Discovering Madras in 1990s, A Rajasthani take!!

Madras of the 1990s wasn’t just a city… it was a mood. Mount Road still carried its old-world charm, and Spencer Plaza wasn’t just a building — it was an experience, buzzing with crowds who came not just to shop, but to belong. Life moved at its own unhurried pace back then — no IT rush, no endless traffic — just long rides under amber streetlights and evenings that didn’t need plans to feel complete.

And then there were the beaches…

Besant Nagar Beach — or simply “Bessie” to those who knew it — was where the city came to breathe. The salty breeze, the endless stretch of sand, and the sound of waves crashing like a familiar song — it was therapy before we even knew we needed it. Just a little further down, Cozzee stood like a quiet legend. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t loud — but it had soul. For many of us, it was the perfect end to a long, carefree day — sitting by the sea, sharing laughs, and feeling like time itself had decided to slow down.

That was Chennai back then… simple, raw, and unforgettable.

Two Boys from Udaipur & Allahbad!

Let me introduce the main lead in this short story, well Jatin from Allahbad (now Prayagraj) A quintessential UP ka chora, Sharma ji ka Beta… I don’t even have to explain it fully, you already get the vibe. Every college has that one guy who just shows up and brings a completely different kind of energy into the whole scene, that was him.”

For two boys arriving from worlds as different as Udaipur and Allahabad, Madras of the 90s felt like stepping into another universe. Back home, life had its own rhythm — familiar streets, familiar faces, and a certain predictability. But Chennai… Chennai was something else. The language was different, the food was different, even the air felt different — heavy with humidity and the scent of the sea.

At first, it was overwhelming. Conversations floated around in Tamil, auto drivers spoke in a rhythmic rap we couldn’t quite catch, and the city seemed to move to rules we hadn’t yet learned. But slowly, that unfamiliarity turned into fascination. The wide roads of Mount Road, the buzz of Alsa Mall, and the calm chaos of the beaches began to feel less like a maze and more like a playground.

And then came the freedom.

In a city where nobody knew us, we weren’t just boys from Udaipur and Allahabad anymore — we were whoever we wanted to be. Riding through the streets, getting lost on purpose, laughing at things we barely understood — Chennai didn’t just welcome us… it gave us a version of ourselves we didn’t know existed.

Somewhere between the noise, the heat, and the endless coastline, the city stopped being unfamiliar. It was now becoming Namma Chennai.

First Encounter and Impressions of Velechery and Guru Nanak College

And then there was our daily battlefield — Guindy, Velachery, and Guru Nanak College.

Guindy back then had this raw, almost industrial vibe — buses rushing past on near emptry streets like they knew whats coming in terms of traffic 20 years later, the smell of petrol in the air, and that constant “"Veetla solli-tu thane vantheenga?" energy everywhere. It felt like the city was always in a hurry there. Velachery, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. Not the crowded hotspot it is today — more open, a little rugged, with patches of emptiness that made every ride feel like an adventure. Roads weren’t perfect, directions weren’t clear, but that’s what made it fun… “seri da, pogalam, paathukalam” — let’s just go and figure it out.

And in the middle of it all stood Guru Nanak College — our adda, our excuse, our alibi.

College life there wasn’t just about lectures — it was about the spaces in between. The canteen chatter, the bunked classes, the “machaa, attendance epdi?” panic, and the last-bench philosophies that felt

deeper than they probably were. It was where North met South, where Hindi mixed with Tamil, and where every day felt like a new scene waiting to unfold.

Somewhere between Guindy’s chaos, Velachery’s unpredictability, and the laid-back rhythm of college life, we weren’t just adjusting anymore.

We had arrived.

But this wasn’t just any college… this was discipline with a capital D.

Two rebellious boys just landed in one of the strictest setups imaginable. The kind where the Principal himself would stand at the gates every morning — like big boss. Five minutes late? Bas. Roll number noted down on the spot. No arguments. No “sir please, sorry.” Scene over.

And then came the real twist…

An Inland letter. Sent straight home.

Not an email. Not a call. A proper blue inland letter, neatly written, informing your parents that their son had dared to be late. Back then, that wasn’t just information — that was a potential disaster waiting to unfold.

But where there’s fear… there’s jugaad.

Somewhere along the way, we figured out the system. The postman became more important than attendance. Timing his arrival, spotting him from a distance, and that quiet “anna, konjam help pannunga…” negotiation. The mission? Intercept the letter before it reached home.

Because facing the Principal was one thing… Facing Dad was a completely different story.

Somewhere between Guindy’s chaos, Velachery’s unpredictability, strict college gates, and these small covert operations… life wasn’t just happening.

It was becoming a story worth telling.

And like every good story… we found our loophole.

The system was strict — but not perfect. Attendance percentage? Not that big a deal back then. So we adapted. Reached on time, every single day. Walked past the Principal like model students — “good morning, sir” and all that.

And then… operation vanish.

Five lectures a day. One hour each. By the fourth, eyes would meet, silent signals exchanged — “machaa, polama?” And just like that, bags packed before the bell, hearts already outside the classroom.

The last one… sometimes two lectures?

Gone.

Not absent. Not late. Just… strategically unavailable.

From strict corridors to open roads in minutes — Guindy traffic, Velachery stretches, or straight to the beach. The city became our classroom, and those last hours? Our syllabus.

Because we weren’t breaking the rules…

We were just playing them better.

Last hour Bunk aah?

So Jatin and I were in different classrooms ( name changed, of course, he is big shot Lawyer in Meerut now ).

Different departments, different classrooms — I was in Economics, he was in BA Corporate — but one common timetable: escape.

Recess was where the real planning happened. Three lectures done, two to go — and somewhere between chai, canteen noise, and random gossip, the plan for the day would be sealed. No overthinking. Just a simple, decisive — “last hour bunk ah?”

Almost always, the answer was yes.

But timing was everything.

Nine out of ten times, my fourth lecture would end right on the bell. Perfect exit window. Jatin, on the other hand, was never that lucky. His professors? Full extension mode. Bell baj gaya? Doesn’t matter. Lecture continues.

So there I’d be — standing outside his class, helmet in hand, trying to look invisible… and failing miserably.

Because of course, the professors noticed.

At first, it was curiosity. Then it became routine. And eventually… it turned into comedy.

A glance at me waiting outside, a knowing smile, and then the classic line —

“Which movie today?”

No anger. No strict warning. Just that subtle acknowledgement — they knew, we knew, and somehow… it became part of the system.

Those few minutes outside the classroom door — waiting, watching, ready to bolt — were as much a part of college as any lecture we ever attended.

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Back then, going to the theatre wasn’t an activity — it was a full-blown mission. Sathyam, Devi, Woodlands… these weren’t theatres, they were basically temples of cinema, and we were extremely devoted (and slightly broke) followers. he second the lights dimmed, the entire place transformed. Random strangers became your hype squad. Whistles, claps, commentary from that one guy in the corner who thinks he’s part of the movie — pure cinema democracy. Watching something like Eraser or Jerry Maguire there wasn’t just watching a film, it was an experience. Arnold shows up? Crowd goes wild. One emotional line? Half the theatre suddenly becomes philosophers.

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And then… there was the Rambha story.

One of those boring lecture days, we did what we did best — bunked. Me and Jatin, on his Kawasaki KB100, rode straight into the Chennai sun with no plan, no destination… just that familiar itch to be anywhere but class.

And somehow, as luck would have it, we drifted all the way to Besant Nagar Beach.

And then suddenly… a crowd.

Not a big one. But enough.

A few vans. Some lights. That unmistakable buzz in the air.

We looked at each other — “yeh wohi hai na...”

And just like that, two boys who had bunked their last lecture for the hundredth time… found themselves standing at the edge of a film shoot, grinning like idiots, convinced they had just cracked life itself.

Did we get close? Not really. Did we see her properly? Maybe for a second. Did it matter?

Not one bit.

Because it was never really about Rambha.

It was about the chase. The ride. The madness of just picking a direction and going.

After the shoot was over, Rambha got into a white, black-tinted Opel Astra and drove off. No prizes for guessing what happened next — yes, we followed.

Not stalking. Not shouting. No nonsense. Just pure, harmless, boyish curiosity.

We tailed the car for a bit, riding like we were part of some slow-motion movie sequence… and then, just as suddenly, we stopped. Looked at each other. Laughed.

Enough lafangagiri for one day.

And just like that, we turned back.

And for that one afternoon… that was enough to make us feel like heroes in our own film.

yep thats us.

Looking back now, it wasn’t just about bunking classes, riding fast bikes, or chasing film shoots on a random afternoon.

It was about a time when life was simple, decisions were impulsive, and consequences felt far away. Two boys, far from home, figuring out a new city in their own chaotic, unplanned way — one ride, one bunk, one story at a time.

Chennai didn’t just give us memories. It gave us moments that stayed — the kind you don’t fully understand while living them, but cherish deeply when you look back.

The loopholes, the laughter, the near misses, the harmless madness… it all added up.

Because in the end, it was never really about the classes we missed.

It was about the life we lived outside them

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