamil. It’s a conversation I must settle for listening to, as I don’t speak Tamil myself, though I can understand it almost perfectly. For now, that’s fine by me, though, as jetlag seems to have stolen any capacity I have to string together coherent sentences. Instead, I scoop up rice with tired fingers and listen to their stories. By the end of lunch, the drowsiness returns with full force, and I shyly return to the bedroom, self-conscious about my apparent inability to stay awake for more than an hour. 

The next time I wake, it’s late afternoon, and this time I’m determined to stay awake – as are Ravi Mama Thatha and Uma Paati, who gently tease me about my hibernation. There’s no chance of me falling back asleep now, though, as I have dinner plans; my aunt arrives only moments later to pick me up. We go to a nearby restaurant called Visesham – meaning ‘celebration’ - and enjoy steaming hot plates of chicken curry and mutton fry, alongside my old Mumbai favourite neer dosa, a paper-thin, soft rice crepe that literally translates to ‘water dosa.’ I’m also overjoyed to see the restaurant carries sugarcane juice, a specialty which is hard to find in California, let alone St Andrews. Once again, belly full and watching the cars zoom by below, I wonder if this is a research trip or a food trip – I decide it can be both. 

By the time we return home, its nighttime, and everyone soon retires to their respective bedrooms, but there’s only one problem. After sleeping most of the day, I’m wide awake, lying on the couch as I stare at the ceiling fan spin in circles. I decide to use the time to work on my project plan, preparing for my meeting Friday with my supervisor at the Humsafar Trust. I am reminded continuously how differently India works compared to home; plans essentially go into action last-minute, and any attempt to gain foresight is quietly shut down. Incredibly, though, everything still works. Last year, I felt the same nervousness preparing for my interviews; people had barely responded, and I wasn’t sure until I hit the ground that I would have enough meetings to conduct my research. This time around, at least, I’m more prepared for it, and I’ve worked out a solution that allows for adaptability and flexibility – admittedly not my strong suits when it comes to project-planning – while still giving me enough insight into the next month of work. Long story short, I’m learning to work where I am. 

Midnight turns into three AM turns into five AM, and still, sleep evades me. Eventually, I feel the dregs of tiredness at the back of my eyes, and rush inside, determined to make the most of it. It takes a little while for me to fall asleep, hindered by various alarms and cuckoo clocks and the occasional car honk, but eventually, lulled by soft guitar and the AC drone, I do.