Gallery of stars

The first thing anyone would like to know about any place is the origin of its name. Why has the city, known as Madras for three centuries (and before that Fort St George), become Chennai? I did not find the precise answer in the recently-published The Unhurried City: Writings on Chennai, edited by C.S. Lakshmi. I looked up my copy of Hobson-Jobson. It gives several explanations. After Fort St George was established as a British cantonment, the town that grew up around it came to be known as Madrasapatnam, after some Muslim madrassahs (school). The patnam was dropped and it became Madras. For good measure, Hobson-Jobson also mentions that the name may be a derivation of Mandhra-desha (land of the stupid) — no doubt coined by someone soured by his experience of the city, because, in reality, it has produced some of the best minds of our country.

In his article, “A Town called George”, S. Muthiah says Chennai is derived from Chennapatnam (Black town) because while the Whites lived in Fort St George, the dark natives lived in the localities that grew around it. The description is inappropriate and unfair in as much as though the Tamils are generally darker-skinned than the people of northern India, there are Tamils as fair, if not fairer than any to be found in the North, for example Hema Malini, Vyjayanthimala Bali, Jayalalithaa Jayaram, Nanditha Krishna and many others.

No other city in India (not even Mumbai) is as film-struck as Chennai. They worship their screen idols as they worship their deities. They used to worship M.G. Ramachandran and Sivaji Ganesan; they worship Jayalalitha and even Karunanidhi, who is no beauty. Whichever way you turn in Chennai, you see huge cut-outs of their living gods doing namaskaram to you. All along Marina Beach is a row of statues of men they once worshipped.

Chennai is also a city of temples, Kanjeevaram saris, incense and the fragrant jasmine with which the women-folk adorn their heavily-oiled hair. It is the city of The Hindu, the most readable and reliable journal of the country and the only paper to have its own India-made crossword puzzle; other papers take them from England or America.

It has produced our best Bharatnatyam dancers : Rukmini Devi, Yamini Krishnamurthy, Malavika Sarukkai and singers like Subbalakshmi. Also some of our best tennis players, the Krishnans and the Amritraj brothers. And according to Ramachandra Guha, a few of our best cricketers as well.

The Unhurried City, though it makes light reading and has some good sketches, does not do justice to this city of great achievers. The articles, short-stories and poems do not present the best of what has come out of the metropolis.

Goodbye, Nissim

I first met Nissim Ezekiel in London where, for a month or two, he worked as a clerk in India House. I got to know him better during my nine-year stint in Bombay and had him select poems for The Illustrated Weekly of India. The last time I met him in Glasgow, at a literary seminar. He was a thin, frail man who looked every inch the professor that he was. He kept very much to himself but showed a little warmth towards me as I wrote in favour of Jews (he was a Bene-Israel Maharashtrian Jew) and admired his poetry. Almost ten years ago he began to lose his memory; he was stricken with Alzheimers. He died at the age of 79. I read whatever Nissim wrote. Two of his poems are my favourites. The first is Night of The Scorpion. I quote parts of it:

I remember the night my mother

Was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours

Of steady rain had driven him

To crawl beneath a sack of rice.

Parting with his poison — flash

Of diabolic tail in the dark room —

He risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of flies

And buzzed the name of God a hundred times

To paralyze the Evil one.

With candles and with lanterns

Throwing giant scorpion shadows

On the sun-baked walls

They searched for him: he was not found.

The poem ends with a sensitive allusion to the differing attitudes of parents to a near tragedy:

My father, sceptic, rationalist,

Trying every curse and blessing,

Powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.

He even poured a little paraffin

Upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.

I watched the flame feeding on my mother.

I watched the holy man perform his rites

To tame the poison with an incantation.

After twenty hours

Is lost its sting.

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me

And spared my children.

My great favourite is Goodbye Party For Miss Pushpa T.S. Though he taught English and American literature in college, Nissim could speak read and write in Marathi, Gujarati and Hindustani. I produce his poem in full as it is the best example I know of Gujarati English:

Friends,

Our dear sister

Is departing for foreign

In two three days,

And

We are meeting today

To wish her bon voyage.

You are all knowing, friends,

What sweetness is in Miss Pushpa

I don’t mean only external sweetness

But internal sweetness.

Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling

Even for no reason

But simply because she is feeling.

Miss Pushpa is coming

From very high family.

Her father was renowned advocate

In Bulsar or Surat,

I am not remembering now which place.

Coming back to Miss Pushpa

She is most popular lady

With men also and ladies also.

Whenever I asked her to do anything,

She was saying, “Just now only

I will do it.” That is showing

Good spirit. I am always

Appreciating the good spirit.

Pushpa Miss is never saying no

Whatever I or anybody is asking

She is always saying yes,

And today she is going

To improve her prospects

And we are wishing her bon voyage.

Now I ask other speakers to speak

And afterwards Miss Pushpa

Will do the summing up.