Dear Madras,
Remember when we used to dance in your streets? When the aroma of filter
coffee wafted from corner shops, mingling with the laughter of children playing
gully cricket? Those were the days when your arms were wide open, inviting us to
linger in your embrace. Now, my dear city, you've grown so tall, so fast. Your new
glass skin reflects the sun, but where has your heart gone?
I walk your streets at dusk, seeking respite from the day's heat. The neem trees
that once lined your avenues are few and far between, replaced by billboards
screaming promises of a better life. Better than what, I wonder? Better than the
simple joy of sitting on a park bench, watching the world go by?
Your beaches - ah, Marina and Elliots - they try their best. But they're like
overburdened mothers, stretched thin by the weight of six million souls seeking a
breath of fresh air. We flock to them like pilgrims, desperate for a glimpse of the open
sky, a taste of community.
But what of those who live inland, in the concrete canyons of Adyar or the
bustling lanes of T. Nagar? Where do they go when their apartment walls feel like
they're closing in and the AC's hum drives them mad?
I dream of pocket parks sprouting like monsoon mushrooms in every
neighbourhood. Imagine, Chennai, if we turned every empty lot into a tiny oasis.
Picture a city where rooftops bloom with community gardens, where abandoned
bus stops transform into mini-libraries, and where the spaces under flyovers become
open-air galleries showcasing local art.
Most of all, my dear city, I dream of the return of the thinnai. Do you remember
the thinnai, Chennai? Those raised platforms adorned the front of every
home, a liminal space between private and public, between family and
community. They were more than just architectural features; they were the soul
of our neighbourhoods.
The thinnai was where stories were shared, where community bonds were
forged. It was where young lovers stole furtive glances, where elders dispensed
wisdom, and where children played board games under watchful eyes. It was our
living room and our public square rolled into one.
What if we brought back the spirit of the thinnai, not just as architecture, but as a
philosophy? Every building could offer a slice of itself to the public - a shaded
nook, a small playground, a quiet corner for conversation. Imagine apartment
complexes with ground floor thinnais, open to all, where residents and
neighbours alike could gather. Picture office buildings with thinnai-inspired
spaces, blurring the lines between work and community.
The thinnai was never just about the physical space, Chennai. It was about the
generosity of spirit, the willingness to open our homes and hearts to others. It was
about recognizing that we are all part of something larger than ourselves, that
our individual stories are threads in the grand tapestry of our city's narrative.
In bringing back the thinnai, we wouldn't just be reviving an architectural feature.
We'd be rekindling the warmth of human connection, the joy of spontaneous
interaction, and the comfort of belonging. We'd be creating spaces for the kind of
moments that define a life well-lived - a sympathetic ear during hard times, a
shared laugh over a cup of chai, and the quiet companionship of watching a sunset
with neighbours.
Chennai, you were never meant to be a city of closed doors and tinted windows.
You inherit thousands of years of Tamil culture, which thrived in public spaces like
Mylapore's sabhas and the bustling bazaars of old Madras. The thinnai was the
embodiment of this spirit - a bridge between the intimacy of home and the
vibrancy of public life.
It's time we reclaimed your soul from the real estate brochures and traffic jams.
Let's carve out spaces for serendipity, for the chance encounters that weave the
fabric of community. Let's build modern thinnais under banyan trees, create chai
spots where strangers can become friends, and design playgrounds that bring out the
child in everyone.
We need places where young lovers can steal moments away from prying eyes,
where aspiring musicians can test their skills before an impromptu audience,
where grandparents can teach ancient board games to a new generation. We
need spaces that echo the inclusive, welcoming spirit of the thinnai in more than
just the traditional, raised-platform way.
This isn't just about urban planning, my dear Chennai. It's about rediscovering our
humanity in your embrace. It's about turning every corner into a potential stage
for the drama of life, every threshold into an invitation for connection.
So let's break down some walls, literally and figuratively. Let's blur the lines
between private and public, between mine and ours. Let's create a city where
every street is a potential gathering place, every patch of green a community
treasure. Let's bring back the thinnai - not just as a physical space, but as a state
of mind, a way of living that puts human connection at the heart of urban life.
Because in the end, Chennai, you're not just a collection of buildings and roads.
You're the sum of our shared experiences, our collective memories, our
intertwined stories. And we need places - we need thinnais - to write those stories
together.
With hope for a more open tomorrow, and dreams of thinnais yet to come,
A citizen dreamer.
Note: The images used are AI-generated.
About the Author:
Nikitha is an architect driven by the belief that even the most serious structures have a sense of humour. Passionate about culture, heritage, and conservation, she delves into the stories that spaces tell, aiming to harmonise the past with the present.
"and where the spaces under flyovers become open-air galleries showcasing local art." is such a beautiful thought. I hope to see it come true soon!