Trip to the town

When I was a school girl growing up in Madurai in the 70s and 80s, I would yearn to hear my parents plan the TRIP TO THE TOWN.  Living in the outskirts, our world consisted of a small community of houses mostly occupied by my father's colleagues, a bus stop, a temple and church, 2 provision shops, 1 bakery and 1 tea stall. Whereas the TOWN was another world. 

One reached this world after a good 30 minute commute in a crowded bus.  Once we reached the Madurai bus stand, the excitement was palpable.  All roads in Madurai lead to the Meenakshi Amman temple and so one just had to follow the crowd to reach the Town bazaar around the temple.  One could take a Rickshaw or the Tonga but the fun was in walking it up.

Street around the temple (Image source)

We had our favourite routes for this walk, with special stops on the way for tucking in snacks.  It would either be the Irutti kadai (translated as DARK SHOP) , called so for its minimal lighting I guess, for the piping hot halwa that would slide down the throat in milliseconds leaving a mind blowing sugar trail. Or the special bajji stall, with its spicy fried snack made with the longest chilly I had ever seen.  Better still the Masala milk shop with its huge cauldron of boiling milk, where I could stand for hours watching the rich yellow cream collecting on top and being scooped up on to the glasses.

Masala milk (Image source)

Once the stomach was satiated, we began circum ambulating the roads around the temple.  In the Town, the shops were sandwiched between the houses or fronted the houses.  Every few metre on the road, there would be a florist selling the fragrant Madurai jasmine flowers in tight strings and it was crime to not buy and put it on the hair.  And then there was the famous Madurai cotton sungudi sarees shops.  The ubiquitous Bata would be there in each of those streets.

Sungudi sarees of Madurai (Image source)

Desmond Morris would have given an arm and limb to have been on these roads to watch the multitude of people, the locals, the traders, the North Indian tourists and the cows in between.

Once our legs got tired, we would make our way to one of the hotels situated at the arterial junctions.  My mother and I would insist on the waiter reciting the menu, though we knew it by heart and would always order the same items - puri for me and dosa for her.  It was a tough choice to decide between the Bengali sweet or the ice cream for the dessert. We would be sitting in a stupor, while the waiter would gently remind us of the hotel closing time. 

Puri masala (Image source)

I would sometimes deliberately walk slow to the bus stand and ensure we missed the last bus at 10:30pm. This meant the luxurious auto ride home!  We would arrive home waking up the neighbourhood with the tut-tut sound of the auto.   Everyone would look so content and go off to sleep mumbling incomprehensibly to the Rock music playing in the Sony tape recorder. 

In my mind, there would be only one thought, when would the next trip to the town be?