Madras-Then and Now

Forty years ago, the city of Madras was inaccessible to the people of the northern half of the Presidency by any direct route. Earlier still, they had to sail by a steamer from the ports of Vizagapatam, Cocanada and Masulipatam. In 1898 when I first went to the city to join the Christian College for the B.A. course, we had to go to Bezwada by boat from Ellore. Rajahmundry or Cocanada, then travel by the Southern Mahratta Railway to Guntakal and then reach Madras by the Madras Railway. Soon after, the East Coast Railway was constructed and we could travel up to Gudur, then had to step aside to Renigunta and then make a circuit for reaching Madras. It was only in 1900 that through traffic from Madras to Calcutta was established.

One day, when we were in the B.A. class, an alarm was raised in the classes following a hoot emanating from what is known as the Parry’s Corner. Then, as now, it was a famous and popular landmark in the topography of the city. The hoot was that of a motor-car, and people rushed to see the Hon’ble A. J. Yorke, representative of the Chamber of Commerce in the Madras Legislative Council, driving away in a motor-car. We did not know the names of cars. It was news to us for long that motors had names. Today a child of three tells a car from the hoot, and a child of six reads the numbers and tells the owners’ names. In 1899 there was only one car in Madras–in 1939, well, there must be nearly six or seven thousand of these fast-moving monsters, raising huge clouds of dust, charging the air with the din of their horns and hoots, and accounting for at least two or three accidents a day, albeit abridging time and distance, annihilating the toils and moils of a journey from Mylapore to Tondiarpet, but also draining away crores of Indian money annually. Have we grown richer or poorer these forty years?

In 1898 Thambu Chetti and Lingi Chetti were important streets, and even fashionable for third-rate aristocracy. A1 aristocrats lived in Mylapore and Egmore. There were longstanding feuds between the Mylapore school of lawyers and the Egmore school: Sir Subrahmania Iyer and Bashyam Iyengar were the lions of Mylapore and Sir Sankaran Nair was the lion of Egmore. The A2 class was in old Tondiarpet which was already beginning to be abandoned. Thambu Chetti and Lingi Chetti were important places for lawyers and doctors, and there was no business there, not even a coffee-hotel. Today the business houses have displaced the learned professions. The Christian College has gone over to Tambaram, away from the madding crowds of the city. The College House, inhabited by Doctors Miller, Cooper and Skinner of those days, has been converted into a Co-operative Bank; the College buildings themselves and the Anderson Hall have become the Travancore National and Quilon Bank (under liquidation) and latterly the Karachi Cafe, on a monthly rent, it is said, of Rs. 750; the Students’ Home where I had spent my two years for the B.A. is now a big restaurant, and the Fenn Hostel is being rebuilt as the Andhra Insurance Co., Ltd.

The old Light House had just been abandoned and the new one installed in the High Court grounds. The Law College was just then completed with its two lofty domes visible from afar. It was being proudly stated that the contractor was Mr. Namberumall Chetti–an Andhra; but there was no Andhra consciousness yet. The Flower Bazaar was as busy as it is today, but Govindappa Naik Street and those round about–Godown Street, Narayana Mudali and Mint Streets–had not yet been invaded as much as now by the Marwaris. Mr. G. A. Natesan (now Dewan Bahadur) had not started his Indian Review. The Y. M. C. A. was completed and occupied and in working order. One incident worthy of note was the visit of the Hon’ble John Wanamaker, Post-Master-General, United States of America (Washington), who had donated a lakh and twenty-five thousand rupees for the Y.M.C.A. building in Madras. He came to Madras in the morning from Ceylon and left the same night. In the evening he addressed an audience in the Y.M.C.A. auditorium and, pointing to Lord Ampthill, the Governor, who presided, said, "Look at this tall young man"–the fact was, while the Governor was 6 feet 6 inches, the Post-Master-General was less than 5 feet in height–"these are the days of young men; let not the young women here get jealous,–these are the days of young women too. My dream is that of a World-State with one king, one postage stamp, one writ and one coin."

The High Court had only five judges in 1898; today it has 14 judges. On one occasion all the five judges assembled in a Full Bench, and wearing their red robes sat in judgment over a sensational case, called the Military Accounts Subrahmanya Iyer case. There were four Subrahmanyams of repute at the time, hence the distinguishing appellation of the aforesaid accused. There were Justice Subrahmanya Iyer, Administrator-General Subrahmanyam, and Attorney Subrahmanya Iyer. The last was a short thickset person who has kept the memory of himself fresh by the P. Subrahmanya Iyer Charities in Mylapore. Justice Subrahmanya Iyer was a B.L., but not a B.A. His predecessor, Sir T. Muthuswamy Iyer, was only an F.A., B.L., so to put it. If I remember right, it was Sir V. Bhashyam Iyengar–the father-in law of S. Srinivasa Iyengar, to speak of present-day relationships–that was one of our earliest B.A., B.L.’s.

The Law College in 1898, 1899 and 1900 was being held in the Senate House and the Presidency College after 5.30 or 6 in the evenings, to enable practising lawyers like V. Krishna swamy Iyer, P. R. Sundara Iyer, P. S. Sivaswamy Iyer, C. Ramachandra Rao Saheb and others to lecture to the law students. The students themselves, like their professors, were only half-time students, for, during the day, they were accepting posts and earning salaries.

The Presidency College, then as now, was the fashionable college for aristocratic young men. The professors were making fun of the missionary professors of the Christian College. But the professors in the Presidency College were a curious lot. One Mr. Stuart had filled all the chairs by turns, and, like the members of the I.C.S., the I.E.S people were considered good enough for any job. Prof. Rangachariar, amongst Indians, successively filled the chairs of Physics. History, Sanskrit and Philosophy. He was really a man of versatile genius. By that time Prof. Ranganatha Mudaliar’s name was only a memory. There was Prof. Seshagiri Sastri, Professor of Languages.

We saw how there were no motors in those days. The Governor used to go in a double-horse landau. The judges of High Court had all splendid pairs of horses, jet black, steel grey, pure white, chestnut. So had the leaders of the Bar and also a merchant prince, Sir Savalai Ramaswami Mudaliar. This last gentleman had a pair of diamond ear-rings and a beautiful pair of horses and always drove in a chaise and pair. The story goes that, when he became insolvent, he drove to the High Court as usual, and when some cantankerous creditor said he must part with his pair of ear-rings and his turn-out, he smilingly said, "My Lord, let these be taken and me be discharged, or let these be retained and me be left to discharge the last pie of my obligations."

In those days the General Hospital was open in the mornings. The doctors used to be in attendance from 7 to 10 A.M.–not 10 A.M. to 1 P.M. as now. The doctors were known by their wards as M1, M2, M3, M4 and S1, S2, S3. Now the wards are known by the doctors’ names. In those days professorships were attached to positions. For instance, the first Physician used to teach Medicine, the second Hygiene, the third Pathology, and the fourth Materia Medica. Likewise the first Surgeon used to teach Surgery, the second Anatomy, the third Biology and Physiology, and so on. The Lunatic Asylum of those days has become the Mental Hospital of today. The Eye Infirmary and the Obstetric Hospital were where they are today, but they were much humbler things then. There was not a single Indian in charge there.

The Central Station was not in existence in 1898. The Royapuram station was our terminus ad quem. The Egmore station was a humble structure by the side of the level crossing. The Beach, Fort, Park and Chetput stations were hardly stations. They were mere halting places. We had none of the huge over-bridges that now constitute a great help behind the Fort, in Egmore, and in various other places. There were no tarred roads. The Broadway had no tramway. Tramcars were all open ones–not closed ones as now. They used to halt wherever we wanted for getting in or out. The Madras Electric Tramway was considered a great improvement over the earlier horse-tramways of Calcutta and possibly of Madras. There were no buses then; the modern bus is a great improvement upon its earlier fore-runner which was a shabby ramshackle affair, meeting with and causing numerous accidents. One-way traffic was unknown.

In 1898 the groynes of the Harbour were favourite resorts in the evenings. The spray beating upon the faces was greatly enjoyed by the public. The pier likewise was a favourite resort–but gradually, with the growth of accidents and thefts, the Harbour was walled in on all sides and closed to the public. Today a beautiful avenue exists near the High Court between the Harbour wall and the Railway line, but the sands of the Beach are no longer accessible from Parry’s Corner. The famous firm of Arbuthnots was located in the buildings now occupied by the Indian Bank, and the landmarks were Clive’s Battery, Customs Collector’s Office, Arbuthnots, Mercantile and National Banks, and a College–Patterson’s College–now no more. The Madras Bank of those days has become the Imperial Bank of today–but its massive building was just completed in 1898. The General Post Office was of course there and is there still. The Second Line Beach was then inhabited by business houses and prostitutes, and the term was one of contempt. The Madras Mail had its office in this row, and was in contemporary political jargon referred to as "our Beach contemporary" while the retort took the form of "our Mount Road contemporary."

The High Court Beach of those days has become the Nageswar Ghat. The War Memorial is of course a recent construction. The Napier Bridge was reconstructed somewhere about 1905 by Engineer Krishnamachariar, the father of the late Dr. Rangachari. In the place of the University Library there used to be a humble structure called the ‘Governor’s Surgeon’s house,’ but even in 1899 it was not being so used. The Queen Mary’s College was not there, nor the Uuiversity Examination Hall, nor the annexe to the Presidency College Main Buildings. The Senate House was awe-inspiring, then as now, being the place where the destinies of thousands of students were annually settled, and therefore better known as the ‘Slaughter House.’ Nevertheless it is an imposing structure–magnificent, one must say, for its richly painted glass panes, huge arches and lovely ceiling. When we took our degrees in March 1900, the Chancellor, that is, the Governor, personally handed the diplomas to us. Now the peons distribute them beforehand. We used to receive a Bible the next day at the Memorial Hall in George Town. By the way the city known by this name now used to be known as Black Town, until George V as Prince of Wales came in 1905 to Madras, and then the name was changed to George Town.

There was no radio then, no gramophone, no cinema, no talkie, no aquarium. There were few Indian women noticeable on the beach, but there were hundreds of European ladies with large, flowing gowns sweeping the red earth on the roads or the sands on the Marina. The sleeves of the ladies used to reach right down to the wrists, with fringes flying from wrists and shoulders. The Triplicane Beach was more popular than the Mylapore Beach. High Court Judges used to be eagerly pointed out for their eminence, and their stately bearing used to justify the admiration. Nowadays Judges walk along the promenade indistinguishable from the commoners or the Ministers! One hardly sees an Englishman on the beach. The band- stand and its neighbourhood used to be monopolized by the English children, women and men. Today you see thousands of Indian women and girls, but what is annoying is the "marriage" dress they wear, rich silks of loud colours; and the most intolerable feature is the pots of flowers they wear in their hair as if they are marketing them. May not an old enthusiast suggest that a single rose, or a small single-row garland of jasmines tied round the braid, would be a real ornament? However, the sight of the women and children is quite enlivening. The San Thome Beach is the plebeian beach, while the Eliot Beach is quite an aristocratic beach.

Decades may pass and centuries may roll by, great men may come and go, structures may rise and fall, Tondiarpets may decline and Thyagarayanagars spring up, Ministries may change, Suguna Vilasa Sabhas may vacate and Andhra Sabhas may occupy the Victoria Public Hall, new markets may be built and old ones may disappear. Colleges may move, but the old Guzli second-hand bazaar will continue for ever, and with it the magnificent unparalleled beach of Madras will remain the city’s unique feature, holding its first place in the world and made doubly attractive, first by the absence of the British soldier who was its danger forty years ago, and next by the positive attractions of the Aquarium and the Radio, and always by its unchanging sprays and inexhaustible sands, by its enlivening breeze and the invigorating sea-air.