Mumbai Memories: Calling Her by Name

Posted on December 1, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

Tamil kinship terminology is among the most nuanced in the world, distinguishing not only between maternal and paternal relatives but also between older and younger siblings, in-laws, and even parallel and cross cousins. Within this system, “manni” specifically denotes the wife of an elder brother. Other names are Anna, who is the older brother; chitappa, your father’s younger brother or your mother’s younger sister’s husband; and chitti, the wife of your father’s younger brother or your mother’s younger sister. Athai is your father’s sister, and Athimber is her husband. “Athimber” could also refer to the husband of your older sister. The use of these terms is not arbitrary but is deeply embedded in the social fabric, reinforcing respect, hierarchy, and the roles expected of each family member.

The “manni” traditionally occupies a unique position. She is often seen as a secondary maternal figure to her husband’s younger siblings, especially in large joint families. The respect accorded to her is both a reflection of her status as the wife of the eldest son and a recognition of her role in maintaining familial harmony and upholding traditions.

In the patriarchal structure of Tamil Brahmin families, the use of kinship terms such as “manni” is a way of codifying respect and maintaining the social order. The elder brother’s wife is, by her position, to be respected, and the term “manni” is both an acknowledgement of her seniority and a subtle reinforcement of the family hierarchy. This practice also reflects gendered expectations. While the elder brother commands respect as “Anna,” his wife, as “Manni,” is expected to embody dignity, authority, and nurturing, often mediating between the younger siblings and the older generation.

Tamil Brahmin families, especially the Iyers and Iyengars, have historically been fastidious about ritual purity and the correct observance of customs. The use of proper kinship terms was, and in some cases still is, considered part of this ritual correctness. Addressing the elder brother’s wife by her name, rather than as “manni,” could be seen as a breach of decorum, potentially undermining the carefully maintained social order.

However, the latter part of the 20th century saw significant social and economic changes. Urbanisation, the rise of nuclear families, and increased exposure to cosmopolitan values began to erode the rigid hierarchies of the past. As families became smaller and more egalitarian, the need to maintain strict forms of address diminished. Younger generations, influenced by modern education and global culture, began to prioritise individual identity and personal relationships over traditional roles.

My mother’s paternal family is large, and as I have mentioned previously, they lived in a joint family for years before each brother moved out. Even though they moved out, the old joint family home was still the family headquarters, and connections between cousins were very tight. Also, as most tambram families were in the sixties and seventies in Mumbai, they were still conservative and held on tightly to their rituals and culture, especially with the second generation, who were, for the most part, born and lived in the bustling metropolis that Bombay was becoming.

In this context, and this is something I only realised recently, was the fact that none of the cousins called their brother’s wives “Manni.” Instead, they used her given name. Growing up, I thought this was normal and never gave it a second thought. But when I thought about this recently, I thought this was something so liberal and progressive. None of the older generation objected to this, and I am guessing none of the new brides, especially the first one, insisted on being called “manni!” And this percolated to how I perceived relationship nomenclature.

When I got married, S’s younger sister called me “Manni” and still calls me that, even after all these years, even though I told her to call me by my given name. Some of S’s cousins started by calling me manni and then shifted to my given name, while some others call me akka, which means older sister. I am ok with either “manni,” my name, or akka, as I believe at the end of the day, it’s the respect that’s more important, rather than what you are called.

Addressing sisters-in-law by name, rather than as “manni,” can be seen as a subtle but powerful assertion of equality. It signals a move away from rigid hierarchies and towards relationships based on mutual respect and personal connection.

Tamil Brahmin identity has undergone a profound transformation over the past century. Once defined by strict adherence to ritual, vegetarianism, and caste-based hierarchies, the community has become increasingly cosmopolitan, embracing modernity and global values. The decline of practices such as addressing the elder brother’s wife as “manni” is part of this broader shift. Women in Tamil Brahmin families have played a crucial role in this transformation. As they gained access to education and employment, their roles within the family and society changed dramatically. The authority of the “manni” was no longer derived solely from her position as the elder brother’s wife but from her own achievements and personality.

Ultimately, the choice of how to address a sister-in-law is a personal one, shaped by family dynamics, individual preferences, and broader social trends. What matters most is the quality of the relationship, not the form of address.

Mumbai Memories: Mumbai’s Lifelines

Posted on August 13, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

Growing up in the 1980s and 1990s in Mumbai, we mostly took the BEST bus and the Mumbai train to school, college, or work.

The red BEST or Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport Undertaking, along with Mumbai’s train lines, are the lifeline and heartbeat of the city. For any Mumbaikar, the memory of the city is incomplete without recalling the daily dramas and quiet moments lived out aboard these iconic buses.

Since its inception in 1873, originally as a horse-drawn tram service, BEST has evolved into one of India’s most extensive bus systems, ferrying millions through the city’s bustling arteries every day. With over 3,800 buses and more than 440 routes, the system stretches far beyond the city’s traditional limits, reaching into the far suburbs like Thane, Navi Mumbai, and Mira-Bhayandar. Whether you’re braving the monsoon or the peak summer heat, the sight of a red double-decker lurching through traffic is a sign of Mumbai’s indomitable spirit. Stepping into a BEST bus is to step into a true cross-section of Mumbai society. Amidst the constant jostle, you hear the familiar clang of coins in the conductor’s pouch as they dispense paper tickets. There’s a heritage to BEST that transcends function. The city even hosts a dedicated BEST Transport Museum at Anik depot, where you can find miniatures and memorabilia tracing the journey from electric trams to today’s modern fleet.

When I was in school, we used to take a school bus and then started walking to school as we grew older. I used to take the bus sometimes when coming or going to tuition, but this was rare. It was only when I started college that I became a regular bus commuter. Every bus had a driver who sat up front and one or two conductors. If it were a single-decker, there would be a single conductor, while a double-decker would have two conductors, one on each deck. These conductors were responsible for collecting fares, giving out tickets and maintaining the decorum of the bus. Even though I had a few buses that would take me to the bus stop nearest my college, I almost always took one particular bus number. College started at 7:30 am, and I would take the bus from my bus stop at 7 am. And because I always took that particular bus, a double-decker where I would always sit in the lower deck, the conductor became a fixture in my life, and I became recognisable to him. We would greet each other, and if I didn’t take the bus for a few days at a time, he would check on me the next time I took the bus. Because of the bus’s timing, it was popular with students as there were multiple schools and colleges on its route. Two stories come to mind about this conductor.

Both stories took place in a three-year time period, when I was doing my degree. In the first instance, I boarded the bus as usual and paid my fare and took my ticket. I don’t know how it is now, but in those days, it used to be a paper ticket with your stop punched. Sometime between taking the ticket and halfway to college, a ticket checker got into the bus and immediately went to the upper deck to check. I checked my bag for my ticket so I could show it to the checker and get down, and that’s when I realised I had dropped my ticket somewhere. I was frantic and started checking my bag, between my books and inside my wallet. I didn’t want to get caught by the ticket checker as the fine would be too much for a poor college student, not to mention the humiliation that went with it. The conductor saw me being agitated and came to ask him what had happened. I mentioned that I couldn’t find my ticket and that the ticket checker was going to come down anytime to check tickets. At that moment, the bus stopped at a scheduled stop and someone started to get down. Immediately, the conductor asked him for his ticket and passed it to me. The fare would be something similar, as this person apparently got in a couple of stops before me and got off two stops before mine. I was thankful to both the conductor and the passenger, and showed the ticket checker my ticket before alighting to go to college.

The second story was also in the same period. My sister had purchased a new watch and I wanted to wear it. After pleading and cajoling her, I finally got permission to wear it to college. I proudly wore it and boarded my bus. The watch was shaped like a bangle, and unknown to me, the clasp was not very secure. I got on the bus and sat in one of the seats that face sideways, close to the entrance of the bus, in the lower deck. The same conductor as the story above was on duty that day. After a few stops, I looked down and to my horror, the watch was missing! I started looking everywhere, below the seat, in my bag and even patted my clothes, but the watch was not to be found. I was almost in tears. I knew not only would my sister blame me for losing her new watch, and rightly so, but my parents would also not let it go. I would hear about this for years to come. Again, the conductor came to my rescue. After asking me what happened and learning about the watch, he got more information from me about how it looked. Then he made an announcement to the lower deck about my lost watch and got everyone to look for it beneath their seats and near them. The whole bus was busy for the next few minutes trying to locate it. Finally, someone found it close to the other end of the bus. It seemed that the watch fell down when I was sitting and got kicked inside the bus as other passengers got in and found seats. Again, I was so thankful to the conductor when I was handed my watch and was able to go to college in a much lighter mood..

I only started taking the train when I started my second job. I used to take a local to Andheri and then a bus to work and the reverse in the evening. Because I only went to the office three days a week (the other days, I used to go to our office in the city, in the opposite direction), I was never a regular, and so I don’t have stories to share.

For every Mumbaikar, the local train is more than transportation; it is the pulse of daily life, dictating schedules, shaping friendships, and weaving together countless stories along the city’s expansive rail corridors. Regular train commuters, especially those travelling long distances, have created communities and train friend is a Mumbai special friendship. Some train friendships have traversed the divide, and these train friends have not only become friends in real life, but in many instances, they have become relatives, having siblings, children or other relatives married to each other or their relatives.

Mumbai’s suburban railway, often lovingly called the “local,” is the oldest and busiest commuter rail system in India and among the world’s top in daily passenger volume, ferrying over 7.5million commuters every single day. First run in 1853, the system stretches across approximately 465km and is divided among six major lines: the Western, Central, Harbour, Trans-Harbour, Vasai Road–Roha, and the Nerul–Uran lines. It connects the heart of Mumbai to distant suburbs like Virar, Dahanu, Kalyan, Khopoli, and Panvel, truly earning the moniker “the city’s lifeline.”

The western line: runs from Churchgate in South Mumbai through posh neighbourhoods northwards, ending at Dahanu Road. This route is a lifeline for thousands who journey from the extended suburbs into the southern business districts each day. The central line begins at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus (CSMT), branching out at Kalyan toward Kasara and Khopoli, capturing the hustle of commuters travelling to and from eastern and northeastern corridors. The harbour line, which is the one that stops at the station closest to my home, links CSMT to Panvel through Navi Mumbai; less crowded but vital for east-west connectivity, this line opens up the satellite city for daily business and education. The harbour line also has a branch line that connects the central and western lines, branching out after Wadala and moving to the western line at Mahim, and when I used it, it used to end at Andheri. Today, the western branch of the harbour line ends at Goregaon.

Locals run from before dawn with the first training rolling out at 4 am until late at night, with most lines’ last train running at 1 pm, and some services ending even later. The stations are the stages for daily dramas: the surge onto the platform as the train approaches, the precise choreography to catch a footboard, and the silent understanding to make space for one more commuter in the already-packed compartment.

Trains are designated “fast” or “slow,” with the former skipping minor stations to speed up long-distance travel, and the latter stopping at every halt, accommodating the needs of neighbourhoods, both big and small. Special ladies’ compartments offer safe passage for women, while luggage compartments are a godsend for vendors and small traders transporting goods across the city.

Each ride on a Mumbai local imprints memories, sights of the city whizzing past open windows, street vendors plying their trade at major junctions, or quiet philosophical moments watching the city transform in the monsoon. Rail maps stuck to station walls and painted on signboards become sacred: they are, to many, a navigational scripture. The fast local between Churchgate and Virar or the crisscrossing services out of CSMT are more than routes; they are lifelines, their rhythm marking the intervals of a Mumbai day.

What began with simple steam trains in the 19th century now operates as a massive, modern fleet of electrical multiple units (EMUs), seamlessly blending history with the scale demanded by a modern megacity. Indian Railways continues to advance, phasing out old rolling stock for modern, more efficient carriages and electrifying the entire network for speed and sustainability.

BEST buses don’t just move people, they move stories. For years, they have connected the city’s extremes, providing a democratic, affordable way to traverse the chaos and beauty that is Mumbai. It’s hard not to get nostalgic about the local. Even with the rise of metro lines and air-conditioned buses, the Mumbai train network remains unparalleled in its reach and spirit, a thread uniting millions in the great urban tapestry that is Mumbai.

Both the BEST buses and the local train network are more than functional necessities; they are an essential part of Mumbai’s memoryscape: resilient, chaotic, joyful, and eternally moving forward. So if you are ever in Mumbai, maybe you should take a trip in a BEST bus or a local, but be prepared for the chaos and the spirit of the city.

Mumbai Memories: Our Music Journey

Posted on July 2, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

In Tamil Brahmin families, it is almost a rite of passage for children to begin learning music, dance, or both from a very young age. This practice, deeply woven into the cultural fabric, is not merely a hobby or extracurricular activity but a tradition that carries historical, spiritual, and social significance.

Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam are two of the most celebrated classical art forms in South India. Both have ancient origins and have been closely associated with temple rituals, devotional practices, and the cultural identity of the Tamil Brahmin community. Historically, Brahmin families became custodians and prominent patrons of these arts, especially as royal patronage declined and the arts transitioned from temples and courts to urban centres.

The Bhakti movement, which swept South India from the 7th century onwards, emphasised personal devotion to deities through poetry, music, and dance. Brahmins, with their access to education and Sanskritic traditions, played a leading role in this movement, using music and dance as vehicles for spiritual expression and community identity.

As Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam gained prestige, mastery of these arts became a symbol of social status among Tamil Brahmins. The ability to sing or play an instrument or to perform classical dance was seen as a marker of refinement, education, and cultural capital. Families took pride in their children’s artistic accomplishments, which were showcased during family gatherings, religious festivals, and community events.

The rise of music “sabhas” (cultural organisations) in urban centres provided platforms for performances and further cemented the association of these arts with Tamil Brahmin identity. Participation in these sabhas, both as performers and as audience members, became a way for families to assert their place in the social hierarchy and maintain connections within the community.

For many Tamil Brahmin families, enrolling children in music or dance classes is a way to honour their heritage and ensure the continuity of tradition. Parents, often themselves trained in these arts, see it as their responsibility to pass on this legacy to the next generation. In Tamil Brahmin culture, music and dance are not just artistic pursuits but acts of devotion. Many compositions in Carnatic music are devotional hymns, and Bharatanatyam originated as a form of temple worship. Learning these arts is seen as a way to connect with the divine, cultivate discipline, and develop a sense of humility and reverence.

Research and anecdotal evidence suggest that children who begin learning music or dance at a young age develop better memory, concentration, and coordination. The structured practice of swaras (notes), talas (rhythms), and choreography enhances cognitive abilities and fosters discipline. Stage performances, which are an integral part of music and dance training, help children overcome stage fright, build confidence, and learn to express themselves creatively. These skills are valued not just in the arts but in academic and professional spheres as well.

Growing up in the Bombay of the seventies and eighties, it was very common for most young girls and boys in our area to learn music or dance, or sometimes, even both. In my family, I leaned toward music while my sister chose to learn dance. I learned music in two stages. The first time I was probably 5-6 years old, and as all young girls were wont to do, my mother put me in a music class next to my home. This was a centre of Carnatic music, but after about 1.5 years, I wanted out. So I quit. But the seeds were sown, and slowly over the years, I started getting interested in music, and at about the age of 12-13, I restarted my music journey. This time, I learned from an independent teacher close to home. This time, I lasted about three years, and when I reached class 10, I dropped out again because of the demands of school.

My sister was interested in dance, and so she was enrolled on a Bharatanatyam class conducted by an independent teacher who taught many girls in our area. She learned this art for about 4-5 years, from the age of about 6-7 until she too dropped out because of the demands of school, extracurricular activities, and tuition.

I have always loved music, and I am someone who is constantly singing, irrespective of the genre. So when GG and BB were young, I also enrolled them in a local Carnatic music class. GG also chose to learn dance, but in her case, she learned classical ballet. GG has been consistent with going to music class since she started around the age of 7. Even during her PSLE and O-level years, she didn’t stop, as, according to her, this was her stress relief. BB, on the other hand, stopped learning music when he hit puberty and his voice broke. But he has a very good voice and is a great singer. In secondary school, when he was about 13-14, they had a music show in school, and he was the lead singer for the band that he and his friends came up with. He was so good that the day after, his school principal stopped him in the corridor to compliment him on his singing.

So that’s our music journey! It was nice walking down memory lane, remembering all the memories.

Mumbai Memories: The Ambi Phenomenon

Posted on March 24, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

All his life, even today in fact, my father has been called ‘Ambi’ by his family and neighbours. So much so that when I was younger, I used to think this was his name. Why? In Tamil Brahmin culture, the term ‘Ambi’ has traditionally been used to refer to the oldest son in a family, a title that carries with it a sense of affection and respect.

The Tamil Brahmin community is known for its rich cultural heritage and adherence to traditional practices. The term ‘Ambi’ likely derives from the word “Amba,” which means mother or goddess in Sanskrit, signifying a connection to nurturing and familial roles. In many families, the firstborn son would be affectionately called ‘Ambi,’ symbolising his position as the primary heir and caretaker within the family unit.

Historically, Tamil Brahmin families have followed strict naming conventions. The firstborn son is often named after his paternal grandfather, while subsequent children may receive names based on familial traditions or characteristics. This practice not only preserves lineage but also reinforces social structures within the community.

The title ‘Ambi’ has implications beyond mere nomenclature; it embodies a set of expectations and responsibilities. As the eldest son, the Ambi is often seen as a leader within the family. He is expected to uphold family traditions, participate in religious rituals, and act as a mediator during disputes. This role is particularly significant in joint family systems common among Tamil Brahmins, where multiple generations live together under one roof.

In many households, the Ambi is also viewed as a bridge between the older and younger generations. He often helps younger siblings navigate societal expectations while maintaining respect for traditional values. This dynamic fosters a sense of unity within families, as the Ambi becomes a central figure around whom family gatherings revolve.

My father, though born to the middle son, was the oldest son of his generation. There were girls born before him, but none of his uncles or aunts had any sons until he was born. So he was the designated ‘Ambi’ in his family. Not only did his extended family call him Ambi, but he was also known as Ambi to the tambram residents in our building. Unfortunately, this practice is now hardly being used. If it were, both S and BB would also be Ambis as they both are the oldest boys in their generation.

The cultural significance of ‘Ambi’ extends into various facets of Tamil Brahmin life. The title signifies love and respect from both parents and relatives. It is not uncommon for children to refer to their uncles or older male relatives as ‘Ambi,’ emphasising the term’s affectionate connotation. Being an Ambi can enhance one’s status among peers within social gatherings. It often comes with expectations of leadership in community events or family functions. The name carries with it a sense of legacy. Many families have multiple generations with members named Ambi or variations thereof (like Chinnambi for younger siblings), showcasing how this tradition persists through time.

Today, with increasing numbers of nuclear families replacing joint family systems, the role of an Ambi may hold a different weight than it once did. However, many still find comfort in these traditional titles as they navigate their identities in a rapidly changing world.

The phenomenon of calling the eldest boy ‘Ambi’ in Tamil Brahmin families encapsulates much more than just a name; it represents deep-rooted cultural values that emphasise respect, responsibility, and familial unity. While modern influences may alter its usage or significance over time, the essence of what it means to be an Ambi remains an integral part of Tamil Brahmin identity.

For future generations, it will be interesting to see how this tradition adapts while still honouring its historical roots. The enduring affection associated with ‘Ambi’ serves as a reminder of the importance of family ties and cultural heritage in shaping individual identities within this vibrant community.

Mumbai Memories: The Lost Art of Letter Writing

Posted on February 17, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

When was the last time you either wrote a letter to someone or received a letter from someone? I haven’t received one or written one in decades. The only letters I receive these days are bills or notices. But this is the digital age where everyone connects with others online or virtually.

The practice of letter writing dates back to ancient civilisations. The earliest known letters were written on clay tablets in Mesopotamia around 2500 BCE. These early communications were primarily administrative or commercial in nature. As societies evolved, so did the form and function of letters. In ancient Rome, letters became a vital tool for personal communication among the elite. Figures like Cicero and Pliny the Younger wrote extensively, using letters to convey thoughts, share news, and maintain relationships across distances. The invention of the printing press in the 15th century further revolutionized letter writing by making writing materials more accessible.

The 18th and 19th centuries marked the golden age of letter writing. This period saw a flourishing of epistolary literature, where novels were crafted in letter form, allowing authors to explore characters’ inner thoughts and emotions intimately. Famous works such as Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” and Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” utilised this format effectively.

During this time, letters became essential for maintaining long-distance relationships. People would pour their hearts into beautifully crafted missives, often adorned with elaborate stationery. The art of penmanship was highly regarded, with individuals taking pride in their handwriting styles.

The advent of the internet and mobile technology has drastically altered how we communicate. Emails emerged in the 1990s as a faster alternative to traditional mail, quickly gaining popularity for both personal and professional correspondence. Social media platforms further accelerated this shift by enabling real-time communication. As a result, the frequency of letter writing has diminished significantly. The convenience of texting and emailing has led many to view letter writing as outdated or unnecessarily time-consuming. The fast-paced nature of modern life has also contributed to a decline in letter writing. People often prioritise efficiency over thoughtfulness; quick messages have replaced carefully considered letters. The younger generations who have grown up with digital communication may not fully appreciate the emotional depth that a handwritten letter can convey.

Growing up, my grandfather, tatha was a prolific letter writer and maintained correspondence with many relatives and friends across India and the world. Tatha was very old school, a product of colonial education and a very proper person. He is the sort of person who would dress up for meals and would insist on the proper mealtime etiquette at all times. From the time my sister and I were toddlers, he would insist on speaking with us only in English and that too in proper British English. That is why both of us have a fairly good grasp of the language.

My earliest memories are of him pounding away letters to family and friends on his typewriter. In those days, domestic letters would come as a blue inland letter. Very rarely, you would see people writing on paper and sending it in an envelope. And you had to write within the space provided. The postman would come to our home in the early afternoon and as soon as he received a letter, he would read it and if it was also meant for my grandmother, ammama, he would share it with her and then start composing a reply on his typewriter. This would be repeated for every letter he received. He would not take more than 24 hours to reply and would have a ready stock of inland letters, paper, envelopes and stamps. This continued even after he retired and moved to Bangalore. From Bangalore, we also became the recipient of regular letters from him and ammama.

My mother was the letter writer in our family and would reply to tatha and ammama with my sister and me writing a few lines at the end, squeezing in as much as we could in the meagre space we got. She is the oldest of four sisters and when we were young, two of her sisters lived in the Middle East. So her correspondence with her sisters was through aerogrammes, Also known as an air letter, an aerogramme was a lightweight, foldable, gummed paper that functioned as both the letter and the envelope. Again, you had to write within the space provided and squeeze in everything you wanted to share with them. Some people even added physical photos inside the aerogramme.

I too had a period when I wrote a lot of letters. That was my penpal phase when I used to correspond with a few people across the country. That lasted perhaps for about six months when I was about 17-18 and whittled down to one penpal to whom I wrote until both of us got married. I recently reconnected with her and it was good to go back to old friendships. Of course, today we talk on Whatsapp, and sometimes I miss getting special paper and envelopes and sitting down to write a long letter to her telling her all about what happened in life since the last letter. Ah, memories!

After reading this post, if you have the urge to write a letter to someone, remember that writing letters can also provide therapeutic benefits. The act of putting pen to paper allows one to articulate their thoughts and feelings more deeply than they might in a text message or email. This process can be particularly beneficial during times of stress or grief, offering an outlet for reflection and emotional processing. Studies have shown that expressive writing can improve mental health by reducing anxiety and enhancing overall well-being. Crafting letters, whether to loved ones or even to oneself, can serve as a form of self-care that promotes mindfulness and emotional clarity.

In our fast-paced digital world, the lost art of letter writing offers an opportunity for deeper connections and meaningful communication. While technology continues to shape how we interact, embracing handwritten correspondence allows us to slow down and reflect on our thoughts and emotions.

Memories and Such

Memories of a very ordinary life

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