S.V. Venkatesan on simple pastimes, dedicated school teachers and attending political meetings at Mangollai
My father died when I was eight years old, and we came to Madras from Calcutta, to live with my grandfather, a retired post-office superintendent, in Bazaar Street, Mylapore. A devout man, I remember how his thevaram tevaram chant was our daily wake-up call.
We next moved to a small house on Appu Mudali Street, off Santhome High Road, then virtually a palm grove, with Christian and Muslim neighbours. The crashing waves were a constant background score.
I played cricket regularly on the open grounds beside the cemetery behind Oceanic Hotel — with sticks for stumps, sharing a bat with teammates. Shoes? Pads? Unheard of! Some boys came from affluent homes. But, there was not much difference in the way we dressed or behaved. True, the tiffin in their homes was special, but they thoroughly enjoyed my mother's idli or upma .
Curfew time was 6.50 p.m. We finished homework, ate thayir saadham and went early to bed. My grandfather insisted on getting up at dawn, and reading The Hindu to improve my English! Carrom and cards were indoor favourites, so was the spinning pambaram , a forgotten game that demanded an adroit wrist.
I read Kumudam and Ananda Vikatan , followed their serial stories with the involvement commanded by TV shows today. I remember Tulu-speaking Panduranga Prabhu, who brought out Kahaniyan , a Hindi magazine, from his den upstairs in a tiny lane off Palathope, Mylapore.
At Bon Secours Convent and P.S. High School, my teachers were extremely kind. Simple, they were mysteriously effective in communicating knowledge! They probably earned Rs. 150 per month, but had a rare rectitude. Not tuition crazy, they believed that everything should be learnt in class, at school time. How delighted they were when I secured high marks!
English teacher Amirtham Iyer was an M.A., uncommon in those days. When panchakacham -clad Subrahmanya Iyer taught Sanskrit, it became a living language. Of course, we boys had secret nicknames for the teachers — ‘Pudalangai', or ‘London Lady' (for our brilliant maths teacher Narasimhachari with a finicky gait)!
Moral Science class was frequently ‘cut' by students. Today, I see the value in those stories from different religions. At P.S. High School we remained strangers to class distinctions, we didn't know or care about the caste or creed of our friends.
My uncle had trained with a disciple of Ambi Dikshitar, a descendant of Muthuswami Dikshitar. Whenever uncle came in jibba and mul veshti, our house rang with Panchashatpeetharupini and Kamalamba bhajare . My love for Sanskrit was enhanced by his Trisati and Sahasranamam . Other visitors, such as a name-now-forgotten singer from Orissa, made extraordinary music in this humble ambience.
Grandfather took me to the Music Academy concerts, then held at the P.S. High School and Rasika Ranjani Sabha. Once Mali put his flute down and sat still for an hour before resuming the cutcheri . The hopeful audience sat equally still! I have seen N. Ramani playing for the gods beside a lotus-brimming Mylapore tank in that noise-free world. Who could pull crowds as Madurai Mani Iyer did at the Kapali Kovil? How we waited for his special tukkadas — English Note and Eppo Varuvaro ...!
I loved to attend political speeches at Mangollai, where East and North Mada Streets intersect. Kamarajar was down to earth, Rajaji sharp and humorous. Karunanidhi and Nedunchezhian made us feel the power and intensity of the Tamil tongue. When Annadurai died, huge crowds choked the streets in a natural outpouring of love and grief for a good man.
I dread walking on the streets now, but back then, walking was a habit for most — to school, college, playground, cutcheri , cinema theatre or stadium. Every street had a cool, sun-shielding canopy of overarching trees. We walked to Kapali theatre or Casino to get mukkaalanna (three-fourths of an anna ) tickets. The whole hall wept over ‘Kanavane Kankanda Deivam'!
We stood in pre-dawn queues at Chepauk for Test match tickets. Our college gang took leaf-wrapped pottalams of idli /lime/curd rice, drums, pipes, cymbals… What a thrill to see live the super-speed of Gilchrist and Hall! Or Budhi Kunderan's batting — swashbuckling, but hardly match-winning. Nadkarni bowled 40 wicket-less maiden overs, while Barrington dourly blocked every delivery. The crowd could admire their rock-like patience, note subtleties, strategies.
In the Madras ‘village' visitors came unannounced, rarely leaving without sharing lunch and tiffin . Houseguests were common. No privacy, everyone ate together and slept on a jamakkalam spread on the living room floor. There was time for bonding, more give than take, certainly more tolerance.
BIO: Born in 1939, S.V. Venkatesan joined the Essar Group as Group Financial Controller in 1986 after 24 years with the State Bank of India. S.V. Venkatesan (born 1939), A gold medallist from Madras University (Commerce) joined the Essar Group as Group Financial Controller (1986).h he has spearheaded the group's finance function. has been responsible for resource mobilisation through capital markets and institutions to fund the capital intensive projects of the group; drafted and implemented financial policies for FOREX management, accounting, working capital management and capital structuring. Instrumental in Essar Gujarat Ltd being one of the first Indian corporates to tap international markets to raise funds for its steel project, Venkatesan is on the board of the major operation companies of the Essar group. A lover of Carnatic music, he is an avid reader of books on Vedanta.
