Dear Manager,
I spent three hours deleting any plans I had of being a functional adult on Friday. The week before the XV Tour arrived in Melbourne, artificial intelligence was dragged into service. Parking was discussed. Weather forecasts were analysed. Power bank policies were investigated. At least one person asked a chatbot whether a leather jacket counted as an outfit (me).
Will he sing Hukum?
Will Jonita Gandhi be there?
Will Kanave Kanave ruin my emotional stability?
Dear ChatGPT. Dear Gemini. Dear Claude. Is Anirudh the best?
The robots tried their hardest. They produced balanced answers. Nuanced answers. Thoughtful answers. Then 13,000 people arrived at John Cain Arena on June 4, and collectively said, “That’s cute.” By the time Hukum hit, the debate had ended.
Adulthood lasted exactly four seconds
The opening notes of Raga of Revenge hadn’t even finished echoing around the arena before every carefully constructed adult personality dissolved. That’s the funny thing about Anirudh fans. We spend all year behaving like sensible members of society. We attend lectures. We answer emails. We discuss career plans. Some of us even have LinkedIn profiles. Then Anirudh walks onto a stage and suddenly we’re screaming before he’s reached the microphone. The crowd fascinated me. Outside the arena, everyone arrived carrying their own carefully maintained identity. There were gym enthusiasts, med students, finance bros, girls in leather jackets, couples on date night and at least a few people who had clearly spent longer planning their outfit than their route to the venue. I am including myself in that category. Then the music started and most of that information became completely useless. Aaya Sher arrived and the crowd reacted like a beloved relative had returned from overseas carrying gifts. Then Anirudh sang it again later and received exactly the same reaction. Nobody questioned this. Some songs deserve an encore. Aaya Sher deserves diplomatic immunity.
The Melbourne convention of emotional support ft. Anirudh
Nobody arrives at an Anirudh concert carrying the same memories. The Rajini fans were waiting for Hukum. The instagram crowd had emotionally invested in Chuttamalle. The Bollywood crowd wanted Chaleya. The romantics knew Kanave Kanave was sitting somewhere in the setlist like a pending emotional invoice. Then there were the Why This Kolaveri Di loyalists. That song has survived school buses, tuition centres, first crushes, first heartbreaks, Instagram, TikTok and every terrible cover version humanity has inflicted upon it. Most songs get a moment. Kolaveri still clocks in for work. Fifteen years later, an arena full of people still knew every word. It was amusing to watch people get exposed by their favourite songs. People who had spent the evening looking cool and mysterious suddenly knew every lyric. People who claimed they were “just there for the atmosphere” developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of backing vocals.
Situationships receive fresh funding
Then came Kanave Kanave. John Cain Arena briefly transformed into an emotional archaeology site. Memories nobody had requested suddenly resurfaced. Exes returned. Situationships returned. Crushes returned. Somewhere in Melbourne, somebody definitely typed a name into Instagram’s search bar and then remembered they had self-respect. Hopefully. The couples looked delighted. The singles developed a sudden appreciation for architecture. The ceiling became fascinating. The floor became fascinating. The emergency exit signs delivered a career-best performance. Then Thangamey performed CPR on the atmosphere.
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Victoria temporarily joins Tamil Nadu
Just when the arena had settled into a comfortable rhythm of chaos, Jonita Gandhi walked on stage and reminded everyone why she remains unfairly cool. Don’u Don’u Don’u landed exactly as it was supposed to. Loud, playful and impossible to resist. That night all the gods were present in spirit. Thalaivar, Thalapathy, Andavar and Kadavul. No further context will be provided. Those who know, know. Every familiar intro produced another wave of hysteria. The song Chennai city gangsta became Melbourne city gangsta. Later, Anirudh Ravichander delivered the line. “You know what, Melbourne? I’m a Chennai City Gangsta.” For one beautiful moment, Victoria became an overseas district of Tamil Nadu.
Unfortunately, society continued. Friday morning arrived carrying emails, assignments, and consequences. Across Melbourne, people opened laptops, joined meetings, and stared blankly into the middle distance. Physically, they were present. Spiritually, a concerning percentage of the city was still at Aaya Sher.
Dear Manager, I opened my laptop on Friday. That’s all I can confidently confirm.
Regards,
Sharanya
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