SOUTH OF THE ADYAR RIVER

Oh for the days of my youth! Misspent, no doubt, but happy nevertheless. The days when Chennai was Madras to us and Pattinam to the old folks. When we had two grandmothers, a great grandmother and a host of great aunts to spoil us with thengai burfis! When cars meant Morris Minors, Ford Prefects and Landmasters!

It was the mid 60s and we were one of the first few residents of what was then Urur village. I distinctly remember the evening when we assembled and sat on the earthen floor outside what is now the Shastri Nagar Ladies’ Association, and some dignitary, whose name escapes me, declared the changed name of our locality to Shastri Nagar after our then Prime Minister. Or even earlier, when we heard the news of Pandit Nehru’s death over our ‘Telerad’. Our radio was one of the biggest in the colony and a bunch of us would gather round it of an evening to listen to the news or crowd round on a holiday to hear V.K. Chakrapani and Vizzy comment on Test cricket.

Shastri Nagar was then a clutch of four streets or so, with the Fifth Cross being the hub of activity. This unpaved lane comprised a row of independent houses with no compound walls or even fences separating them, much to the joy of us youngsters who were provided with a natural playing field, although biased towards length. Justice Soundarapandian, then a serving Judge of the Madras High Court, was our immediate neighbour, but except for a lone orderly, there was no posse of armed constabulary around and we even had access to his kitchen via the back door. During the monsoons, the road would turn into a veritable stream, with the water lapping on the doorsteps. Out would come paper boats, made from carefully preserved calendar paper, to compete for size. Lattice Bridge Road was then a mud topped stretch and if you missed 19M or 19S, the only two buses that would ply up to the depot, you either had to trudge home from Adyar corner, or pay a princely sum for the use of Hanif’s tonga that would be stationed opposite Hotel Coronet. Apart from Eros, which was a pucca structure, the only other theatre in the vicinity was Jayanthi, which was actually a tent. As we couldn’t afford the price of seats from our meagre pocket allowance, we would reluctantly shell out the huge ransom of 20 paise from our savings to sit on the mud floor just in front of the screen, with heads craned and moving from side to side, like spectators in a tennis match, to watch MGR take on Nambiar in a sword fight!

That was the time when Vannanthurai was actually a dhobi ghat and we would cycle precariously through the sandy slopes past the open burning ghat to Elliots beach. Beyond the small kuppam, the beach was covered with casurina trees where you could actually play ‘hide and seek’ and the Ashtalakshmi temple was barely accessible from the road. Besant Nagar simply did not exist, except for the schools and the scout camp. As kids, a couple of us would head for the beach early weekend mornings and ride out to sea with the fishermen on their catamarans, leaving our clothes and our cycles unguarded on the sand without fear of being stolen. A mile or so inside, we would jump out and swim back with the tide. The first few forays were deliriously horrific; the huge swell of the sea would rush past like an express train. For one terrifying moment, we would be at the bottom of the trough with the next big swell towering menacingly like some huge monster with its devouring jaws upon us. And the next moment we would be riding the crest, up, up and away. We are quite willing to swear we could actually see St. Thomas Mount out there in the far distance!

Those were the days of kite flying from our terrace. Manja was mandatory and if my father was in a generous mood, a ‘bana’ kathadi, almost as big as us kids, would be gleefully purchased. We had a thatched shed for the car and during the day, it would serve as space to spread out the thread for the careful application of vajram, ground glass and an indescribable powder guaranteed by the shopkeeper to win any ‘deal’! Perched on high ground, there was no threat to two wheeler riders from the manja, although the solitary incident of a throat injury on Marina beach was talked about for months.

On an odd Sunday afternoon, after solemn affirmations to our parents that all homework was dutifully complete, we would be permitted to take a bus ride to Vivekananda College grounds to watch Kalli deliver his bullets with the red cherry, or the stylish Michael Dalvi notch up an unassuming century in the First Division League. A ten paise worth Rita ice cream stick was an added treat.

Yes, those were the days indeed. But then, like good old Bob Dylan sang, ‘the times they are a-changing’ and I suppose we must change with them too! We have traded simple pleasures for sophisticated comfort, patience for pressure and camaraderie for condescension. A heavy price to pay, perhaps? I suppose it all depends on one’s point of view!