1. Madras is like an aged grandma; replete with tales of colonial days. Stories where people walk on broad pavements having lined with blooming golden-shower petals, that sometime swung with winds howling with rising and ebbying of ocean. It is pocketful of secrets; like a naughty child smiles hiding behind bushes and trees in courtyard, waiting to be surprised, to get caught. The backyards of Madras buildings still imbue with crows cawing, a bunch of green coconuts clinging to trunk and leaf as a sturdy, tall and proud father holds his small babies with fierce protectiveness. Madras is shy like a beautiful, dusky bride; Who blushes and peeks to her upcoming future with a restless gaze. Her thick and black braids are intertwined with glint of dark green emeralds, that shine and reflect in rains, when frogs croak, jumping on forbes and grass with webbed feets, and iron grills are corrugated, flies drone, pebbles stick to shoes of schoolgirls, wasps sing from lisped tongues and old brickwalls are peeled off, wearing a damp and disfigured robs of pale complexion. It is an evergreen tropics, inhabited by people of simplified beliefs. With coconutty smelled matted hairs, and flowers in them. With kids sipping coconut water and women chanting quatrains beneath sacred grove and thousand years old temples and churches flanking both sides with each curve of the city.