“A heritage walk in Vepery? What is there to see except Doveton-Corrie School?” was the comment from a South Madras friend. But having read about the area in several books, ranging from Love to S. Muthiah’s Madras Rediscovered, I decided that one of my walks this year for Madras Week would be in Vepery. I realised that despite my having lived in the city for 17 years, I had not even once travelled around the area and decided to make amends.

Nurses’ Home.

Roping in young Karthik Bhatt who is ever enthusiastic when it comes to going walkabout in the older areas of the city, I set off. We thought we could cover the place and earmark the important sites in one morning. We soon realised how mistaken we were. We ultimately made 15 reconnaissance trips to the area, thereby more than compensating for not having set foot there even once from 1993. Ultimately, out of deference to the patience of the participants and keeping in mind logistics, we settled on a few characteristic and representative locations for our walk-cum-van exploration.

We began with a halt at the Sydenham’s Road-Vepery High Road intersection where a brief history of Vepery was given – its probable origins as a lake surrounded by margosa trees and its coming under the British, thanks to the Nawabs. We then moved on to the Veterinary Hospital, an Indo-Saracenic creation by Henry Irwin. Opposite this stands the Raja Venugopala Bahadur building, the original home of the SPCA which spawned the veterinary hospital. It was clear that the architecture of the SPCA building had spurred Irwin to create a sympathetic and harmonious structure for the hospital, a sensitivity that is lacking in today’s constructions.

From here, we moved on to St Matthias’ Church, once the private chapel of Coja Petrus Uscan. The presbyter of the church had helpfully arranged to keep the cemetery open and there we were able to see the tombstones of such Madras legends as Coja Petrus and the famous ‘publishing priests’ who contributed to Tamil and Telugu – Fabricius, Gericks, Breithaupt and Rottler. The CLS Printing Press, which stood not far away for over two centuries, pioneered printing in Madras. That building has long fallen victim to the developer’s hammer.

From here we set out on foot to Newton House, once the residence of the presbyter of St Matthias and later home to Saravanabhavanandam Pillai, one of the first Indians to make a mark in the senior ranks of the Madras Police. He was also a noted writer and champion of the cause of Tamil language.

We moved on to Lady Bentinck’s School, one of the oldest educational institutions in the city, which was started by a Mrs. Drew, a kinswoman of Sheridan the playwright. We next went to St Paul’s, the church established by Fabricius in 1750. From here it was on to the back gate of Doveton-Corrie – the twin schools in memory of Bishop Corrie, the first Anglican bishop of Madras, and Doveton of the Madras Army who left his money for education in the city. We also covered some of the Roman Catholic institutions – Presentation Convent, St. Joseph’s and St. Aloysius. A Hindu institution in the same area is the Tirivottreeswarar Free School, established in the 1940s by Rao Sahib T.P. Ramaswami Pillai, who made his money in arrack. The palatial family home, Thyagar Villa, stands opposite the school on General Collin’s Road.

St Matthias' Church

Nearby is the P.T. Lee Chengalvaraya Naicker Technical Institute, built in memory of the dubash of Shand & Co, who left his fortune to the Pachaiyappa’s Trust. It was Sir Pitti Theyagaroya Chetty who decided that the money would be best spent in starting a polytechnic for Indians, noting that the then existing educational system was good only to produce clerks, not technicians. The Technical Institute is located here in a vast green campus.

The rather deserted junction of General Collin’s Road and Maddox Street is where Lakshmikantham, the muckraking journalist, was stabbed in 1944, leading to a chain of events that would culminate in the trial for murder of several prominent personalities of the film world. Even now this corner has an eerie feel to it, with people hardly around and just a few large compound walls standing as mute witnesses. From here it was back to the vans.

“Imagine going to Vepery and not seeing the Nurses’ Home,” exclaimed Ronald
E. Smith, whose mother served in the Royapettah Hospital. He took me there one afternoon and I decided to make it a part of the itinerary. The Nurses’ Home is on E.V.K. Sampath Road. Once the residence of A. Subburayulu Reddy, the first Premier of Madras Presidency, it was later home to Dr. Sundara Reddy, whose wife was Dr. Muthulakshmi, the first woman legislator of India. Dr. Muthulakshmi Reddy fought for several causes, including the battle against cancer, and the emancipation of women. When the Reddys shifted to sylvan Adyar, the Nurses’ Association bought the place and converted it into a home for retired nurses. Today, while an annexe building is in good shape and is home to a couple of retired nurses, the main bungalow is in an advanced state of collapse. The area fronting it has long been sold to build a Jain Temple and it is only a question of time before the erstwhile home of the Reddys is razed to the ground.

Then it was on to Atkinson Road – where the house of P. Venkatachellum once stood. This was a family that made it big in condiments and pickles. Rather coincidentally, this is the 150th year of the founding of the business, though the establishment today is a mere shadow of what it once was. The last of the powerful Venkatachellums married Jothi who became a member of the Congress party, was Minister in the Kamaraj Government and later Governor of Kerala. The road is now named after her.

Our last stop was the Naval Hospital – once the medical facility for sailors and later a huge medical store. In its heyday, it was one of only four such warehouses in India. Though diminished in stature, it still survives in that capacity. From here, though sated with history, yet hungry for breakfast, we proceeded to Saravana Bhavan near Egmore station.

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Centum is Latin for hundred. I don’t know if Romans use the word any more, but some South Indians still do. To them, centum is what a smart child would score in a maths test. In the middle-class Madras neighbourhood where I grew up, many adults seemed to believe that maths scores were a perfectly good indicator – indeed, the only indicator – of a child’s IQ, the equivalent of a Mensa rating. Alas, past middle-school, my scores in mathematics could never be rounded off to that three-digit number. But my mother, the incurable optimist, hoped that some day I would bring back a report card with one hundred marks in her favourite subject. To this end, she enlisted the help of the deity Hanuman, promising him a garland of vadai-s, if I ever got that perfect score. Not 100 vadai-s, but 108, because this multiple of twelve is considered an auspicious number.

Hanuman vadai-s.

Making a food offering to the gods on the fulfilment of a wish is, of course, an old Hindu custom. In a pantheon where powerful deities generously share space with minor gods, it is hard to pick just the right candidate to honour. Picking Hanuman was a masterstroke on Mother’s part, because he has always held special appeal for children. Even President Obama, who spent time in Indonesia as a child, was fascinated by tales of Hanuman back then and mentions this fact in his memoir Dreams from My Father.

In our neighbourhood temple located in Raja Street, T’Nagar, a small sanctum by the cannonball tree housed the idol of Hanuman. Chanting mantras, the priest would emerge from this dimly-lit room to set an antique silver crown on devotees’ heads. When it was my turn, I bowed deep. This coronation was brief but unrushed. For Hanuman, I would work harder at anything! There was also the possibility of being handed a crisp vadai if a devotee had commissioned an offering that day. Now, who decided that Hanuman likes this vadai better than any other food is, of course, a question for culinary historians.

Compared to the other kinds of vadai-s made at home and at various restaurants, the one offered to Hanuman seems pared down and downright austere. This classic black pepper-flecked vadai doesn’t have an accompanying dip; in fact, it doesn’t even have a distinct name. Usually, the task of making these vadai-s is entrusted to the temple kitchen. With advance notice, the priest can have a batch of them strung on cotton twine, and during the ritual the edible garland adorns the idol. The donor distributes some vadai-s to devotees around the sanctum and takes the rest home. Because of their low moisture content, these vadai-s stay fresh for up to a week – ample time to visit friends, neighbours, and relatives to give them a share of the blessed offering. And those whose prayers have been answered by Hanuman are typically a generous lot.

As a child, I partook of a fair number of Hanuman vadai-s, exulting in the unexpected treat each time. At school, I progressed from algebra to advanced calculus, putting in extra effort to compensate for my lack of mathematical ability. Long after everyone had gone to bed, I sat up practising test problems, but the centum continued to elude me. In a similar fashion, most schoolchildren in India work hard to ace maths tests, which could, perhaps, explain the abundance of programmers, engineers, and accountants in our crowded cities. Growing up in a geek-worshiping society, it was really hard for me to accept that I would never be part of this feted group. Yet, when I got the chance to go abroad at the age of 21, away from all the well-meaning adults I knew, I dithered. “At least you won’t be guilty of contributing to the brain drain if you leave,” my brother pointed out helpfully.

In America, I am free to identify my scholarly passions and pursue them without seeking societal approval. Because Mother wanted me to practise sums instead of helping her in the kitchen, I remain a limited cook, as some culinary techniques can’t be learnt from the best of cookbooks. Immigration, then, has this small downside for me. Like others from distant lands, I am cut off from dishes my ancestors perfected over centuries. Few Indian restaurants in the U.S. feature any kind of vadai-s on their menus – the peppery version offered to Hanuman is practically unheard of in this continent.

Such gustatory trifles hardly seem worth mentioning in view of the freedom I have gained – the knowledge that I don’t have to disclose my test scores, or explain life choices, to every passing acquaintance is liberating. Yet, at times, I recall the tastes and textures of my childhood foods with fondness. During one such flashback I realised that the Hanuman vadai can hold its own anywhere on sheer gastronomic merit. Paired with a simple dip, it would make a perfect appetiser. On a future trip to Madras, I will retrieve the authentic recipe from the dark interior of a temple kitchen, and recreate those savoury lentil donuts in America.

But that reverie soon passes. Who am I kidding? To me, this delicacy will always be redolent of centums not scored, expectations not met. I am glad I don’t have to bite into one any more. Thank Hanuman for that!

(A version of this article appeared in the May 2010 issue of Gastronomica, published by the University of California Press. Reprinted with permission.)

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Four ducks on a pond, / A grassbank beyond,

A blue sky of Spring, / White clouds on the wing:

What a little thing / To remember for years –

To remember with tears.

This gem of a lyric A memory, by William Allingan (1824-1889) could surely as well depict the Northeast Monsoon scenarios in our rural areas where paddy fields and ponds are visited by migratory Pintail ducks.

While raised and pointed midtail gives the duck its name, brown head, black nape, white band on either side, white neck, white breast and white abdomen help its identification.

The paddy field ponds around Vedanthangal and Karikili are visited by small gatherings of Pintails. As strict protection prevails here, Pintails are not shy and wary and it is easy to approach them for a closer view.

I have been seeing them since the 1999 season, preferring Pintail ponds to crowded main sanctuaries. Though the most common duck visiting India in large flocks, Pintails arrive late (October-November) and leave early (January-February). They are not divers and do not hide under water. They sit light and high on water, their long tails and necks giving them a graceful appearance. Their flight is swift and exceedingly recognisable. The whirring of the wings is soft on the ear. A hissing swish-swish is the sound of their flight. Apart from this we hear a distinct quack and low colloquial chuckle.

Sometimes I see only males in a flock, closely floating.

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Looking at Africa & India

The Masque of Africa: Glimpses of African Belief
V. S. Naipaul (Picador India, Rs. 595).

The Washington Post succinctly sums up the master storyteller’s latest travel writing thus: “Richly detailed and deeply affecting ... He writes ... with great delicacy and precision, and his individual cases have depth and humanity…”

This work of non-fiction takes the ageing czar of the publishing world across six countries of the Dark Continent, including Uganda where he lived, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Ghana and South Africa.  Peppered with interviews, anecdotes, quotes and candid insights, The Masque… explores the lives of people from all walks of life – teachers, students, chefs, kings, acquaintances, their friends – and tries to dissect  and explain their cultural beliefs and idiosyncrasies.

Enraged at times, funny at times, even thoughtful, the book brings back the Naipaul of The House For Biswas.

* * *

First Draft: Witness to Making of Modern India
B.G. Verghese (Tranquebar Press, Rs. 695).

“The book presents an honest picture (of India) as I saw it evolving… It’s not written from my current point of view; in fact, it reflects my contemporary feeling then,” said B.G. Verghese of his latest work.

The front page of The Times of India on June 21, 1927, the day that George Verghese was born, carried only advertisements, as was the general practice at the time; while the inside pages carried reports that mill shares were sagging; Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel was offering satyagraha in Nagpur; and aviation history was being made by Captain Charles Lindbergh’s historic trans-Atlantic flight. All this and more was available to the reader for the price of one anna.

Twenty two years later, in 1949, George Verghese joined The Times of India as a young reporter. The 17 years that he spent with the paper saw him witness stories and events that were as varied and colourful as those in the issue that appeared on the day he was born. India had just begun its journey as a free country. Jawaharlal Nehru was at the helm, and the future was full of hope and promise as the Republic’s first Constitution was rolled out, but tragedies like Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination and the 1961 war with China lay ahead. George Verghese not only had, as he puts it, “a worm’s eye view” of these events as they unfolded, but reported on them with honesty, depth, and accuracy that stayed with him throughout his 60 years as a journalist and editor.

His career as a journalist was halted briefly when Indira Gandhi summoned him to the PMO as her first Information Advisor in 1966. The two years that he spent in this role created a bond of mutual respect and admiration. It speaks volumes for Verghese’s integrity that this did not prevent him from becoming one of Mrs. Gandhi’s strongest critics when she declared a State of Emergency in 1975. The night the Emergency was declared, the Government ordered a complete shutdown of power on Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg, New Delhi’s Fleet Street, so that no newspaper could come out the next morning. In a rather amusing bureaucratic glitch, the powers that be ‘forgot’ about The Hindustan Times, whose office was in Connaught Place, with George Verghese as its Editor-in-Chief. As a result, The Hindustan Times was the only paper to appear on June 26, 1975, with a blank editorial on its front page as a mark of protest against the silencing of the media.

Such protests, however, did not stand Verghese in good stead, leading to his ouster from the paper a short while later. Ironically, it was in the same year that he received the Ramon Magsaysay award for Journalism, Literature and Creative Communication.

After seven years pursuing many issues close to his heart, such as working with the Gandhi Peace Foundation, chairing the Working Group on broadcast autonomy for AIR and Doordarshan, and a brief foray into active politics as an Opposition candidate during the March 1977 elections, Verghese returned to mainstream journalism as Editor-in-Chief of The Indian Express in 1982. The preceding years, however, saw the lifting of the Emergency. As Verghese puts it, though he lost the 1977 elections, he felt he had won the war, because it was these elections that saw the routing of the Congress and an end to the long, dark night that had engulfed the nation for two dreadful years.

At 83, Verghese’s long and distinguished career, which has included chairmanship of the Prasar Bharati Committee and roles such as Information Consultant to the Defence Minister, Member of the National Security Advisory Board and of the Kargil Review Committee, is far from over. He remains active on issues such as water resources, human rights, and insurgency in the Northeast. His story is nothing less than a First Draft of India’s post-Independence history.

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