We descend the Western Ghats, down from the lush cardamom and tea plantations to Tamil Nadu and back to the sauna. This road descends around 17 hairpin bends which our driver attacks with kamikaze enthusiasm, passing anything in front with no regard for oncoming traffic or blind corners, but by now we are used to this. As we come down to flatter landscapes we pass coconut groves, miles of rice paddies and sugar cane fields. It occurs to me that India, from far north to deep south, is quite the food bowl and has the capacity, I would think, to be agriculturally self sufficient, though I’m told they still import rice, being the staple food of the population. Tariffs? No thanks, we’re good.

If you’re a Bible reader you’ll know John 14 verse 2: Jesus big-notes about his father, boasting that “my father’s house has many mansions”. He is non specific about the number but it would have to be a lot to rival Chettinad. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, fabulously wealthy Chettiar merchants and traders travelled the world buying and selling, amassing fortunes and pouring it into these homes: teak from Burma, Venetian glass and French chandeliers, Italian Carreras marble, ironwork from England and tiles from China and Spain. They’re basically India’s version of The Great Gatsby, if Gatsby had been a Tamil banker with a taste for Italian marble and decimating Burmese teak plantations. Each mansion was designed with one goal: to make sure the neighbour’s house looked like a peasant’s hut. So we now have an entire region of villages where the homes look like royal palaces but are eerily silent, except for the occasional pigeon who thinks it’s won the real estate lottery. Over time, wars, financial regulations, and the slow realisation that maybe investing everything in foreign trade wasn’t the best idea. Most of the merchants moved to cities or abroad, leaving behind these mansions, like kids abandoning their toys in a rush to go to McDonalds.





You would think India’s new millionaires, the ones who spend absurd amounts on glitzy weddings, vanity projects, and cricket teams, would jump at the chance to restore these as another bauble to show off their wealth. Maybe – if they weren’t in the middle of Tamil Nadu’s sweltering countryside, miles away from luxury shopping and air conditioned cocktail bars. Here, stepping outside at noon feels like walking into a blast furnace running at the temperature of the surface of the sun. Secondly, restoring them is like trying to revive a dinosaur: massively expensive and requiring a PhD in heritage conservation, engineering, and patience. Also, most belong to dozens of extended family members, many living overseas and busy arguing over inheritance rights.

So here they stand in their sad elegance, gathering dust. I imagine Marlon Brando in his fading days mumbling “I used to be somebody”, and you have the vibe. The upside is a street full of heritage furniture and antique stops, stocked with what were the contents of the mansions. Need a kitchen full of enamel ware? A new/old chandelier? Portraits of someone else’s ancestors? A free-standing dial telephone? Nic-nacs up the wazoo?



Today the mansions serve as backdrops for wedding photos, heritage tourism – after all, that’s why we’re here – and the occasional Bollywood drama. Some, like ours, are being bought by luxe hotel chains and the restored interiors are beautiful, the rooms enormous. Happily, our first stop is lunch in a courtyard at one of the semi restored mansions. Pressed tin ceilings, marble pillars, beautiful chandeliers and floor tiles. And food.

The food, you are all asking about the food. In a word, wonderful. In a few words, delicious, deep flavour, subtle spice, not always intense. Yes, spices can be used as lethal weapons, but layering flavours gives a more delectable experience. The style varies across regions as there are different growing conditions. For example, the Chettiars are known to be traders in salt and spices and this is reflected in the Chettinad cuisine. Chicken Chettinad (spicy chicken curry) is famous (and delicious). One night we descend on a local home where the family cook for us – another banana leaf feast, this time with the inclusion of delicious Chicken 65 – this is a spicy deep fried chicken and there are as many origin stories as there are variations in the recipe. We are still waiting for our hosts to part with their family’s secret recipe. The traditional banana leaf serving “plate” is not just to save washing up, though that is a happy colab – polyphenols found in banana leaves stimulate the production of digestive enzymes, aiding in better digestion and nutrient absorption.

If you are tempted by street food – restrain yourself, or end up as I did on my long ago visit – flat on my back for four days with my only outings being to the bathroom. Indian street food should be approached with caution, and the mantra “deep fried is your friend” – something you don’t hear very often, and definitely not from the heart foundation.
What else is different from my visit 46 years ago? The traffic, as described in my last post, is as chaotic, if not more so, and the level of trash everywhere is unchanged in volume, if not composition. The magical properties of the blaring horn are even more magical. What is different, and better, is the attention to personal hygiene – you didn’t expect that did you. The general populous isn’t as smelly, though to be fair I’m not on public transport this time. I remember lots of smoking and betel nut chewing with the accompanying red spit staining the ground, but this trip the only smokers I see are a couple of western tourists, and I see no betel nut stains on the street. Even better, the vape stores and vapers that plague our cities are wonderfully absent – don’t see a single one.
Life in India is messy, crowded, noisy, exhausting, occasionally terrifying, but never boring. It’s one of the few places where you can laugh, cry, eat, sweat, and have an existential crisis – all before lunch time.