Oliver, Kennedy and Appar Swamy - Madras Special

Another guest post on the Madras Special on Mylapore by Sharath Chandra, popularly known as Shirty in media and advertising circles .As he introduces himself  - " Sharath 'Shirty' Chandra works in Media and these views expressed here are personal. His love for Madras, that's official. "

I met Shirty almost a decade ago in Madras, after several rounds of email exchanges between us . He came home one hot summer afternoon, to visit, nay interview me - a jaundiced soul, for a job with Radio Mirchi . It was probably the only interview in my life where the boss visited the candidate in her home for an interview - But that is Shirty for you . I did get the job - it was for Head of Programming for Radio Mirchi and Shirty and I hit it off together . Many years later, Shirty moved to Mumbai and then London , but his love for Madras keeps reflecting in his FB statuses now and then . A great punner and a man who has several PJs up his sleeve, Shirty instantly agreed to send a piece on Madras and Mylapore, where he grew up..

Over to Shirty now..

A few Sundays ago, on one of those rare sunny English summer afternoons, sunk in a sofa by the verandah and lulled by the stillness and quiet of Mayfair, I caught myself  asking why there did not seem to be a word that captured this delightful kind of day.

Much later did it not occur to me there indeed was a word - Mylapore 1970s. (Two words, not one, but still). And its sweet spot in my opinion– an idyll leafy housing colony nestled between Oliver, Kennedy, and Appar Swamy Streets, where I grew up.

Though more than 35 years have passed I can vividly recall the memories of nearly all my childhood that I spent there. And the ones that stand out most being the long days of summer. Blessed by the absence of TV (there was one in the entire colony!) and with few friends of my age, I was, it seems, left to my own devices to keep myself busy. One such summer resulted in mastering cycling on my friends BSA. And when I was blamed (unfairly, in my opinion) for twisting the handlebar and thus had my borrowing privileges revoked I longed for my own. But the hints were firmly ignored by my parents, ostensibly for safety reasons. Not long after, when running an errand (a weekly routine of taking Peaberry +Arabica beans to get roasted and ground at the ‘coffee machine kadai’ in Appar Swamy Street, with strict instructions to sit on the bench and watch that the ‘fellow’ did not ‘substitute’), I noticed that the curmudgeonly Loganathan (or Logu to his pals) who ran the ‘repair’ shop next door had started a Hire Cycle business. To the uninitiated, ‘repair shops’ usually squeezed in the no-mans land between  two shops, are places where you could get the reasonably uncomplicated domestic contraptions fixed - electric irons, immersion-heaters, taps, lamps and such. If you were lucky, they would work afterwards too.  Clearly business had been good for Logu and he decided to diversify into the mobile (!) business. Parked in front of his shop were a clutch of cycles of varying vintage and makes – Raleigh, Atlas and even a brand new Hercules. Mustering up the courage to enquire, I paled when he told me the rates - 20 paise per hour for the older ones and 25 paise per hour for the brand new Hercules (it had a dynamo also). There was, of course, no question of ‘initial deposit’ (this was 70’s Madras; everyone knew everyone and probably still does!). To put the hire charges into context, my other objets d’desire then: NP Bubble Gum 15 paise, Commando Comic (at Easwari Lending Library) 25 paise, Bombay Halwa House Samosa 50 paise. And as pocket money to pursue my desires, I received monthly a princely sum of zero, save a tidy Rs. 5 for the entire summer, a reward for a (reasonably) blemish-free report card for the year that went by.

Oh, the joy that summer, and all thanks to Logu’s Hire Cycle. Throwing caution and budget to the wind, I sneaked away almost every afternoon for an expedition into the far reaches of Mylapore. (And sometimes, even as far as Santhome!) . The plan was simple. Every day around noon, when the household and the entire neighborhood slumbered into their siesta, I would tiptoe out, to Logu’s. Pay 20 p. Hop onto a cycle. Pedal away furiously for an hour. In any direction that caught my fancy. And to avoid the traffic (such as it was then!) and chance detection, more subterfuge - avoid the ‘big’ roads!

So began my forays into the great unknown, intrepidly zigging and zagging into Cross Streets and Main Roads that seemed to meet and intersect in complexities of varying geometric and algebraic proportions. I quickly learnt that CIT Colony’s Cross Streets followed the elegant 1st, 2nd, 3rd system. Whereas R A Puram’s Main Roads followed the more imposing Roman I, II, III. And the minor inconvenience presented by lanes that were not worthy of the title of a ‘Main Road’ or too friendly to be a ‘Cross Street’ was ingeniously overcome by calling them Link Streets. Whizzing past on my (t)rusty Atlas, none of these nuances escaped my attention(a skill that has stood me in good stead since, helping me flip through 30-slide PowerPoint printout just minutes before a meeting and holding forth thereon knowledgeably).

Emboldened by my escapades I ventured further North, crossing Edward Elliots Road, in pursuit of thrills. And Commando Comics. As a callow youth, barely into my teens, the greatest repository of excitement then was Easwari Lending Library on Lloyds Road, run by the doughty Mr. Palani. Summer afternoons spent in the cramped confines of his splendid establishment with just one table fan that would function at the mercy of either the EB or its thrifty Proprietor, was the result of a weekly pilgrimage in the quest of the latest Commando Comics. Having reached there on the ill-affordable hire-cycle, I had little time to waste - sifting through the stacks of titles to sort out the newer ones, surreptitiously read one or two while pretending to flip through and finally plea bargain my way out with the Proprietor who was prone to mood swings (especially when callow youth would try and defer payment). With the mission somewhat accomplished, I would snap the books onto the equally recalcitrant ‘carrier’ on the back of the cycle and then race back to return it to the clock-watching Logu. And then sneak back home. 

And it was not always the pursuit of visceral thrills either. On one mission I noticed, tucked between the wall of Luz Church and Kennedy Street, a tiny lane which for some reason never seemed to have been baptized. Local legend had it that kindly neighbors took it into their fold and affectionately called it Kennedy 2nd Street. While the reason for naming it Kennedy Street in the first instance never really intrigued me then, many years later, ruminating on this and that as one is wont to, the ineffable wisdom (or humor!) of naming a tiny narrow lane less than five-feet wide after a man whose far-reaching vision galvanized humanity into putting man on the moon seemed to be wholly in character with the denizens of that tiny corner of Madras - Mylapore.

More than three decades later in London, I cheered when visiting friends took their daughters cycling though Hyde Park. And smiled when a recently married young friend tells me her partner and she had made Sunday cycling their routine. A more propitious sign for a life-time of excitement and thrills couldn’t be had! As for me, our recent move here seemed to have coincided with the launch of a Barclays/Boris hire-cycle scheme right in the heart of London. And this one costs a Pound for an hour! So as I sneak off on summer afternoons to explore the lanes and mews Mayfair and beyond (taking care to avoid the ‘big’ roads), life, it seems, has come a full cycle.  

Madras special - Memories of cricket and Besant Nagar

Coming up next on the Madras special is Vijay Kumar's memories of playing cricket in Besant Nagar. Vijay, who has left Madras more than six years ago is now based in Singapore and has just managed a cricket tournament in Singapore. While most of us know about Vijay, the heritage enthusiast who authors the blog, Poetry in Stone , here is another facet to him . 


Over to Vijay ..


I grew up on the shores of Besant Nagar - the best of my memories are from there. Work moved me to Singapore 6 years ago but the heart still wanders along the Catamarans and tennis ball cricket. I work in a Shipping company overseeing their operations in South east asia, and apart from temple art which is my hobby, i still play active cricket in the singapore local league second division. I also manage a team in the singapore T20 event and we were worthy runners up last weekend, being undefeated in the league stage. Kiwi Speed legend Shane Bond was our start attraction apart from former National players like Russel Arnold of Srilanka and Venkatramana of India, combining well with emerging stars of singapore cricket like Chetan, Chaminda, Abhiraj, Varun, Pramod etc. It was a great experience as we rubbed shoulders with legends like Sanath Jayasurya, Shoaib Akthar, Dirk Nannes, Imran Farhat and Alok kapali. It was great for Singapore cricket that the Man of the Tournament was a local boy Anish Param.

I thank LS for giving me an opportunity to rewind and think of the glorious days under the Chennai sun


The image of Elliots beach brings with it sprawling sands, the salty spray tinged with its fishy smell from the drying nets and salted fish, as we nimbly jumped over rows of kattaramarans to fetch the ball. Cricket on the beach had its advantages and disadvantages. The lack of a proper pitch meant that you were fed on a diet of full tosses, but the flip side was you could show off your athletic skills pulling off stunning catches with acrobatic dives without scapping your knees or elbows. For the imitation Kichas ( Krish Srikkant for us) there was no threat of breaking window panes nor lost balls at sea - for the  ball would float and the waves would bring it back to shore no matter how monstrous your six was. Showmen that we were, there was no dearth of audiences - we wouldn't compete with the Eden gardens but we had our own loyal pensioners and auto drivers to support. The legalities of the ill fated East Coast road, meant that we had the best of both worlds. A large tarred road with no traffic with sands on both sides and we temporarily moved further up from Elliots to the shores by the Kalakshetra compunds.

The typical weekend would start with the main investments - The bat, stumps and the ball. Bats were not a problem, as the soft ball would not damage the wood, but then cricket was not restricted only to the sands. Most often the need for solid pitches meant that we would takeover main roads and that meant broken handles and eroded bats - yes, many a bat would be ground to leave just their handles ! Broken ones were mended with an assortment of nails, robber bands fashioned out of cycle tyre tubes and even the humble thread soaked in fevicol. Stumps were the easiest - three brick lines on the neighbors compound wall to start with, but then that meant there would be no Keeper and no play possible behind the stumps. Innovation drove us to the veragu thotti ( dry wood shop) in Vannathurai were we would choose the young casuarina sticks, paid by weight and an afternoon of peeling its dark outer bark to leave a shining  offwhite set of stumps - 3 would do, as most often we played one side and the bowler had his ever dependable brick as his stump, with current for run out - meaning, if he has his leg on the brick and catches the ball - is akin to breaking the wickets.

The balls were the most difficult accessory, as they were consumables. The cheapest were the rubber balls - but they would hardly last, the next option being sold ` cork' balls but then that meant we would risk a more expensive tool - the bat. The best alternative was the ` Tennis' ball - hardy ones that bounce well - and even when they go bald you can play with them. The problem was that they were available only in the Tennis courts and Besant Nagar had two - one near the Main bus terminus and one near the ` oval' ground by the beach. They would ocassionally sell ` used' balls but they needed an expert eye to judge their longevity.

Most kids initiation to the game was tough - the elders, be it the young office goers in the different Bank Quarters or the rough inhabitants of the various fishermen colonies - the ritual was to be a spectator fetching balls for a season, and then be a substitute for some more seasons, before a chance housewife who had had enough of her ` young' husbands cricketing honors pulls him out last minute and you get your golden chance to be part of the team !

Once you were in, you shone with pride and your name would be utterred in reverence. Opponents would check out your skills and your name would spread - there were quite a few tradiional rivalry - the RBI Quarters team, the CPWD quarters teams etc. They had their senior teams and junior teams and the fervor would match a India Pakisthan match in Sharjah.

The options to progress to the hall of fame was to play the Cricket ball - there was only one ground in Besant Nagar those days - the Amar CC ground which has been sadly lost to make way for the Rajaji Bhavan. School teams were not that popular those days and hence club cricket was the only avenue for us to see the red cherry and white kits.

We more than made up for it with our own tennis ball tournaments and mini tournaments, the most popular being the floodlit tournaments organised by the Shastri Nagar Sharks - with teams parading an incredible ensemble of mascots from Mosquitos to Scorpions. It drove our parents mad, darkened our already mango grey ( maa Niram) but taught us the game, its spirit and kept us away from bad company and the idiot box 

Eagle Nest National Park

Blogger and photographer Arun Bhat will be sharing some of his unique experiences in this post as he travels to the Eagle Nest National Park in Arunachal Pradesh

My introduction to Eaglenest National Park happened through a forwarded email. It was the first time I was hearing about this place, but since I had been contemplating a visit to North East India for some time, I decided to take another look. It was a park recently opened to tourists in the remote corner of the country, bordering Bhutan and China. Probing further revealed that the park had a biodiversity unheard of in rest of the country. I wasted no time in signing up for the tour and booking my tickets.

The days before the visit were spent browsing through bird book and remembering names of bird species that I had never heard of, and reading about a landscape that varied so much across the park that you would barely need a sweater in one corner of the park in a season when it snows at the other corner. While the southern edge of Eaglenest was less than 1000 feet in altitude, the other end was more than ten thousand feet high. There was tropical rainforest in one end while the other end sported conifers. No wonder Eaglenest boasted of so much diversity.

Walking the park from end to end and looking for birds in the forest, I was surprised to see absence of any kind of birds I have seen before, except the ubiquitous crows. They came in all shapes and colours, though most of them were small and had bright plumage. The cutias, as the name indicates, were so beautiful that I lost track and nearly fell into a gorge when I kept my eyes craned on one of them and walked behind it. 

The yellow-bellied fantails with their lemon-yellow colour fanned their tails and moved quickly from branch to branch, never stopping to post for a picture. Mrs. Gould’s sunbirds revealed so many hues on its back that I had to stop counting after sometime. It was like being in a bird-heaven full of avian apsaras.

The forest itself was as beautiful as the birds. I walked through paths littered with bright red rhododendrons, bunch of purple wildflowers and trees full of drooping lichens. The thick trees never revealed all the animal life hidden in their depths, but we knew Eaglenest was home to a large number of elephants and an existing population of large cats. They could wait for another visit, but the birds surely kept me occupied and entertained in the seven days I spent at the park.

Posted by Arun Bhat for Affordable Calling Cards which offers long distance calling cards like international phone cards to India 

Cultures of India

I havent been travelling much for the couple of months and hence there is very little to post about my trips. Ive been recently interested in birds and although the identification parade is a little new to me, Im very happy to be in the midst of a forest and observe them , their colours and their behaviour. However, Im not going to post anything about them as yet, but here is a guest post from an acclaimed travel writer, blogger and photographer Arun Bhat.

Arun has been blogging on India Travel Blog for more than four years and Im inspired by him totally. An IT professional, Arun gave up his day job to drive down the road not taken. He also has a flickr group where he shares and reviews photographs and gives tips on photography. Over to Arun, who is now taking us behind the scenes of performing arts of our country with his photographs .

Across the length of the country, we see so many cultures that have their own distinct identities. The way of life, festivals, celebrations and arts vary from state to state, and many times, from one corner of a state to other. A few hours of journey can take us to a different landscape inhabited by people with no resemblance to those from the place we have left behind. Art forms of various kind exist all along. The one similarity among these is the love of celebratory colours that get used generously. Here is an attempt to capture those colours in frame.


Kathakali. A dance-drama from Kerala with a history of more than 400 years. The make-up and costume of Kathakali artists is so elaborate that it takes more than six hours for the team to get ready for the performance. It was once called Ramanattam, as the the story narrated was always from Ramayana. Over the years, Kathakali expanded to performing stories from Mahabharatha. The artist in picture is angry Bheema in search of Dushyasana, eager to avenge the humiliation of many years.


Theyyam. Another art form from Kerala, popular in the northern districts of Kasargod and Kannur. Theyyam is always performed at a temple premises, and each temple tends to have its own variation of the Theyyam. The deity of the temple speaks through the artist during the performance, and the devotees often gather to ask questions and request solutions for their problems.


Yakshagana. It is hard not to draw parallels between Kathakali and Yakshagana, a dance-drama from coastal Karnataka. Yakshagana too, narrates stories from Ramayana and Mahabharatha. The dances however vary considerably. While Kathakali artists never speak but enact in silence, Yakshagana mixes music with conversations between artists, a bit like a modern play.

Bhoothada Kola. Another art form from costal Karnata too, has parallels with its neighbour in the form of Theyyam. The costumes are different but similar, and so are some intricacies of the performances.


Another performing art from Karnataka, captured at the government sponsored folk festival in Bangalore.


The cham dances are an intriguing performance in the regions of India that were once under Tibetan influence. One can see cham dance performances in the monasteries of Sikkim, Himachal Pradesh and Ladakh. The dances represent the triumph of good over evil, and are an essential part of festivals in the monasteries.

Capturing performances can pose several challenges to the photographer. Low light can be a major problem in stage shows. Distance to the stage may not enable the photographer to get up close with the artists. When the performance happens in an open arena, like in the case of Theyyam, finding a convenient place to shoot and make space among the crowds is a difficult proposition. The swift movement of the artists can add to the challenge in all occasions.

Good equipment can help overcome some of these problems. The on-stage low light is countered with fast lenses with wide aperture, and camera/lenses that compensate for movement and vibration. A long telephoto lens can help captures expressions of the performers. Alertness of the photographer is equally important. Often, there is little time to get your camera in position, compose and then shoot. By the time one is ready, the artist would have moved on to the next step, leaving the photographer without a shot of that special moment. The way out is to stay ready all the time, with the viewfinder cupped to the eye. In many occasions when the steps are repetitive, use predictability to your advantage.

It is important to capture every possible visualizations. A wide angle shot covering the entire stage with many artists and musicians gives a perspective of what is happening. A close-up shot showing the elaborate make-up and facial expressions brings the subject alive and conveys the emotions involved to the viewer.

Post from Guest Blogger - Was this an inspiration for Angkorvat ?

After completing 100 posts, I wanted a breath of fresh air in my blog. And I thought I should have a guest blogger, someone whom I recently met and who has been an inspiration for me when I go on my trails. I frequently chew his head for information and he patiently narrates snippets of South Indian history. I have learnt to appreciate Indian sculptures better and understand the nuances of Indian art as well. VJ is a shipping professional from Madras (Chennai) and I met him through another friend Siva. VJ is currently based in Singapore and has a keen interest in Indian sculptures . By his own admission, he learns something new every 6 months and its not just in arts . Sports - golf, cricket,soccer,hockey, shot put, shuttle..is his other interest. In arts, he has learnt calligraphy,Tanjore painting, glass painting,oil painting, sketching and cartooning,wood carving and pyrography.He has even designed furniture with old tea bushes. Do read his blog www.poetryinstone.in, which is a veritable treasure house of knowledge and here is a gem from there .Over to VJ..

At the outset my thanks to Lakshmi for asking me write this blog in her site as a guest. After dabbling in many subjects, I finally found my hearts fill in sculpture. The call of this dying art is unique -these images are dormant yet speak volumes, and like learning a new language once your learn their tongue, its sheer poetry in stone.

Since this site is about backpacking and travel, thought I would mix a bit of both in this post - so I introduce you to a little known monument - Masroor.

Call it serendipity, but i was looking for a good picture of the Mahabalipuram test panel when i came across a familiar face - a real stud who turned out to be my buddy from preschool. We chatted up and promptly in a couple weeks he sent me some pictures of his visit to Himachal Pradesh, to a hither too unheard of place (at least to me) called Masroor.

What I saw blew me away. The Masroor temple complex is in Himachal Pradesh ( near Kangra - 20kms and Dharamsala - 45 kms. At a distance the sandstone hill doesn't quite give up it secrets - a late 8th Century rock cut Shiva temple. Hailing from Chennai Rock cut shrines and caves are my particular favorites, not just for their artistic skill but also for their complexity ( need to carved in situ on live rock - top down) - they are many superb examples of this in South India and western India but had not expected something of this scale,size and most importantly the style.

I am sure all of you have heardof Angkorwat - a 11th Century Cambodian temple complex. What interested me with Masroor is the uncanny resemblance /similarity between these two - complete with the tank in front - beautifully mirroring the structure on top.

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2007/08/photogalleries/Angkor-pictures/

The relief carvings are amazingly detailed but have borne the brunt of nature, yet my imagination runs wild when I think of how these beauties would have looked when they were sculpted or does the aging adding to their beauty. Angkor got its fame from the overgrowth of vegetation and Angelina Jolie/ Lara Croft, maybe Masroor needs
Priyanka Chopra to do a similar one to gain recognition.


Could this have been the inspiration behind Angkor ?