I HAVE been spending time in India and even though I can’t speak Tamil, its mellifluousness is a part of my childhood memories, along with black-and-white MG Ramachandran movies, dosai, sambar and coconut chutney.
So when I began my travels, I knew that I had to start in the south, in the historic heartland of the Cholas, only to discover to my disappointment that the veshti (dhoti) had long been supplanted by stretch jeans and chinos.
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