Hotel Temple City, Family Veg Restaurant

By Olive Badrinath ‘24, American College Fellow 2025-2027

There comes a time in every recent Madurai Fellow’s life when one inevitably gets absorbed into the world of Hotel Temple City, Family Veg Restaurant. It’s a sticky phenomenon much like when mitochondria first met cells: separate, and then at once, bound forever. And Madurai is so old, it was probably there for that ancient union, too.

I first saw its faux-wood veranda across VP Rathinasamy Nadar Road—before I knew it as PT Rajan Road and long before I knew it was actually VP Rathinasamy Nadar Road—on my second day in Madurai. I had just stepped out of the Reliance SMART Bazaar Superstore while waiting for my Senior Fellow Caris to emerge. Unfortunately, I had already broken the one rule I set for myself only one week prior about moving to Madurai: Do not panic.

While my layover in Frankfurt dragged on, I had settled on this one rule. It felt important: part of the paradigm of my father telling me “take a deep breath” for as long as I could remember; and notably, achievable, for I had become somewhat good at not panicking. This was a skill I had especially honed during many cut-throat incidents trying to convince and demonstrate to forty outraged three-year-olds how and why to put on gloves during my time as a preschool teacher after graduating. If anyone could move to Madurai, it was Miss Olive.

But in the Reliance SMART, as my wheely basket got stuck between its useless, already-jammed wheels, a mountain of rice bags, and the clatter of forever-on-sale tiffins, I felt my legs give up. Why keep pulling the broken wheely basket anyway? The lights flickered and the already-incoherent background music was interrupted by some shrill buzzing every seven seconds.

Unable to pinpoint exactly what was bothering me, I was left with what seemed like a major concern: Who decided to make it so impossible to move around in a grocery store? Worse yet: Why am I so intensely bothered about my grocery store mobility? Which inevitably prompted an even more logical follow-up question: What on earth is wrong with me?

My coping involved purchasing a giant jar of peanut butter, a mop I immediately regretted buying, and some sugar-free granola that Caris kindly recommended and retrieved for me. So there I stood on VP Rathinasamy Nadar Road, humbled by my effortless descent into the world of grocery store neuroses not even twenty-four hours into my new life. There I stood, wedged between the August heat and forever din of Bibi Kulam, while I aimlessly gazed across the road at the Temple City. And there I stood, almost-panicking but importantly, not-yet-panicking.

At that time, Temple City was almost the aesthetic antithesis to Reliance SMART (as far as VP Rathinasamy Nadar Road was concerned). With its open exterior, I watched people float in for tea and dosai. There were the AC room diners, uncles sitting outside waiting for parcel orders, and children lifted up to wash their hands, payals jingling as they ran back to the family table. It would be another week or so until my first visit, but in contrast to Reliance SMART that Saturday morning, Temple City seemed infinitely more pleasant.

But before haunting Temple City and after my Reliance SMART incident, there were a few weeks that seemed to set my trajectory apart. My whole life had seemed like a series of Yeses that had led me to the ultimate, almost-mythical Yes to living in Madurai—following in the bold footsteps of my grandparents and parents to decide to move far, far away. I was going back to the very state my grandparents had run away from sixty years prior, going on my own accord, and closing the growing gap between my Indian and American families. This was an exciting story to tell—it felt like destiny. And after months of preschool teaching, eagerly anticipating my move to India, my first weeks in Madurai were incredible. I didn’t feel homesick, enjoyed the limelight in my newfound D-list Madurai celebrity-dom, chaperoned school trips to Kerala and Kodaikanal, gazed across the Vaigai in awe at sunset, and delighted in wearing my Chicago-bought sarees to work. I thrived in the challenges of novelty. Importantly, in my moments of doubt, I could easily recall that my family were just a train ride away in Bangalore. There were places where my phone automatically connected to the WiFi, and where my aunties eagerly awaited to split custard apples with me over “Who Wants to Be A Millionaire India”. Through both monsoons and the beginning of winter, Temple City became a staple of my Madurai life. Whether dining with my friends Theo and Hari eight times in three days; running into my boss, Joel, and his entire family; or coming in before the gym for a solo coffee, I kept going to TC. There were many more months to try new places. The question of where to have breakfast, lunch, tea, or dinner had become completely obsolete: swallowed whole by Temple City.

By the time winter break came, I felt like a zombie. Something was off, and I couldn’t explain to anyone how every tiny, predictable thing had become an insurmountable task. As I became more accustomed to Madurai life, I watched myself shut down and grow numb almost as slowly as I had begun my residency at Temple City Hotel. I felt like I had chosen the ultimate boldest thing to do, so what more was there? Wasn’t everything supposed to be endlessly interesting just by existing in the same place as I was?

What I loved about preschool was the novelty that came with each day. A student would have progressed with their reading skills or have gotten better at zipping up their jacket. Everything was new by getting to watch their experiences of newness. I realized that I hadn’t scaffolded this necessity into my Madurai life, and was actually slowly running myself down by choosing the same things over and over again. At the same time, I had neglected the wonder that came along with the novelty. There had, at some point, come a time—and I hadn’t noticed—that I didn’t revel as much in breezy auto rides or fruit stalls, The Sangam Academy ten minutes away, or the late-night butter bun spot. After being exposed to constant stimuli for months, I had expected I’d feel comfortable, not bored. Living in Madurai forced me to confront who I was through my thoughts and actions at a microscopic level. When I started asking myself why I felt bored, a repetitive stream of decisions flooded my mind. Instead of creating routine, I had limited myself from fully exploring life in Madurai.

Boldness can come in smaller packages: reading Tolkappiyam, talking to new students at the canteen, or finally making it out to Yanaimalai. Perhaps, I can also hold my occasional boredom as a piece of pride. A reminder that I’m now part of the fabric of American College and Madurai. It’s a testament to time spent living.

Still, as I push myself to be bolder, my heart still lives at the hand wash in Temple City: where I can check my hair and dupatta in the mirror, blow a piece of garlic out of my nose after laughing too hard, and return to my table: eager to reunite with whomever is there and my favorite cup of tea Madurai has to offer.

The Billing Counter at TC