“Vasundharana vishala patapara viraja tun Vaikhunt!”

The Theosophical Society's headquarters buildings

We used to sing this song in school. We didn’t understand all the words – in the 1950s Hindi was far less spoken than now and the words were sounds, not meanings. We did, however, recognise it as a paean of praise to Adyar.

Adyar in those days really meant the estate of the Theosophical Society (TS), for there was little else but paddy fields, casuarina plantations, our school – the Olcott Memorial School – and the Tiruvanmiyur temple, at this end of town. Living within the TS grounds was indeed a privilege.

The estate covered two hundred acres or more. Held in the sweeping arms of the Adyar river and the Bay of Bengal, from above it was a malachite jungle, set in a filigree of sand by the jade coloured sea. Beneath its over-arching green canopy were well-maintained roads, thoughtfully planned gardens, ancient trees, coconut and casuarina plantations, fruit orchards and meandering pathways.

The mansions that were scattered about (nearly all early acquisitions) gave a certain genteel graciousness to the place. The Headquarters Hall was always well-maintained, manicured and groomed within and without. The others - Blavatsky Bungalow, Olcott Gardens, Bell Bungalow – were like dowagers past their prime, somewhat unkempt, even shabby, but with a certain dignity and class that neither mildew nor peeling paint could completely destroy. Best of all, as housing was allocated according to family sizes and needs, they were not empty shells, monuments to their previous prestige, but homes that some of our playmates and their families lived in. This gave them a warm, human dimension.

More recent dwellings were built by members of the TS, I believe, on the understanding that the properties would revert to the Society when their owners died. My grandfather Ranganatha Mudaliar built Ranga Vilas, near Bell Bungalow, under one of these agreements. These houses were of styles as varied as the backgrounds or the imaginations of the owners and builders. Sevashrama had onion-shaped domes that could have graced a Russian roofscape. One of my favourites was a neat, uncluttered house probably built post-war, in 1920s, Art Deco style. Another dear little place was a faceted oval with a double staircase on the outside – like a grand staircase to a public building or an Italian villa, but this was but a tiny gem of a house. And the most unusual one of all was a War-time relic from when troops were housed within the grounds: three Nissan huts around a central sandy square, and in it, deep among the casuarinas, lived one of the largest and most delightful families.

Many homes, like the one we lived in (not Ranga Vilas, that had already been bequeathed to the TS), were lime-washed variations of traditional Indian dwellings: a welcoming verandah, a cluster of rooms, one arm of the L-shape housing the kitchen and bathroom, a walled courtyard with a well squaring it off. Each had its own little garden. However, these paled into insignificance amidst the well- kept gardens of the entire estate. Immediately next to us was a banyan tree (the Chinna ala maram), the slate-covered platform around it a designated meeting place for us children and countless others.

If the houses were eclectic, the people were even more so, individualistic as might be expected, some bordering on the eccentric, all living here not quite cheek by jowl, but chugging along quite happily together. There were Indians from north, south, east and west as well as a fair sprinkling of British, Americans, Spanish, New Zealanders, Australians – the TS was a broad church indeed. The Chinna ala maram, at the top end of the arterial concrete road, was a good vantage point from where to observe all. There were very few cars, bicycles were the transport of choice and most went past this tree on the way to almost everywhere.

Many expats had adopted Indian kurtas and pyjamas as best suited for the sticky weather. Others created their own signature styles. One Dutchman wore brightly-coloured polo shirts and shorts (coloured polo shirts were not a common commodity then as now – I wonder where he sourced them from!). An Englishman who had “Green” in his surname wore Robin Hood-green shorts every day of the year. And the ‘bare baron’, as we called him, was a Polish nobleman who wore only shorts and a hat in the sticky weather.

Under the Chinna ala maram was often seated a petite, eagle-eyed, Brahmin woman with shaved hair, her widow’s garb, a rough textured saree, covering her head and pulled tightly back. We sat with her while waiting for friends. A stranger might have seen her as a forlorn figure. In fact, all or most of the people riding past would stop to talk to her or wave and ‘Paatti’, as all knew her, would wave back. This interaction of Paatti and the disparate community around us did not strike us as being unusual. It was just a humdrum daily occurrence. We were living in a salad bowl, if not yet a melting pot. Social change was washing over us as waves over fish but we were oblivious to it all!

Many years later in Delhi I heard a story that reminded me of Paatti under the banyan tree. A friend of mine had married a White Russian. She narrated how she and her husband had both her mother and her father-in-law living with them for many years. Her mother was a conventional Brahmin who dressed in sarees worn in the traditional South Indian style. Her father-in-law was, I imagine, a silver-haired aristocrat with, let’s say, a beard, cravat, cane and impeccable manners. Every evening when the family gathered together, he raised and kissed his dear wife’s hand with a grand flourish. And her mother, said my friend, blushed like a bride but never refrained from extending her hand out for him with a beaming smile! I need scarcely add that this family too had links with Adyar and the Theosophical community.

There was a tradition of making foreign names Tamil-friendly. Annie Besant was always spoken of as Vasantamma. In the same vein there were also ‘Tomato’ Amma, and ‘Calendar’ Amma, The former was Madame D, an Italian, who had fled an unhappy marriage (I think!) and made her home in Adyar. Her house was dark with heavy, draped curtains, beaded silk shades and terracotta colours. To my 10-year-old eyes it seemed the height of sophistication. ‘Calendar’ Amma’s American-styled home was quite different – light and airy. Here you sank into fluffy, feather-filled floral cushions on deep rattan sofas and chairs. And there were always nibbles aplenty – bowls of dried figs and nuts on glass topped tables.

A Parsi doctor taught me card tricks. A Spanish exile who had fought against Franco in the Civil War and, therefore, couldn’t go back home to his wife and children, played board games with us. Our neighbour who ran the Dairy was either German or Polish. She went to bed early to be up at dawn and our boisterous family was too noisy at night for her liking. I remember Grandfather listening to the All India Radio (AIR) 9 p.m. news bulletin with his ear glued to the radio so as not to disturb Miss S———berg.

Checking tripadvisor on Google for recent impressions of visitors to the TS, I came across one complaining about the security guards or ‘watchmen’: “ … we felt hounded by the guards … one in particular following by bike with a stick …[!]” says one disgruntled visitor. Too true! But it was the presence of these ubiquitous watchmen that allowed our parents to let us children roam unrestrictedly. We girls especially could explore on our bicycles the whole sweep that was the TS grounds, with never a worry about safety or social strictures current elsewhere at the time.

The only rule enforced by our parents was that, wherever we were, we had to start for home when the ‘gong’ struck at six p. m. The ‘gong’ was the huge Japanese bell that hung in the forecourt of the Buddhist temple, its deep tones reverberating twice a day throughout the grounds. Since nowhere was more than half an hour from our homes, we were home soon after six.

The coconut plantations and fruit orchards had footpaths and bicycle paths meandering under the trees. The casuarina groves were large enough to lose your orientation somewhat, so venturing in was always an ‘Adventure’. There were trees to climb or play under, bumpy paths to ride on, trails to explore, the riverbank and the beach to enjoy. The exhilarating freedom and camaraderie of those days still light up like X’mas lights in my memory. When I think how my mother had gone to school under purdah in Benares, I can only marvel at what a leap of faith our parents took with our upbringing. What a change the TS had wrought in one generation!

The Japanese Bell.

We even ventured into the river, through the narrow fringe of mangroves, to the islands near the bank. Shoeless, squishy, squashy mud between our toes, we didn’t think of water snakes, the sharp stakes of mangrove roots or slugs. We did clean up carefully before heading home; in fact I can’t recollect ever telling our elders about these excursions.

One day the incoming tide caught us. This excursion was not just to the islands, but diagonally across from the beach, towards the Chettinad Palace, on the other side of the river. We didn’t really think we could make it, but when we did, we couldn’t get back because the tide had turned. A long walk on the main San Thomé Road across the Adyar Bridge and to our homes took an hour or two. Well past our curfew time we came home bedraggled indeed.

Although our parents must have been worried, there were no traumatising recriminations, that was how much latitude we were given and, I should add, how relatively secure the TS, Adyar and Madras were in those days. South of the river, it was like living in a village rather than in a metropolis.

Our school was co-educational and our friendships were with boys and girls, as were our games and adventures. These bred a special mateship born out of shared experiences and similar upbringings. I didn’t think of how different our growing up was until in my 40s my friend Indira said to me, “The experiences of your childhood are nothing like those of the rest of us” – and she was from a liberal household!

Was it the ‘land that time forgot?’ Hardly, for members of the TS were involved in the social, educational and political changes sweeping the country. Was it ‘a fleeting wisp of glory called Camelot?’ Not fleeting – for so many of the ideas we grew up with have entered the mainstream, both within India and without. A random list would include gender equality, education for the underprivileged, the Montessori methodology in teaching, ethical treatment of animals, the irrelevance of caste, a revival of interest in Indian art and textiles, cross-cultural tolerance, inter-faith dialogue, global perspectives, New Age movements, the Age of Aquarius, if you like – and much else.

“Sagara saritha sangama ghate adbhuta yeh Adyar”

No wonder we belted out the words so lustily at school!