[mas-dkt-sive]

The history of Chennai is a fascinating tale of a mighty tussle among imperial powers. Not able to take on the Dutch and Portuguese on no man's sand north of the present location, Francis Day of the imperial British company moved south to a safer location in what beca me Madras.

Beginning as a threemile stretch of sand lying between the two rivers, Cooum and Adyar, which the governor of a fading Vijayanagar empire gave away in 1639, Chennai today is a bustling modern metropolis offering all the creature comforts of the age.

Fort St. George, seen as a gateway to India as it was the first seat of British power from where the East India Company expanded across the country, still remains the nerve centre of the state administration thanks to the chief minister J.Jayalalithaa insisting on the primacy of history taking precedence over modern comforts of a new Secretariat built not far away by her predecessor.


Thanks to diligent historians like Dr Muthiah, we are able to keep track of the age of Chennai, or Madras or Madraspattinam or Chennaipattinam.

Nearing 400, the city has fancy shopping malls selling branded goods, dazzling multiplexes offering full surround sound and fancy optical experiences, video parlours for quick entertainment and deluxe restaurants offering cuisines from around the world. The young people of today should have no complaints.

The sepia-tinted memories of our youth still carry such nostalgia that it appears life was rosier in those days even though the avenues for entertainment compared to today were quite minimal. If we were not playing league cricket, we would play our own Test matches at a friend's house where the batsman, pretending to be the handsome, blue-eyed Norman O’Neill, would be in the porch and bowlers, who thought of themselves as Wes Hall, running in from under the shade of the baobab tree.

Entertainment meant taking in a movie at Elephinstone theatre, which stood opposite where the Anna statue is today and which used to exhibit all the great Hollywood action movies, including the James Bond series. After a Jafar’s Special at the soda fountain that came in an extra tall glass, there was never much space for a boring vegetarian dinner at home.

Safire theatre (three screens of which the main one was 70 mm) seemed more romantic than the plush multiplexes of today.

If you were in love but only on a shoestring budget, you could still afford two tickets and spend 8-10 hours watching ‘Love Story' twice or thrice on the reel at Blue Diamond, a term we use for non-stop entertainment like T20 cricket these days.

A train ride to Tambaram and back to Mambalam on what seemed clean carriages pulled by steam locos was a weekend thrill.

So too watching the girls dance at Pal's, one of four nightclubs in the city that put out India's version of `cabarets.' Watching the great thespian Sivaji's movies or the lover boy Gemini Ganesh was an easy alternative. For many years, the tram lines on the streets were all that was left of what was once a fine service connecting the city. I still remember a tram car ride to Sagar theatre (which became Odeon and then something else as ownership changed) to take in a Hindi hits of Dilip Kumar while those of evergreen hero Rajesh Khanna came in slightly more modern theatres.

The Marina Beach was of pristine sand stretching for miles in those far off days. Never mind if the old Madras tale of the ‘second longest beach’ in the world is not strictly true. When young, a ‘kuchi’ ice cream from the Rita vendor whose tricycle would smell of salted ice would look like a great treat. Buying a few more sticks on the strength of a benevolent uncle’s purse for the poor kids from nearby fishermen’s huts brought a thrilling feeling, their smiles absolutely lighting up our hearts. I only wish such simple generosity would be sufficient in a world seemingly gone all
wrong now.

The Woodlands drive-in was a great part of our lives when we could not afford to ride the scooter into the wine shop compound across Gemini flyover and buy a bottle of Vat 69 in those days of `strict' Prohibition. A server named James Bond would kill us with kindness by insisting we eat all the nice dishes available and would even give us regulars `tick' if we didn't have money to pay up front. The poor guy would pay the bill from his pocket but once we had the money we would compensate him handsomely.

Watching Test matches at the Nehru Stadium or Chepauk was an annual Pongal thrill costing `15 for five days on a league cricketer's club ticket or `60 from the terrace if a rich friend was willing to swap it for the excitement of watching cricket with cricketers and hearing all the rich `expert' com ments. The game was an obsession for the city’s youth, even if it meant drinking water thirstily on hot and stifling days from a green bucket with mosslike deposits in shared bronze tumblers that seemed certain to bring us unnamed diseases.

We were the so-called tough generation who grew up before bottled water became India’s saviour. A bottle of Coca-Cola cost four annas while the city’s own Kali Mark’s Dry Ginger Ale cost even less and a packet of filter cigarettes about `3. If we had money for all that, we felt like millionaires. A scooter ride in the month of Margazhi to take in the stinging wet cold of midnight along the Marina seemed like the ultimate thrill of our early life that seemed fairly fulfilled. In a younger city of clean air, wide roads, tree-lined avenues and very little traffic, life was indeed a breeze.

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Credit: Deccan Chronicle