Legend of the pole

To the east of the St Thomas Basilica, just as the ground drops off to the beach, stands this wooden pole. Legend has it that this is a splinter of a colossal tree that fell across the Adyar river, causing a flood in the neighbourhood. The king (yes, this legend goes back a couple of millennia) tried sending his elephants and mahouts to move the log; no success. It was then that the wandering holy man threw his girdle around the tree trunk and yanked it out to the shore. That was St Thomas and the log has now whittled down to this pole. 

It is a nice story, but there is no way to authenticate it. The legend of Thomas is an article of faith and this wooden pole is going the same way. A more plausible explanation of this wooden structure is that it is all that remains of a flag pole from the time that the Portuguese occupied the town of San Thome. The town's fortifications extended to the beach and this flag pole would have stood on the eastern bastion. 

In 2004, when the tsunami struck the Marina, the waters did not rise up to where the pole stood. There can be many explanations for that (significantly, the pole is at a reasonably high elevation from the shore and the tsunami fizzed out at this spot), but there is only one that the faithful believe - that this pole was the only factor that stood between San Thome and the tsunami!

Holy hillock

If the Portuguese had called St Thomas Mount "El Grande Monti", it is reasonable to assume that there must have been an "El Pouca Monti" as well, somewhere. You don't have to search too hard for it, because the English equivalent of that phrase has been translated into Tamizh as well. Little Mount, or சின்னமலை, was what it is called, and it is on the wrong side of the river Adyar from St Thomas Mount. 

But the Little Mount is also associated with St Thomas, perhaps even more strongly than the larger one is. It was in a grotto in this little hillock by the river that Thomas Didymus took refuge in, when the shores of Meliapore became too warm for him, figuratively. The entrance to the grotto is now ensconced in the church you see in the centre. Built by the Portuguese in 1551, it is known as the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. In 1711, an adjunct was constructed; When the 19th century of St Thomas' martyrdom was observed in 1971, the adjunct shrine was expanded and modified into a church by itself, called the Church of Our Lady of Health. 

There are several legends of Thomas around this place. The grotto has a tiny exit on the other side, besides which there appears an imprint of a palm, which is believed to be St. Thomas'. A hop-step away from that exit, on a flat piece of rock, is a large, foot-shaped discolouration, which is believed to be a footprint of the saint. There is also the 'bleeding cross', said to have been carved in the rock by Thomas, and, where he smote the rock with his stick, there appeared a spring; that trickle of water continues to run today and is considered to have curative powers. With so much of myth around it, no wonder this place needs to be honoured with two churches, rather than just one!

Chariot procession

Many translations of such events refer to them as "Car" festivals. Yes, it is a vehicle no doubt, but I prefer to translate தேர் as 'chariot' rather than a pedestrian 'car'. This one is part of the Bhramotsavam of Sri Narasimha Swamy at Triplicane's Parthasarathy Swamy Temple. On the seventh day of the Bhramotsavam, the decorated chariot is taken around the streets encircling the temple, pulled by devotees. 

Ahead of the chariot is the phalanx of mamas, in traditional Iyengar garb, reciting verses from the நாலாயிரத் திவ்வியப் பிரபந்தம் (Nalayira divya prabandham, four thousand divine codices). Ahead of them, maamis rush to put the final flourishes on their kolams before the கோஷ்டி reaches their doorstep. 

It is a formidable sight, with the chariot being pulled at what can be considered break-back speed trying to catch up with the chanting crowd, while devotees prostrate before the கோஷ்டி or before the chariot, falling down and getting up at speed, without getting in the way of others. In times gone by, this procession would probably have taken half-a-day, stopping at several points along their short way. Today, it was over in a relative flash, within 90 minutes or so; that must have been a very rapid recitation of the divya prabandham!

Market model

In the evening of May 30, 1985, the city of Madras heard about a fire near the Central Station. By the next morning, the fire, supposedly set off by an electrical fault, had completely gutted an 85-year old icon of the city. More than 20 fire engines, including Simon Snorkel, had battled the blaze, but the combination of paper, cloth, vinyl and plastic made sure that the building was beyond salvage. Thus ended Moore Market, the go-to place for old books, records, clothes, pet supplies, exotic meats and pretty much everything that anyone in Madras might have a fancy for. 

In the closing years of the 19th century, an organized market for groceries, meats and other items was a dire need for the city's European (and westernized) residents. An earlier market, on Popham's Broadway, had been long marked down as being unsanitary, but no concrete action on an alternate had been taken. Enter Sir George Montgomerie John Moore, who had taken over as President of the Corporation of Madras in 1886. Though he had begun addressing this requirement in the early days of his term, the selection of a suitable site - which turned out to be a corner of the Peoples' Park near the Central Station - and clearing it up (there was a thriving Gujili Bajaar (okay, Guzili Bazaar), a grey market of second-hand, counterfeit and purloined goods operating there) took a while and it was only in 1898 that the foundation stone was laid.

Sir George was clear that apart from its functional requirements, the new market should aesthetically blend its architecture with its neighbours, Central Station to the east and Victoria Public Hall to the west. The architect chosen was R.E.Ellis and the market was built by A. Subramania Iyer. In 1890, the Governor of Madras, Sir Arthur Havelock opened the Moore Market for trade. Over the course of the 20th century, the Moore Market served the needs of a variety of Madras' citizenry, until other shopping options came up in the 1970s and 80s. Yet, Moore Market held on. The bookshops were a bibliophile's paradise and many other things beside. With that fire on a summer night, a part of Madras' soul was extinguished. 

There are many claimants to the name today. The Allikulam (அல்லி குளம் - Lily Pond) complex tries to pass off as today's Moore Market. There is a digital version somewhere. The Railways call their office complex (built where the market stood) the "Moore Market Complex (MMC)". But the original building can be seen in this faithful replica, right in the middle of the parking complex outside the Railways' MMC. The model is quite exquisite, but the way it is neglected forces one to thinking that it might meet the same fate as its original!

Special agency school

In May 1872, Lord Hobart took over as Governor of Madras. Lady Hobart and he were convinced that the best way for impoverished Muslim families to improve their lot was to accept Western education. To this end, Lord Hobart established the 'special agency' system, whereby schools were to be established especially for Muslims. Spurred by the new Governor's enthusiasm, a school for girls was set up at Royapettah. The enthusiasm was infectious and within a short time, the school had outgrown its first location and had to encroach on to the grounds nearby. 

Humayun Jah Bahadur, a descendent of Tipu Sultan, came forward and gave over Shah Sawar Jung Bagh, his property on Whites Road to house the school. Lady Hobart herself chipped in with a personal donation of Rs.18,000 to the school. Her support for this institution would have helped it take great strides ahead; unfortunately, that was not to be. Lord Hobart died quite suddenly in 1875 and his widow had to return to England.

The school went ahead, however. Having started off as a primary school, it was very quickly raised to high school status. Hindustani and Tamizh were added to the curriculum, in addition to Urdu and English. Well into the 20th century, around 1945, these premises were home to a women's college, with 75% of seats reserved for Muslim women. Though the college was shifted out (and its administration changed hands) later, the school still functions from its Whites Road premises. Run by the state government, the Lord and Lady who helped set it up are remembered in its name - the Government Hobart Higher Secondary School for Muslim Girls!

Cricket, lovely cricket

Today, India start their 5-test series in England. In keeping with that, here is a glimpse into the M.A.Chidambaram stadium at Chepauk, seen as the MRTS train passes it. 

Keeping fingers crossed on the Indian team wresting the Pataudi Trophy back from England!

New building

That's the new building of the Madras Medical College. Construction was completed last year and it was then waiting for its classrooms to be furnished. Surely all of that would have been done - I hope it is ready to see students at least in the new academic year coming up.

Do you remember what was here earlier? This!

Local mosque

Surely there is a more formal name for this mosque than just calling it Periamet Mosque. That's the locality where it is and so that is what it is called. Set up by leather traders sometime in the mid-19th century, the mosque has gone through a couple of rounds of restoration. 

Best is that you don't try to address it by its formal name, even if there is one. Chances are, nobody will know what you are talking about!

Seats

The People's Park certainly has a lot of space for people to sit and enjoy the greenery. If you click on the picture (or open it in a separate tab), you will notice a half-kneeling gentleman, bare torso, tiara, twirled moustache and all. That was probably the way they sat in the royal gardens of a long time ago.

And then there is the man in the blue suit, sitting on cushioned chair, appearing to be a person of some importance. (He was that, but more about him in a later post). And then, there is the seat for us, the aam aadmi, the wrought-iron bench that we will have to share with our friends. 

We can also choose to sit on one of the several steps that are found at various spots around the park; best of all, we could sit on the grass of a pleasant afternoon!

Hooded snake cannonball

This is the flower of the Cannonball tree (Couroupita guianensis), with the stamen stem curving over itself to resemble a serpent's hood. The curve also protects the fertile stamens (at the base) while showing off the fodder staminodes to their best advantage. That's how it attracts the pollinators - mainly carpenter bees.  

The fruit - which gives the tree its name - is a large, round, woody ball. It takes anything from 12 to 18 months for the fruit to be fully ripe. In that time, it makes for a wonderful sight, with several of the cannonballs hanging to the main trunk. The ripe fruit falls off and bursts open, releasing 300 seeds on the average. Small animals take over the task of dispersing them. 

The shape of the flower gives it the local name nagalingam, the snake flower. it is not a tree that is common in private gardens. Most of the specimens are found in public gardens or in temple courtyards. This one is a little bit of both - the gardens of the Theosophical Society!

Double action

This needs two photographs, because I cannot otherwise explain this. Even now, with the pictorial evidence, I can only prove that it is so, without any pointers to the what or why of it. Or for that matter, how is it that a narrow street starts off as 'Labon Lane' and within a couple of hundred metres, adds one letter and substitutes another, before ending up as 'Lapond Lane'. 

This lane is in Chintadripet, where we have seen the office of the Anti-Vice Squad earlier. And it emerges into Laban Street, at one end of which is the Chintadripet Police Station. These clues lead one to look for a Laban / Labon / Lapond among the police officers of Madras. That search is also more or less futile, but we go a step further knowing that there was indeed a Lafond (or, as Google Maps says, Laffond) who was a Deputy Commissioner of Police in the early 1860s. 

But there is not much more that is known of him. And so, we are still stuck with those questions of 'what did he do' or 'why this man'. It will be very interesting if someone comes up with the story of a Labon now!

Small beginning

Kalakshetra was founded in 1936, in part as an extension of the founders' belief that Theosophy should be extended through an academy for training students in traditional arts. With all the founders belonging to the Theosophical Society at Adyar, it was the easiest thing for them to have the academy function out of the Society's premises. One of the members of the academy, Pandit Subramania Sastri, suggested the name "Kalakshetra", meaning "Holy place of the Arts". 

The academy grew. Rukmini Devi Arundale, the prime mover behind the academy, had personally trained many of the initial batches of students and continued to drive the courses at the academy for many years. In 1951, the academy began developing its own premises at Thiruvanmiyur, a short distance away from the Theosophical Society. Fittingly, the development started with the planting of a sapling from the great banyan of the Theosophical Society in the newly acquired land.

The land expanded to nearly 100 acres. The sapling has grown into a large tree. The academy has grown to become the Kalakshetra Foundation, bringing into its fold five distinct institutions - the College of Fine Arts, the Craft Education and Research Centre, the Besant Arundale Theosophical Senior Secondary and High Schools and the Besant Cultural Centre Hostel. In 1993, the Foundation was taken over by the Government of India and declared an institution of National Importance. Here's to the institution growing further and spreading wide, like the sapling seems to be doing!

No flying

You may be a Rolls-Royce. But if you are in Chennai, you could end up having to find a parking space tucked behind a water-tanker. 

No way I would park one like that - and I am sure you wouldn't, either!

Chennai branch

The halwa from Tirunelveli's Iruttukadai (Dark shop) is famous enough to merit its own geographical indicator, but then it is only one of the many shops in that town making and selling the eponymous sweet. There is no official account as to how the halwa originated. One version has it that the zamindar of Chokkampatti, when on a trip to Kasi, was bowled over by the taste of the halwa there. He hired some cooks - they were Rajputs, incidentally - to take over the kitchen at the Chokkampatti palace. A couple of generations later (probably), someone from the family thought of selling the halwa in Tirunelveli. 

The credit for actually selling the halwa in Tirunelveli goes to a lady named Lakshmi, who went around selling it door to door. Seeing the demand generated by her, Jegan Singh opened up the first exclusive halwa shop there. That was in 1882. And he spawned the cult of the Tirunelveli halwa. No one is sure about the number of shops in that city which sell the Tirunelveli halwa, but for a long while, it was not distributed beyond the city. We in Chennai would have to wait for a friend to bring it from its origins - and then, when it was distributed, there would be barely enough of it to stem the drooling.

But not any more. The halwais of Tirunelveli have spread out geographically. Many shops in Chennai stock the product, delivered fresh every day. But there are only a few which have set up a branch office in the city. Leading them, of course, is the originator of the halwa. Jegan Singh's store, Sri Lakshmi Vilas - named for the lady who began the selling - will give you the stuff from their exclusive outlet in West Mambalam. And it is not just any old Tirunelveli halwa; this one comes with the added descriptor, "Lala alva", declaring the authenticity of its lineage!

Well placed

Of course there is little that one can teach Kotler about the importance of Positioning. Even then, it was a bit of surprise to find a copy of his textbook on "Marketing Management" in a bucket of to-be-washed clothes. Stranger so because around the area this was found, there is no management institute. Nor was there anyone around to claim ownership of this book, or the clothes. 

Maybe it is the caretaker of the Kodanda Ramar temple opposite who is storing his worldly possessions here. Must be a man of learning - and discernement!

From above

I have written earlier about how Madras has a significant presence on the country's aviation map.

Here is a picture from the air, showing the old terminal on the right. 

From here to the stars

What connection does this school quadrangle - that is what it is, obviously - have to the NASA's Advanced X-ray Astrophysics Facility (AXAF)? The answer is quite short: Chandra. This is where the Nobel Laureate Subramanyan Chandrasekhar went to a formal school for the first time. Until his father was transferred to Madras (from Lahore), and for a little while after as well, Chandra was privately tutored. It was in 1922 that he was enrolled at the Hindu High School, Triplicane.

The school buildings are just the way they were in Chandra's time. And well before that, too. The buildings were inaugurated in 1898, even though the school, in different forms, had been functioning from much earlier. Chandra finished his schooling in 1925 and then went to college a short distance away - the Presidency College. In those days, college meant 5 years; in the final two years, Chandra "formed a friendship" with a Lalitha Doraiswamy, a college-mate one year his junior. She became his wife in 1936 and remained so throughout her life, being the "central facts" of Chandra's life - something he spoke about in his biographical on the Nobel Prize website. 

In 1998, three years after his passing away, NASA named its AXAF the "Chandra X-ray Observatory" in his honour. And that is how this quadrangle - where generations since have played, and then gone on to shine in their chosen fields - connects with something out there amidst the stars!

Cheap ad

If you had been to Chennai about 8 to 10 years ago, you would have been struck by the number of places carrying this man's advertisements. There was hardly a wall in the city that did not have the words "P. James Magic Show 9841072671" written on it, maybe several times over. Every part of the city carried these black letters, sprayed or painted on to the walls with a black-oxide-and-Fevicol mixture, which keeps the letters stuck on the walls for more  than a couple of monsoons. The city's residents probably did not take notice of them too much, but for a few years, they were the one thing about Chennai most visitors were intrigued by, thanks to their omnipresence.

James is a stage name. The man's real name is V. Kennedy; he took his father's - or was it his grandfather's? - name and made it his brand, one that is so ubiquitous that it featured as a question on one the editions of the Landmark Quiz. Kennedy claims that it took him almost 14 years of painting walls to achieve the kind of brand recognition that he has now.

And yet, I have not come across anyone who has seen a P. James performance. Some speculate that the man has passed on, and it is the junior who runs the show these days. The advertisements also appear to have become thinned down. Maybe there is some truth to it, after all. Like Phantom in the comic strip, P.James could also be immortal!

Ocean view

It does seem I am spending too much time behind bars these days. Of the wrong kind. Must do something about that!

Street house

I don't know if you have ever had the experience, but I have sensed two kinds of smells from houses that have been locked up for a long while. One kind is the stink of bat- and rat-droppings, mixed with the sharp staleness of food that has died and gone to hell. Add to that the musty wetness of water that has got to the heart of the timbers and you get the sense of decay the house faces.

There is another kind of locked-house-smell, one that I find extremely agreeable. Even if it has been locked up for long, the smell reminds of sunshine trapped in the rooms, running around trying to get out. Add to it the healthy warm smell of grains that fed everyone in the house and the love and care that was plastered into the walls, and you get that fragrance, which if I could bottle it, would make me a millionaire. 

This house on Sullivan Street in San Thome certainly smelled well. It has not seen residents for quite a few years, obviously. But it was certainly inviting, with two flights of low steps sweeping out like arms ready to embrace visitors, or even any of the passers-by!

Enclave

The name of the apartment complex was unique enough to take a second look at. Was it something to do with a religious sect? Or was it in memory of someone important? Turns out it was (is) neither. Zalawad was one of the princely states of Saurashtra. I have not been able to figure out what Zalawad was like. But the history of the integration of Saurashtra, post-independence, makes for interesting reading. 

Apparently, the geography of Saurashtra - or Kathiawar as it was known - makes for interesting reading. The region had fourteen 'salute' states, seventeen non-salute states and 191 other small states. Of the small states, 46 had an area of less than 2 square miles each. The smallest, Vejanoness, had an area of 0.29 sq.m, a population of 206 and an annual income of Rs.500. 

The state of Zalawad seems to have been somewhere in between these minuscule principalities and the salute states. The only map of Zalawad that I have been able to find is in Gujarati, which I cannot read. Maybe some of the neighbours from that region came together to Madras and began to stay together in this part of Vepery, and maybe their families continue to live together in this apartment complex!

Stately corner

Time marches on. Once upon a time, this corner building was the place to be seen at. For about 20 years, Hotel d'Angelis was the leading hotel in the city, boasting of running hot water (no, not the type where a boy runs with a bucket), electric fans, cold storage - all of it in the initial years of the 20th century. He also made sure that he pulled out all stops for his guests. Those coming in to Madras by ship or rail could make arrangements to have the 'hotel shuttle' meet them as they disembarked. That motor-bus could also be hired to take them around the city. 

Giacomo d'Angelis, the founder of this hotel, took a very active interest in running it. Despite having a manager ("an expert European manager") to run the hotel, the proprietor personally guaranteed that every need of their guests would be attended to. Such was the reputation they built - and maybe it was also the way the staff had been trained - that even after d'Angelis sold the hotel to Bosotto in 1930, it continued to be the go-to place. When the MCC team under Douglas Jardine visited India for a 3-test series in 1934, they bivouacked at the Hotel d'Angelis - and by all accounts, they had a rocking good time. 

Somehow, the hotel did not continue to keep up with the times. For longer than I can remember, the big signboard on this building had been that of Bata. Recently, that has been removed. Talk is that the building has been marked for demolition. With that, one more reminder of the Madras will disappear. Hopefully, whatever replaces it will preserve the memory of this corner and the Madras that was!

Nice place

If it is Chintadripet, it must be all bustle and action. That is the impression people would have about one of the most active sections of Chennai city. But going down a lane in the area, one is surprised by the quiet surroundings. The buildings are all old-world, appearing to be well past their diamond jubilees at least. Large trees, even if they are not so old, provide a lot of green cover not only to the buildings, but to the pedestrians as well.

In the midst of such surroundings, this house - that is what it seemed to be, at first look - does not appear to be out of place. It is only when you see the sign there that you are shaken out of your reverie. Anti-Vice Squad? Here? In such peaceful surroundings? Yes, this is where the Anti-Vice Squad of the Chennai City Police is housed. 

Maybe it should be in the past tense. After the inauguration of a new office for the Chennai Commissionerate, this Squad might have also shifted there. It might be good for them to continue in these surroundings, however; faced with the stench of vice in the course of their work, the police(wo)men could feel refreshed working in such a pleasant neighbourhood!

Main gate

It is not really the main gate, but for most of the workers of Simpson & Co Ltd, these are the gates through which they would enter their workplace. The firm is over 150 years old, having been established sometime in the 1840s. Arnold Wright, writing in 1914 about businesses in Madras, claims the year to be 1840 itself. After 170 years, that is a minor quibble, but more interesting is what Wright says about the range of its products. The firm was set up by A.F. Simpson, a Scotsman who came to Madras to ply his trade as a wheelwright. He expanded into harnesses, saddles, boots - all those things that riders may need - and then into coaches also. In a short span of 5 years, Simpson was able to make a name for his products in Madras city and moved from his initial premises on Poonamallee High Road to Mount Road. 

The products were of quite high quality and Simpson reached out to a clientele beyond Madras. The way he chose to get there was through London; it was, even in the 19th century, a preferred vacation spot for rich and famous Indians. Displaying (and advertising) his coaches at industrial exhibitions in London, he canvassed orders from his target demographic right there and supplied them from his works on Mount Road.

By the early 20th century, Simpson had passed on and the firm was being run by George Underhill Cuddon, who had joined the firm as a clerk in 1891. In 1914, the products, as described by Wright, included "carriages, motor-cars, or billiard-tables". However, sometime in the middle of the 20th century, Simpson & Co Ltd had become more specialized, as a manufacturer of diesel engines for various applications. In the 1980s, they attempted a joint venture with Ford to assemble trucks (or LCVs) but that was not successful. They continue to stick with the engines - and they look set to be doing it for another 170 years and more!

One, or many?

Spread over about 1.5 acres, this specimen of Ficus benghalensis is one of the largest in the country and maybe the oldest one as well. The Great Banyan of Kolkata and the Thimmamma Marrimanu at Anantapur cover a much greater area than this one, but it is very likely that this tree is much older than either of them. The Adyar aalamaram (Adyar banyan), as it is called, is supposedly over 450 years old, which if true would make it about 200 years older than the other giants. 

This tree is part of Huddleston Gardens, the seat of the Theosophical Society in Chennai. If it was to have a street address, it would be listed as Schwarz Avenue. That is because the avenue runs along the southern border of the tree's extent. On the other sides, there are no roads, just more vegetation. A fence marks the boundary; the banyan of course does not respect such confines and its branches have already arched over the road and put down aerial roots.

The main trunk of the tree was brought down by storm winds during a cyclone in 1989. Some effort was made to revive the trunk, but it was futile. The main trunk is gone, but the tree continues to live on. But that has prompted some to opine that the Adyar aalamaram cannot be considered a tree anymore, but should be a 'tree system'. Clearly, they are missing the woods for a tree!

Broken soldier

I will give you a clue. This is supposed to be a Roman soldier. At some point, he was flogging someone or dragging something along. And this is on a hillock close to the Marmalong bridge. 

Give up? Okay, I shall tell you now. It is - or was - part of a tableau in the precincts of the Little Mount Church in Saidapet. There is nothing else near it, so it must have been discarded. Or did he just desert the ranks?

Lease of life

The media have been all agog over a heart transplant operation performed in this hospital a couple of days ago. While the coordination between the hospitals involved and the Chennai City Traffic Police was indeed commendable, not much attention has yet been given to the framework that enabled it to come about. In the 20 years since the Transplantation of Human Organs (THO) Act, 1994 was passed, Tamil Nadu has led the country by many a mile in reaping the benefits of this Act. In 2012, over 40% of the donors (and the harvested organs) were from Tamil Nadu, giving it a donation rate of 1.15/million population (Punjab with 0.43 and Kerala with 0.36 were the nearest)

Chennai, of course, has been in the vanguard of this movement. In 1999, five hospitals in the city came together to create the Indian Network for Organ Sharing, under the MOHAN Foundation. The experience with this project was encouraging and the state government came into it in 2008, setting a clear process to support such sharing - the Cadaver Transplant Programme, which has become the point of reference for other states to implement similar programmes. 

Fortis Malar, pictured here, was where the transplant was carried out on Monday evening. But there are other hospitals, both private and government-run, that have carried out similar procedures as a matter of routine. The newsworthiness of Monday's transplant was the traffic management, to ensure that the heart was moved here from the donor hospital in double-quick time. But let us also take a moment to cheer the progress achieved in making such transplants routine!

Crown gopuram

Within the premises of the Ayodhya Mandapam in West Mambalam, there is a sanctum maintained by Sri Rama Samajam. And rising above that is this gopuram, quite clearly different from the others that one comes across in Chennai.

This is supposedly a replication of the crown of Sri Rama. And there is one other structure in Chennai that is topped by such a replica. Any idea which it is?

Cornerstone of church

Embedded into the side wall of the Emmanuel Methodist Church is this plaque, declaring that the corner stone was laid on 17th December 1878. The normal visitor would miss it, for it is not along a regular path. The security guard on duty however insisted that it had to be seen and so it was.

What the stone - acknowledged elsewhere by the church as its foundation stone - does not say is the story of how the church started off as a gleam in the eye of William Taylor. Taylor had arrived in India in 1870, after having toured a great number of countries over the previous seven years. He did not come to Madras with the intent of starting a Methodist Church. But he sensed that his approach as an Evangelist was not enough to overcome the lethargy of the local clergy and so decided to set up the Episcopal Church. Such energy was not unusual for Taylor. He had definite views on how churches in Asia and Africa should become self-sustaining and must be treated on par with the churches of the USA. This attitude put him in conflict with the Methodist mission board, who would rather have those recognized as missions, rather than churches. 

The church was renovated at the turn of the millennium. Though originally planned as minor repairs to the roofing, the effort grew to a complete renovation, replacing the original wooden trusses and expanding the seating capacity. It was probably at this time that The corner stone was actually moved around the corner!

Old, but clean

On the crest of this building, there are the letters OMC and a number that seems to be 1929. If they are clues to the history of this building, they are certainly very obtuse ones. The building itself is very regular, appearing to be a square as you come to it from the south and then, suddenly, shows off a hexagonal corner. By itself, that is not unusual. Several constructions from the early part of the 20th century had such corner rooms - Mithila on TTK Road is one that comes to mind. 

But this one is a mystery. There does not seem to be any reference to it in the public domain and I haven't been able to find anyone who has stories to tell about it. For as long as I can remember, it has housed a branch of the Garment Cleaners. And that is probably the proprietor looking out from the first floor window. Strangely, that is the only window that has bars across it.

Any leads to the history of this building are welcome!

Garden house

In the mid 1800-s, the start of the Great Choultry Plain was marked by a large garden, next to St George's Cathedral, belonging to the Madras Horticultural Society. This society was established in 1835 and may quite possibly have been inspired by the one that was established in Calcutta in 1820. Dr Robert Wight, the Scottish botanist who was the driving force behind the Society was certainly a man who got around. The Calcutta Monthly Journal for 1836 describes Dr Wight sending a dissertation on Joomlah Hill Rice to the Secretary of the Agri-Horticultural Society of India; that Journal also describes the General Meeting of the Madras Agricultural and Horticultural Society on October 8, 1836.

Strangely, the Calcutta institution did not take the Madras Society in its fold. There does not seem to be any one reason for this, but it could be due to the Governors of these cities trying to be one-up over the other. The Governor of Madras was the chief patron of the Society and he was probably loath to hand over control to his Calcutta counterpart. The 22-acre space given to the Society was probably well used by Dr Wight to conduct his experiments as well as to document the specimens that were collected from all over south India. Helping him in the documentation were 'native artists' Rungiah and Govindoo. Much of their work was shipped to England. The Royal Botanic Garden at Edinburgh has the works of Dr Wight and his artists in their collection.

When Cathedral Road was built, the Society's gardens were divided; the part on the south side was comparatively neglected and in 1962 was handed over to Krishna Rao, a restauranteur, who created the first drive-in restaurant in India. The title to the gardens were in dispute for a very long time; finally, sometime in 2008, the courts ruled in favour of the Government, which has now full control of the Agri-Horticultural Society. The drive-in closed in 2008 and was developed into the Semmozhi Poonga. The part on the north side of Cathedral Road continues to be a woodland, with a nursery and this building having the Society's offices (?) inside. But the composition of the Society itself seems to be a mystery - all that is known is that it is run by the state government!

Playtime

It took R. (Kalki) Krishnamurthy nearly three-and-a-half years to write it. It originally appeared as a serial in Kalki, the magazine that Krishnamurthy was the editor of. The first instalment was published in November 1950; with that, the popularity of the magazine went up. Readers waited eagerly for the next issue and the print run of the magazine needed to be increased, going on to touch 75,000 soon. Family members scrapped with each other to be the first to read the weekly and over about 200 weeks, the story of Arulmozhivarman, later Raja Raja Chozhan. Mixing fact and imagination, Ponniyin Selvan was a masterpiece, establishing historic fiction as a genre in Tamizh.

To celebrate the golden jubilee of the work, Magic Lantern came up with a stage adaptation of the epic. It had a hugely successful run, but it was limited - by design. For Magic Lantern, it was an ambitious production and one they carried off successfully. It was therefore only natural that when SS International Live wanted to create a landmark event, they turned to Ponniyin Selvan, and of course, to Magic Lantern.

It was an enthralling drama. Compressing 2,400 pages of the work into a near-4-hour show is not easy and there were enough in the audience feeling bad that many incidents had been left out. But for someone who has not yet read the work (yes, English translations are available), it was a grand introduction to a story so much part of the popular lore that it is treated as history itself!

Overcooled

The summer has been scorching, alright. It might sound trivial to crib about Chennai's temperatures when Delhi has seen record-breaking temperatures, coupled with power outages. At least Chennai has 24-hour electricity (okay, 23 hours and 13 minutes). 

The temptation to get a cold one is very much there during the mornings. But it is quite rare to get chilled beer at the TASMAC shops. In any case, by the time one gets back home, the cold has disappeared. So, in the bid to get to the stuff sooner, a couple of bottles were placed in the freezer. And then, were forgotten about, until the evening.

Thankfully, they did not explode inside the freezer. (Do they ever? Even reading this experiment does not give me an answer). But there is no way I am going to open them when the beer is one solid, frozen mass. Stuck the bottles in a pan of water to get them to thaw, before junking them. And now, I have to wait a while until I get to watch a "cold bottle of beer perspiring on a hot summer day"!

Dispensing health

This is the building where, in 1905, V. Krishnaswami Iyer founded the Venkataramana Ayurveda Dispensary. The name was probably a part-tribute to his father, Venkatarama Iyer, who was a munsif in the Thanjavur district. Krishnaswami grew up there and it was only after he completed his schooling that he came to Madras. He studied at Presidency College (where, unable to follow the British accent of his lecturers, he found it far more entertaining to spend his time on the Marina) and then at the Madras Law College. 

Though he seems to have been academically rather average, he used his keen intelligence and quick wit to build a reputation as a lawyer. He earned quite well, too and was a benefactor to several institutions in the city, even setting up a few himself.

The Ayurveda Dispensary - which was also to serve as a teaching institution - was one of the beneficiaries of Krishnaswami Iyer's generosity. He set aside this building and then endowed the institution with a corpus of Rs.20,000. The dispensary continues to occupy the same space. Some parts of the dispensary / college are elsewhere, but close by. For Krishnaswami Iyer, this was one of the many things that he picked up, did something about and moved on!

Bridge the gap

Once, about a dozen years ago, this bridge made the list of spookiest places in Chennai. Surely you would be spooked too, if you suddenly came upon a bit of concrete stretched over 3 pillars. It was not built in that manner, but for several - maybe 25 or more - years now, it has remained that way, after the original construction was washed away.

The bridge was intended to help fisherfolk have a short-cut between the fishing villages of Srinivasapuram to the north and Olcottkuppam to the south. It is a narrow path, barely enough to take a stout two-wheeler in any one direction at a time. Maybe that was more than enough in the late '60s. 

But then again, maybe it was not. When the bridge was washed away, circa 1977, there was no effort made to replace it. The fisherfolk also did not raise a demand for it, I guess, for it is difficult to imagine such a demand being ignored for so long. These days it remains a favourite spot to watch the sunrise, a quiet place to sit and chat of an evening and most of all, a gap-tooth in the Adyar estuary as the river goes out to the Bay of Bengal!

The Eater's Digest - 10

"If you are late, we can't guarantee seats, sir", said the manager when we called ahead to book a table. The restaurant has been generating a lot of buzz in recent weeks and it also happened to be on the way back from work. We had seen the crowds outside and knew that the manager was not putting up airs; we made sure we were well ahead of time.

The outside looks quite like a film set, the way we know jails should look like. Grey facade, with a door that is completely plain except for the iron bands breaking it into large square panels. A barred peephole lets you look inside; the light that comes out reminds you of oily naked incandescent bulbs that do more to emphasize the darkness than provide any light. Forbidding. But we have reservations and we go inside. Much of the restaurant is like any other, tables, seats, lots of noise and light. But we had a request, we needed a cell.

Turns out we had to specify that when booking, but since we were a small group, an empty cell was easily found. We had to wait a little while the 'prisoner' set the table. The 'jailer' was quite attentive and we got to sit quite soon. There! We were at Kaidi Kitchen (Convicts' Kitchen) - a concept that has reached Chennai from Kolkata, where it is headquartered. Mexican, Thai, Chinese, Indian, Lebanese... and Mongolian. We played it safe and the food did not disappoint. But more than the food, it was the ambience we went for - and that was quite paisa vasool, thanks to kaidi # 108 who served us in cell J2!

Junction

So which way would you like to go today? At the Sheraton Park junction, only a few of the options are listed out. 

And the hotel is not one of them!