Half and half

Half in the sun, and half in the shade. And the cows doing the same as well. This is certainly within the limits of Chennai city; don't let the cows fool you into thinking otherwise.

It is common practice in Chennai to have at least a shrine, if not a temple itself, for Vinayagar at the top of the 'T' where two streets intersect. The temple at this intersection of Vellala Street and Audiappa Street (from which we are approaching the temple) is dedicated to Karpaga Vinayagar. 

There is nothing remarkable about this temple. It is a recent one and is pretty much like hundreds of other temples in the city. Just that the half-light on it made it look interesting, that's all!

Not all there

The entrance to the in-patients sections of the Institute of Mental Health (IMH) at Kilpauk is rather forbidding, being flanked by two rather high walls and guarded by a gate with spikes sticking out on the top. In contrast, the out-patient services wing seems to almost invite you inside. The gates are wide open, the walls are just about waist-high and there are no security guards or "Visiting Hours" boards up there. 

The out-patient block is relatively new, having come up in 1971. But the IMH itself is over 200 years old, by the official reckoning. IMH's website traces its beginning to an asylum that was caring for 20 patients sometime in 1794. Situated in Purasawakkam, it was under the charge of the East India Company and the asylum was placed under the charge of Valentine Connolly, the company surgeon. As with many other such 'charges' handed over to officers of the East India Company, this was another way to make money. Connolly, when the time came for him to move to England, sold the practice, buildings and all (even though they were not his, but merely leased for 20 years) to Maurice Fitzgerald. Dr. Fitzgerald, in his turn, made money by selling the asylum to Dr. J. Dalton. Dr. Dalton went about enhancing the value of his purchase. He rebuilt some of the premises and expanded them to accommodate over 50 patients. But he probably got too greedy, for when he was looking to flog the place - which, by then, had come to be known as "Dalton's Mad Hospital" - the government medical board took it over. But it continued to be run more as private enterprise than as a state service, until 1860s. 

In 1867, the Madras Presidency sanctioned construction of the Madras Lunatic Asylum. The site identified was Locock's Garden, in what is Kilpauk today. Construction took four years and on May 15, 1871, the Madras Lunatic Asylum started functioning in its new premises, with 145 patients. Since then, it has grown - and assumed various names, in keeping with the sensibilities of the periods - to its current position as a medical institute of significance. Attached to the Madras Medical College, the IMH offers Post-Graduate courses in Psychiatry, and cares for about 1800 patients, making it the second largest such facility in the country. There was a time, in the 1980s, when "Kilpauk case" referred to the target's feeble mind; I haven't heard the phrase for a long while!

The good doctor

It was 1957 and the 'Asian Flu' had begun to spread out from China, where it had originated. Memories of the Spanish Flu of 1918 were quite fresh; when a second wave of the Asian Flu began in 1958, it caused general panic in the regions it struck. Madras was not immune to it and hundreds in the city fell ill and the doctors had a field day, trying out all kinds of concoctions on suffering patients. Each of them had his own presciption, in all probably mixed up by a loyal 'compounder', jealously guarded and claiming greater efficacy than that of competitors. It is not surprising that all these doctors raised a hue and cry when, in an interview to a popular weekly, Dr. Guruswamy Mudaliar suggested that the tablet 'Elkosin' was probably the best cure for the raging 'flu. They claimed that Dr. Guruswamy had violated medical ethics by naming a specific brand.

Their alarm was well-founded. Dr. Guruswamy had made his reputation by keeping his mouth shut, listening to his patients, relying on 'percussion diagnosis' even where it was not traditionally used. Though well off, he was modest and frugal; and yet, Dr. Guruswamy would never treat anyone, no matter how poor, without a fee, because he was convinced that if anything was free, it was without value. His brilliance in medicine meant that he could not be denied a full professorship at the Madras Medical College - and so he became the first Indian to hold the post of Professor of Medicine, in the early 1920s. This was the man who had been interviewed during the 'flu epidemic and had voiced his opinion on the mode of treatment. According to him, the service of humanity overruled the ethics of the profession in this situation.

Dr Guruswamy died that same year, 78 years old and still capable of rattling the 'modern' doctors of his time. When a bridge was built near where he lived in Kilpauk, there was only name that could be given to it - a name that it continues to bear today!