Mangoes, Memories, & Madras

THERE was always a plan to leave. Hyderabad, with its roomier skies and better biryani, was supposed to be my annual summer escape.

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As a Telugu girl living in Chennai, my seasonal discontent peaked right around the first week of April - when the heat made my earrings feel like branding irons and I'd begin pleading dramatically with my parents: "Just send me to Ammamma's house, please." Some years, they gave in. But the few times that I couldn't fly away, I was forced to surrender to Hyderabad's heat, its slowness, and the way time folds differently here in May.

And yet — between the dramatics, something surprising happened. I started collecting memories. Not the postcard kind. But the humid, specific, and funny kind. Cold showers that never really felt cold. Waking up at 5.30 am because the power randomly goes out. Biryani that makes you sweat — eating spicy food in the heat just makes things more intense. Neighbours sending over mangoes wrapped in newspaper. I began to see that the city didn't need to be escaped from — it needed to be remembered, the way one remembers a fever dream: with half-exasperation, half-affection.

So I started asking people — what was your Chennai summer like? What follows is a collection of memories — chaotic, sentimental, and heat-soaked — from girls like me, boys on summer break, elders with stories of a pre-AC Chennai, and even vacationers who accidentally fell in love with the city's sultry charm.

People who grew up visiting the city remember it vividly. Pranitha Pillai, who would visit from Hyderabad every May, insists it shaped her entire emotional landscape. "We didn't have a beach. So I thought Marina was magical. We'd go at 6 am to beat the crowd. I'd come back sunburnt, sandy, and so happy I'd cry when we left. My mom used to hate it because of how tanned my brother and I used to get."