S. S. Vasan T. T. Krishnamachari R. Venkataramanan

Having been a resident for 60 years of Mandaveli, the fringe or border area, I have had a vantage position to observe and participate fully in all the activities in Mylapore, the religious, social and cultural hub of the metropolis.

I have dabbled in varied activities – scouting, cricket, politics and music, apart from the media. Let me begin with my school years. P.S. High School is my alma mater. Narasimha­chari taught Geography, a dull subject, most attractively. His gift was when a student would ask his neighbour with a watch about the time, Narasimhachari would unerringly tell him 13 minutes to go for the class, though he wore no watch. His mind had an electronic precision. G. Srinivasa­chari taught history as if it was fiction and his questions for exams were innovative and teasing.

T.A.Balasubramaniam (TAB) had a fascination for cricket and built the school team. After every victory, he would address the students in the assembly hall and his inspiring speeches would goad them to further victories. He was very humane too. When I was afflicted by toothache during the SSLC exam, he took me from my home in a rickshaw to the exam hall and was by my side with medical aid and moral support till I completed the paper. How touching of a guru! A. Narayanaswamy Iyer was a towering personality; we all thought he was a superman because he could quote Shakespeare and Milton at the drop of his turban (or, more probably, his cane, which he could wield with as much flourish as his English). Arcot Saman­na was many-sided: he spoke English in the manner born, played badminton with students and was a connoisseur of music.

When Kanchi Parama­charya camped in the Sanskrit College, all of us (around 1000 students) were marched to the campus, where His Holiness advised us to grow a tuft. Instantly I twice donned the tuft, but soon enough returned to the crop (soda bottle effervescence!).

P.S. High School was rated so high that its applicants were straightaway admitted in Loyola, quite a number of them succeeding in IAS exams with distinction. The first pair of trousers I stitched was to obtain a degree at the Loyola convocation. I stuck to khadi till disillusionment overcame me.

I joined the freedom movement inspired by my school contemporary, V.R. Radha­rishnan, and participated in anti-British agitations. He flowered into a selfless Gandhian and socialist leader, spurning ministerial offices, which were his for the taking, had he remained in the Congress. He joined the Praja Socialist Party with his followers, including me. I was suspended from Loyola for a term for causing damage to railway property along with a group of students in an anti-British stir. A couple of them later became bureaucrats. My father was a PWD official and was warned that he would be dismissed if I persisted in my political activities. In fact, a CID detective was posted opposite my house to keep a watch on me. I had to lie low for a couple of years.

Crazy fans of poet Bharati, we founded a Bharati literary club, a Bharati bookstall, a Bharati khadi stall, and even a cricket club named after Bharati, which is 60 years old and still plays in the TNCA league.

Inspired by Kalki and Rajaji, a fund was started in memory of Kasturba Gandhi in the 1940s. S.S. Vasan made a hefty Rs. 50,000 contribution. We at the Bharati Centre made collections by selling tickets of small and big denominations. Sasi, an Ananda Vikatan journalist, came to purchase khadi. When I requested him to buy a ticket, he replied that Vasan, his boss, had made a big donation. We pleaded with him for a token response. Mad with rage, he slapped me in the presence of a crowd in front of our shop in Kapali Sannadhi Street. We called on Vasan and lodged a complaint. Sasi came to me later and said nothing would happen to him. Arya, the famous artist whose paintings of Bharati and Gandhi adorned every home and institution in Madras at the time, heard of it, took me to Sasi who was living in the corner house in South Mada Street where Rama­krishna Parama­hamsa books are now sold, called out to the writer and courteously enquired about what had happened. The writer was confrontational and the fierce nationalist, Arya, rained blows on him in the presence of a huge public

S. Srinivasa Iyengar, a brilliant lawyer and one-time president of the Congress, addressed meetings often in Ranade Hall. He abhorred Gandhiji and his ways and would launch a tirade, but the audience would get restive and murmur protests. He would quickly sense the mood and declare “Gandhiji is no doubt a great man” and change the theme. He was so fast in thinking that his ideas would flow in such a cascade that his sentences would hang in mid air. As a student, I called on him often and was witness to many poor students getting donations from him to pay their fee. He appeared for Goenka of the Indian Express in many sedition cases and would tender apologies to save his client, while muttering abusive filthy words in Tamil against his client, which the English judge would not make out.

We used to call on TTK often to listen to his acerbic comments on men and affairs. He had a razor sharp intellect and would not suffer fools gladly. He would describe a Union Home Minister as a constipated cockroach or a Prime Minister as a mittaiwala. I vividly remember his anger when he came to speak at a Chitra­kulam corner political meeting where hardly 15 had gathered. He called Mylapo­reans snobs who would listen only to Satya­murthy.

Bhakthavatsalam was so different. Ever cool, calm, unflappable and totally detached. Even to his son, Chittaranjan, my classmate, he was distant and formal. I saw him often in his retirement years. I was witness to his giving a poor Brahmin boy a letter of recommendation for a bank job in Manipal. When he learned that the boy had no money to buy a train ticket, he provided him with funds. Few knew that he was compassionate. Contrary to belief, he was by no means affluent and led a Spartan life.

S. Sriraman rose from humble beginnings to become the President of the Board of Control for Cricket in India. He put Tamil Nadu cricket on the map of India. At a function held to felicitate him, an IAS cricket commentator said, “A streak of Visishtaadvaita runs through the TNCA like a thread beginning with C.R. Rangachari and M.J. Gopalan down to Venkatara­ghavan and Srikanth today.” A subtle remark but the inference is obvious.

Eminent lawyers lived in Luz or Pelathope. Subbaraya Iyer collected funds for the Madras Institute of Technology, Viveka­nanda College and Vidya Mandir with missionary zeal. He would take up a case only after obtaining a donation to one of these institutions. T.V. Viswanatha Sastry, his neigh­bour, was so stingy he would go to the High Court from Luz by tram, the cheapest transport. He reluctantly bought a car when he was elevated to the bench.

N. Raghunatha Iyer, who lived behind P.S. High School, was the best writer in English India has produced. Dr. K. Sambasivam had a huge medical practice, the rich and the poor flocking to him. He died when he was only 42. Raghunatha Iyer wrote poignantly, “The poor shamelessly exploited him.” Prof. K. Swami­nathan taught us how to read poetry. I was witness to a lively conversation between him and Kalki, Swaminathan using the Tamil medium totally and Kalki only English.

In its early years, men and women could not sit together in the Rasika Ranjani Sabha to enjoy music or drama, a rope being the dividing line. During the month of Margazhi, we thronged the mada streets to listen to the moving bhajans led by Papa­nasam Sivan. I frequented the San Thome beach to sit near ­Tiger Varadhachariar who would sing inspiringly, while gulping the toddy brought by a chela from a nearby street shop in a mud pot.

The Rayar hotel in Kutcheri Road was a rendezvous for gourmets, made famous by the patronage of Vasan, Kalki and Mali.

In Mandaveli, there was Pragathi Studio where M.K. Thyagaraja Bhagavathar would swallow, non-stop, badham halwa pieces placed before him in a large brass plate. It was a sight to see K. Subramaniam with his bulk, panting for breath and walking with the camera on Brodies Road on a hot midday to direct Kachadevayani scenes.

The senior who moulded my life from my pre-teen age years was S.M. Dasan, Group Scout Master, Shivaji group. Dasan’s brother Ketharaman, brilliant in every walk of life, was a bureaucrat, untarnished by the systematic superior airs. We were neighbours in Vedachala Gardens in Mandaveli, which then marked the southern tip of metropolis, skirted by the sea on the one side and the Adyar River, which used to be the city limits, on the other. There was a good deal of greenery here with orchards and plantations.

Sir P.S. Sivaswamy Iyer, legal luminary, one of the foremost residents of Mylapore, was so highly respected by Rajaji that he once said that Sivaswamy Iyer was such an authority on defence that he was fit to be the country’s Defence Minister. An honours student, with political science as my subject, I heard a lecture by Sivaswamy Iyer in the Ranade Hall. I was shocked when he read out a whole chapter by Prof. A. Appadurai, without even crossing a t and dotting an i, which had been published in The Hindu in full as Sir P.S.S.’s speech.

Postscript: I can’t help concluding with a caustic but sad political note. Two leading Mylapore citizens, Baktha­vatsalam and R. Venkata­raman, were squarely responsible for the trouncing of the Congress in the 1967 election. Bakthavatsalam mishandled the anti-Hindi stir with needless firing, and R. Venkata­raman misread the situation. At a Congress election meeting, I conveyed to him the public anger over poor quality ration rice supply. R.V. retorted, “You must ask the voters whether they wanted rice or democracy.” The people voted the Congress out. To make matters worse, Kamaraj claimed he could defeat the opposition relaxing in bed. Nearly forty years have passed and still the Congress is hopelessly weak. I speak from anguish, pain and sorrow as a citizen concerned over public wellbeing. Remember the Congress was founded in Mylapore.

At a function organised a few years ago by the Swarna Ananta Padmam Foundation to celebrate Mylapore, I requested a veteran journalist who spoke on the occasion for the text of his talk. With ‘Madras Week’ ahead this seems appropriate to publish excerpts from it. My only regret is I did not catch the speaker’s name. If he sees this, I hope he will respond, so that we may acknowledge him.

– The Editor

In 1984, Jay Conrad Levinson coined the phrase ‘guerrilla ­marketing’ to denote creative, compelling, low budget marketing strategies. Guerrilla marketing is an unconfined, unplugged ‘monkeying’ around to get the message across. The basic ingredients for guerrilla marketing are a high level of creativity and passion for the product or service. However bizarre the idea, however high the brand recall, the brand does need to deliver on the implied promises made.

In Chennai, the greatest ex-ample of guerrilla marketing is the marketing campaign of James the Magician.

James Senior was a magician. The Senior’s junior, Kennedy, continues to use his father’s name to tout his services. In a burgeoning middle class society, entertainment for private events, children’s birthday parties, etc. has gained momentum and, hey presto, P. James, with a few tricks under his hat, got into providing the entertainment. Whether the need came first or the service is hard to gauge. P. James launched his guerrilla marketing campaign by painting the words, ‘P James Magician, Phone no 98410 72571’ all over the walls, on bridges, etc. around Chennai. His scrawls on the walls have become a part and parcel of Chennai’s graffiti. The graffiti also evolved with technological advents. His message with the phone number got upgraded with a mobile number once this handy walkie-talkie hit the world. Now P. James is reachable directly, instantly.

There are an estimated 30,000 instances of his advertisement. He had spent about 14 years painting the graffiti, by himself, in the night. He uses a mixture of black oxide and Fevicol adhesive for the paint, as this is cheap and rainproof. Aggressively contested for wall-space by political parties, commercial products and cinema posters, James has managed to achieve a very high ‘graffiti-density’.

His campaign was fast gaining eyeballs and resulting in winning deals but the magic campaign soon came to an end. Chennai city authorities came down heavily on huge hoardings and illegal banners that choked the city’s skyline. P. James’ graffiti sales pitch came down as the Commissioner of Police instructed him to call off his campaign. Yet, he is the local ‘mom-and-pop’ entertainment outfit that the whole city talks and blogs about. Blogs are the shortest cut to the other side of the world. P. James and his marketing are discussed even in the US and have got listed in Wikipedia. There are some electronic versions of newsletters featuring the smart magician.

In a data driven world, the prospective customer base is huge and the venues for marketing are numerous. Amidst this constant bombardment of sales pitches, there is too much noise and nothing is heard at all. It is the occasional P. James’ of the world that are heard. (Courtesy: Matrix, the journal of The Sanmar group.)

Footnote:

What might be considered a guerrilla marketing campaign won, JWT Chennai a Bronze Lion at the annual Cannes advertising awards.

The award was for the ‘Stretch Festival’ promotion campaign for the Government of Puducherry.

The street promotion of the 15th International Puducherry Yoga Festival was eye-catching. The Stretch Festival advertising included: One, a Yoga Anthem where stretched notes from various rural string instruments, folk wind instruments and rare drums were all juxtaposed to create a haunting melody that became the theme music for the entire Festival; and, two, Live Street Promotion (street theatre) during which familiar street characters were suddenly seen striking unusually unfamiliar Yoga poses in their usual surroundings: A traffic cop giving directions with his feet! Pedestrians walking on their hands! A flower girl selling flowers with her feet! Lifeguards on the beach crawling like crabs on all fours! Many such street characters stood at street corners to announce the Festival. And both aspects of the promotion succeeded in bringing thousands of visitors to Puducherry during the festival week, according to JWT.

(As told to Gayatri Sundaresan)

My life has revolved around music and art. I have seen and heard most of the stalwarts of the ‘golden period’ of Carnatic music. I have been fortunate to have moved with them closely. In the early decades of the last century, Mylapore was at the centrestage of musical developments, with concerts within a stone’s throw of one another. And living in Nadu Street from the time I was five years old, I was in the middle of it all!

S. Rajam Panchapakesa Iyer Papanasam Sivan

In the corner where South Mada Street and R.K. Mutt Road meet and where Vijaya Stores now stands, there was a tiled house where many vidwans lived. In fact, in those days, Mylapore was full of such ‘oattu veedu-s’ which housed many vidwans. Mylapore in those days was a hub, humming with musical activity not seen anywhere else in India. It continues to be so to this day.

There were many musicians living on Maddala Narayanan Teru. It used to be called Mitthai Kadai Teru, after the sweet shop situated at the corner of the street, but it was named after Narayanan who played the maddalam during the Kapalees­warar temple festivals. Wasn’t it Lord Narayana who palyed the maddalam during pradosham for Siva’s celestial dance! The 30 to 40 houses on that street fetched a monthly rent of five or six rupees each. A composer, teacher, or musician of good calibre lived in almost every other house.

I am talking about the time when I was between 10 and 16 years of age (1929-1935), studying in P.S. (Pennathur Subra­maniam) High School. Only the High School had a building at that time; the Elementary classes were held in makeshift structures. K.V. Krishnaswami Iyer was one of those who shaped the Madras of that period, contributing his time and energy to the Music Academy and to P.S. High School. He devoted his life to public causes in spite of his ailing body.

Among the musicians of Maddala Narayanan Teru was my first guru, Ganesa Iyer. He was Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyen­gar’s sishya. There were many musicians from Madras who later moved to Bombay, and
Ganesa Iyer was one of the first to do so.

Ariyakudi had a tambura in every city, every town that he visited; they were given for safe-keeping to a trusted sishya in each of those places. In Madras, it was my guru Ganesa Iyer who had the privilege of looking after Ariyakudi’s tambura. Ariyakudi used to come in a jatka, tune the tambura, and use it whenever he was there.

The Pattamangalam brothers, Easwara Iyer and Sambasiva Iyer, were vainika-s. Both the instrument and the artistes had a special place in the musical firmament in those days. In later years, the veena lost its pride of place. Some efforts are now being made to revive it.

Papanasam Sivan too was a resident of this lane. He later bought a house in Mandaveli and shifted there. He taught me during 1928-30.

Turaiyur Rajagopala Sarma’s father gave discourses on the Ramayana and was known as ‘Ramayana Sastrigal’. Raja­gopala Sarma was a good singer and his music had method and beauty. He sang in lieu of M.K. Thya­garaja Bhagavatar in the production of the 78 rpm records of some of his film songs. He was attached to Kalakshetra. He wrote the songs with swara notation that used to appear on the back page of Swadesamitran.

‘Adam Street’ Venkatarama Iyer was a violinist. He was a discipline of Tirukodikaval Krishna Iyer. He would ride a bicycle to the houses where he taught music. He was quite short and needed a raised platform or a step to climb on to or alight from the cycle! He conducted Tyagaraja utsavam on Panchami tithi every month. It was famous as “Adam Teur Venkatarama Iyer Pan­chami” and musicians from far and near regularly came to perform, without expecting any remuneration because Venkata­rama Iyer was very poor, but totally dedicated to music. Tiffin. coffee and meals were served to everyone who attended the utsavam. Somehow money for all this would pour in through collections from the general public and the musicians; and at the end of it not a pie would remain in Iyer’s hands.

Tirupparkadal Srinivasa Iyengar (father of violinist Tirupparkadal Veeraraghaven) was Naina Pillai’s disciple and would accompany his guru on the violin. He was a staunch Vaishnavite. He wore a yellow ‘naamam’ on his forehead, no red, and had a small tuft of hair which we called ‘appala kudumi’. He never wore a shirt; his attire consisted of panchakaccham, a pocketwatch tucked at the waist and a ‘mel veshti’ or angavastram. He always carried a black umbrella, but would cover it with a white cloth to reduce the heat! He went to his student’s homes too to teach.

Mylapore Gowri Amma was a devadasi, wedded to the Kapaleeswarar temple. She lived in a small lane adjacent to Srivati Stores, where all the property belonging to the temple was. I learnt many padam-s from her when I was about ten years old. She knew as many padam-s as Dhanammal knew, apart from javali-s and Tamil songs. I have seen Dhanammal’s daughter and granddaughters and many others coming to her to learn. She taught beautifully. She taught abhinaya to Rukmini Devi, and later to Kalanidhi Narayanan (this mut have been about ten years after I learnt from her). She sang very well, displaying abhinaya while she sang. We do not get to hear that kind of bhavam these days.

Sundaram and Krishnan, the Pattamadai Brothers, were a duo. They were releated to Subra­mania Bharati. Sundaram was a very good singer with a rather soft, husky and pleasant voice. His radio programmes were a treat to listen to. Krishnan had an open voice. The brothers strove to popularise Bharatiyar’s poems. To this end, they conferred the title ‘Sangeeta Jyoti’ upon those musicians who sang Bharatiyar’s compositions, and scripted the songs with notation. The brothers spent all their money on this. After Sundaram’ demise, Krishnan continued with this practice until he passed away about four years ago.

Alathur Srinivasan’s younger brother, Alathur Panchapakesa Iyer (ASP), lived in Mylapore. His contribution to music was much more than teaching. Talent and taste for music coursed through their veins, and ASP’s musical prowess was indisputable. With such an impeccable lineage, he was the apt choice to teach music at the R.R. Sabha in Mylapore, Chennai.

Lessons started from abhyasa ganam and had to be written on a slate for each of the forty students. This had its own problems – the lessons would be erased, and had to be written all over again; or the slate would break. Only a few rich students had notebooks and pencils. This problem set ASP thinking and he came up with the brilliant idea of bringing out the lessons in print – in book form.

I was present when Panju (as we affectionately called ASP) came to my father with this idea. We advised him to approach the magazine Kalaimagal which was run by Narayana­swami Iyer (V. Krishnaswamy Iyer’ son-in-law). Like the management, the staff too was very artistically and musically inclined. With our recommendation, the modalities were worked out, and Panju prepared the varisai lessons in notation.

Next the question arose how to use the space on the page at the end of each lesson. Panju discussed this with my father. His idea was to insert photographs of eminent vidwan-s. I felt that with the primitive quality of printing in those days, the photos would not come out very well. I suggested that artists Samy and Shankar at Kalaimagal could make line drawings of the vidwan-s. Panju obtained photos of a whole galary of great Vidwan-s, from Dhanammal to Alathur Srinivasa Iyer, and these were copied as line drawings. Panju upheld the ideal that students of music should remember the great masters for their own knowledge to flourish. His sole focus was the making of the book and he dedicated all his time and energy to that.

The very idea of learning the basic music lessons from books was new and all credit should go to Panju for having thought of it and executing it as well.

ASP revolutionised music teaching with his books, first printed around 1930-35. With his superior swara gnanam, he made the notation very simple. The big print made it easy on the eyes, easy to follow, and simple for children to understand.

Panjun also collected many varnam-s from various sources and produced the Varnamalika. A book of kriti-s of the Trinity and Purandaradasa followed. He was a pioneer in making music more accessible. He also wrote a book on the history of South Indian music; he was the first musician to show such interest in publications. Some of ASP’s books came out in English also later.

My guru-s Ambi Dikshitar, Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, and Madurai Mani Iyer, all worte the lessons for their students. Ariyakudi had a beautiful hand. It was considered important to cultivate good handwriting. From my 15th year I developed the ability to read notation.

A word about concert reviews of yesteryear. Reviews used to appear in The Hindu and The Mail in English, and in Swadesa­mitran in Tamil. My father was a regular contributor. Prof. Samba­moorthy and E. Krishna Iyer also wrote on music-related topis, like taking up a raga and analysing its various aspects and usages. The papers came out in the evening. The Press greatly helped the propagation of music.

The masic occasions for music and dance programmes were temple festivals and marriages. School grounds, marriage halls (mandapam-s) and temples were the venues.

There were processions with musicians singing bhajan-s connected with temple festivals two or three times a year, but the bhajan-s early in the morning in the month of Margazhi (December-January) led by Papanasam Sivan were the most popular. Mylapore was full of music, especially around the temple. (Courtesy: Sruti)

(To be concluded)