Kaapi Catastrophes and Poker Patriarchs of Margazhi Chennai

Picture this. You touch down in the city—nay, the Jewel City—where filter coffee flows like the Cooum in monsoon and every corner hums with unspoken rules of survival. We’re fresh off a red-eye, bleary-eyed but buzzing, stepping into the cab rank. Miracle of miracles, the auto wallahs don’t swarm like locusts demanding “extra fare, saar—traffic jam ahead!” We snag a legitimate cab, and as it glides onto an improbably empty GST Road (bless that weekend dawn timing), the FM radio belts out a medley of 1970s Rajinikanth earworms.

The driver—grizzled uncle, moustache capable of sweeping floors—hums along off-key, tapping the wheel like it’s a mridangam.

The RJ, Chennai’s eternal hype-lady, teases the crowd-pleaser: “Nachunnu Narukkunnu—short and sweet stories, just three songs away!” We grin like fools. Wide roads stretch ahead, lined with faded hoardings of long-gone political gods from the 1960s, gazing benevolently as if to say, “We ruled from beyond the grave—now pay your tolls.”

The weather? Perfection. A balmy breeze, no humidity hammer, just crisp Margazhi magic.

This is Chennai in glory mode. Pinch me—I’m (almost) home.

Until the hotel undoes it all.

Our usual haunt is fully booked, prices jacked higher than an auto meter on steroids. So we pivot to a “friend’s recommendation”—a quick booking wedged between two sabhas. One’s a 90-year-old behemoth where legends like Ariyakudi once breathed; the other, an equally storied younger rival (yes, sabhas have rankings). Prime location, we think. Wrong.

At 7:15 a.m., early check-in “confirmed”, we arrive hungry and hopeful. Rooms? “Not ready, madam.” The Margazhi mob was underestimated. We’re feral now, Googling like possessed pandas in search of breakfast.

Enter the “iconic” drive-in joint—once a star, now a relic. Peeling laminate tables. Paper taped over windows as if hiding from Zomato reviews. A vibe straight out of a 1960s spy film.

The ghee pongal arrives: premium pricing for overcooked mush swimming in ghee that smells suspiciously recycled from last Diwali’s deep-fry. My companion, the coffee connoisseur, sips the filter kaapi and pronounces it an “over-roasted bean apocalypse”—bitter, ashy, and lingering like bad karma.

The décor screams memory lane: chipped Formica counters, promises as broken as a politician’s manifesto.

Nostalgia, at least, delivers. We shovel the food down, pay the blood money, and flee.

Check-in eventually happens. Three-ish-star hotel. Double room for two: one bath towel (for the drama queen?), one toothbrush (sharing is caring?), zero soap or shampoo (who needs hygiene in December?). The kettle looks fossilised—possibly brewed tea for a long-departed political patriarch.

We crash for a power nap, only to wake up itching like we’ve rolled through an ant nest. Dust on the bed. Reception’s response? “Dust pollution, saar—no bugs here.” Dust with legs and a bite? We didn’t smuggle insects in our cabin luggage.

A quick shower—alternating between tepid drips and sudden gusts—and we demand a room change. “Subject to availability, madam,” says the receptionist, code-switching between Tamil and English like a caffeinated chameleon.

We get the room. Victory. Ominous foreshadowing remains.

 

Afternoon cab time. Uber pings with a shady message: “Bro—350 ok?” For a ₹175 ride. This isn’t subtle auto pottu kudungo. This is an ex-auto renegade reborn as Uber elite, bargaining like a black-market dealer. We cancel instantly and hail a roadside auto.

One squint and we’re clocked as outsiders—probably the shoes. “200 rupees, one kilometre,” he grins. No AC, pothole roulette, but we haggle to survival.

Fact: in megacities like Chennai, Bangalore, Mumbai, or parts of Delhi, walking is a myth. Potholes deep as regrets. Dangling wires like electrocution piñatas. Footpaths cracked or colonised by chai stalls.

Five hundred steps? You’d need plot armour.

Sacred Chaos

And so we arrive at the sabha—Margazhi’s sanctum of Carnatic bliss. The hall fills slowly with the silver-haired brigade: 60+ to nonagenarians in wheelchairs, attendants hovering like Secret Service. Tickets unmarked, seating divvied by fare—sabha democracy at work.

Front row: five “seniors”. Ancient in years, iPhone ninjas at heart.

Curtains up. Midway through a ragam-tanam-pallavi, their screens ignite.

Grandpa One plays online poker, virtual chips clinking, ads blaring every ten seconds. Grandpa Two scrolls a mutual funds app, trading mid-raga. Grandpa Three unfurls a newspaper, crackling through the swaras. Grandpa Four—the oldest—scrolls Facebook in Godzilla-sized font, liking wedding videos.

We’re paralysed. Where do you even look?

Sabha etiquette has clearly been updated.

Then irony arrives on cue. Two aunties swivel towards us, pearl-clutching glares locked. “No humming, please ok?” she winces at my barely audible appreciation. My companion can’t hear it over the poker pings.

In sabha lore, humming during an alapana is appreciation—Sabha Skills 101. Yet we’re the offenders. The symphony of page-rustling, app bloops and nut-crunching continues uninterrupted.

We bite our tongues. Respect your elders—even hypocritical ones. Next day, we change seats. Same crew. Different vidwan. Same apps.

Life, like a raga, loops.

Days blur into Margazhi mayhem. More dosas than this city dishes out 24/7. Crisp exteriors, sambar tasting faintly of regret. More biryani joints than stars in the solar system—perfect for Sunday siestas.

Mallipoo strings priced higher than a surge-priced burger. Multi-storey retail buildings that give malls a run for their money. Uber drivers bargaining via the app. Hotels fumbling basics like amateur jugglers. Sabhas where tech-savvy fossils out-gadget the young while shushing soft hums and letting Candy Crush reign.

We couldn’t get enough.

Chennai, darling—you’re a glorious mess. Singara on the surface, shenanigans underneath.

We left wiser, itchier, and addicted. Another season, another lesson. To less bed dust, filter-coffee failures, and poker-faced patriarchs.

Who’s ready for round two?