FIRST DAY FANCY

The thrill of taking part in the opening day of an event


Many of my friends in college had a craze for seeing a new film on the day of its release itself. They went to extraordinary lengths to assure themselves of a seat in the first show.


This involved going to the theatre very early, and waiting for the gate to be opened. And then there was a mad scramble to the ticket window with a lot of jostling and shoving to get favourable positions in the queue. It was a strenuous exercise for the sake of a film that may not have been worth all that trouble.
Some showed the same enthusiasm in buying stamps on the first day of issue. I somehow never had such compulsions, and was content to see a film even a month after its release - if it was still running. And as for stamps, I just used them to send mail.


The Biggest Theatre

But this first day frenzy caught hold of me on two occasions. One was the opening of the Thangam Theatre, said to be the largest in Asia. We were all thrilled by the thought that the largest theatre in Asia was in our town. So I joined some friends who were planning to be there for the first show, and perhaps, if lucky, get the first tickets. We didn't bother about the film itself.


We had heard that it had been scripted by Karunanidhi, and featured a new hero. But our first day zeal was for the theatre only.


We went to the inaugural show, when the building was still incomplete.
The screen had been fitted to a kind of lattice structure since the wall had not yet been fully built. But the theatre was magnificent. We gazed at the all-white structure with awe and admiration.


I think we managed to get the first batch of tickets.
The film was `Parasakthi', and the new actor was Sivaji Ganesan.
It took me 25 years to whip up the same kind of enthusiasm again. This time it was not for a theatre, but for a railway train.


The Fastest Train

I had read about the Vaigai Express even when it was in the planning stage. It had many `firsts' to its credit. It was the first train to cross the 75 km/h speed limit for metre gauge trains, covering 492 kms in seven and a half hours, the first `classless' train, the first train to have fully upholstered seats, and the first fully reserved train on the metre gauge system. To make the journey smooth, the rail joints had been welded extensively.


I booked a ticket for the first day, 15th August 1977. The ticket was in a colourful little envelope which was a gift from the TVS group, and they gave a booklet about the Vaigai Express along with it. The train was decorated elaborately, and was spotlessly clean. It had eight coaches and a pantry car.


The crowd on the platform cheered as the train started on its maiden run. When it started speeding up, we experienced the thrill of traveling at about 100 kms an hour. The train rocked and rolled as it broke the metre gauge records. The staff were all smiles and courtesy. We were plied with tea and snacks, all free.
There were only two stops en route At Dindigul a band gave us a rousing welcome. The Grain Merchants' Association of Dindigul gave each of us a greeting card hailing the occasion. Some other organization served ice cream to all of us. Many came in and asked us how it felt to travel at such speed. There was tremendous excitement all around. There were resounding cheers as the train started again.


The same thing happened in Tiruchi too. And all along the way people stood on either side of the track waving to us. It was a memorable trip. Even today I feel glad that I was on that train that day.


I have never had any first day experiences since then.




J. VASANTHAN
© Copyright 2000 - 2009 The Hindu

A BOUQUET FOR C.N.

A lecturer who held everyone spellbound


WELL INFORMED C.R. Narayanan

THE PROFESSORS who were there in my college days were a remarkable lot. They were masters of their subjects, and took studying and teaching very seriously. Some professors embellished their erudition in a chaste and expressive language, and then the classes became very delightful indeed.


Articulate and Artistic

One of the most brilliant lecturers I had the privilege of studying under was Prof. C.R.Narayanan of American College. He taught us Botany, and one must say that Botany was in his blood. He carried no book or notes to the classroom. The moment attendance was taken, he unleashed a flood of facts and figures in his mild voice that had a slight nasal twang. And all the while his nimble fingers were producing exquisite drawings of flowers and leaves on the blackboard at lightning speed. It was as fascinating as a magic show.


In spite of CRN's brilliance, there were some students who preferred the wide open spaces. So every time the professor turned to the board, three or four students in the last row would make an exit through the door at the back. Some others occupied the vacated seats and waited for their opportunity to `escape.' This went on till the class became much smaller than it was originally. But CRN never noticed this. He was too engrossed in his wizardry to take note of such mundane things.
One day a student hurrying to the back door dashed against a chair in the last row, fell, got up and kept going. The crash of the chair made CRN turn from the board, and he saw the retreating figure disappearing around the corner. "I say," said CRN addressing the class, "don't make so much noise when going."


Impersonal relationship

CRN never got to know the names of the students, nor did he make any effort to cultivate their acquaintance outside the classroom. Throughout the two years we were in his class, we were only "Light blue shirt" or "Dark green shirt" to him. But we never resented this, since our admiration for him made us overlook these minor faults.


CRN was well read in other subjects too. Once in the Faculty Room two young professors of English were trying to identify the author of a particular passage. One said it was Shelley, and the other asserted that it was Keats. CRN, who was seated nearby, lifted his head over the newspaper he was reading and said: "Excuse me, Gentlemen, for intruding. But that is neither Shelley nor Keats. It is Spenser." The professors of English nodded dumbly, and then made a discreet exit to avoid further mishap.


We had never heard CRN talking Tamil. So one day when he identified a plant for us as "Pulicha Keerai," the class burst into tumult. "What is it, Sir?" we asked again and again, forcing him to say "Pulicha Keerai" several times. It made our day.
Next to our Botany classroom was a large room that seated 150 students. English and Tamil classes were held there. Some professors had a tough time controlling this unwieldy class. One senior professor in particular found it impossible to maintain order. The noise level was deafening. And in our class CRN could hardly go on, since his gentle voice was drowned out in the racket from the next room. He stood silently, irritation writ large on his face. And then the professor next door let his class go. There was a riotous exodus, and then silence. "I say," said CRN, "have you seen the film `All Quiet on the Western Front'?"


It would have been nice to have given a real bouquet to CRN. He would immediately have identified all the flowers and leaves in it, mentioning the family they belonged to and their characteristics and so on, holding everyone spellbound
But now only this bouquet is possible.





J. VASANTHAN
(e-mail: jvasanthan@sancharnet.in)

POOR PEOPLE AND GET-RICH-QUICK DREAM

*

The emotions shown in the racecourse were contagious


Some of the students in the college where I studied were members of the Riding Club at Guindy. They went there early in the morning every day and rode the horses for a specific time. These amateur riders were entitled to free passes for the Guindy races. Sometimes they took us along.


Emotion on display

The first day I witnessed the races I was struck by the smooth elegance of the horses and their graceful movements as they ran. I was also impressed by the mass of humanity milling around the various enclosures and the raw emotions they exhibited. There is no place like a racecourse to see human passions in unrestrained display.
Some men standing near the railings would be shouting themselves hoarse as the horses entered the home stretch. If their choice won, they screamed with delight and danced all the way to the pay window. Some stood sobbing as they slowly tore their betting slips. A common saying in the racecourse was that when you come to the races you should be sure to have a return ticket for the electric trains, or you may be stranded.


The emotions shown in the racecourse were contagious. One day I heard a lot of yelling and shouting as the horses came round the bend, and then realized that I was the one making all that noise, which was rather uncharacteristic.


Shattered dreams

The most pathetic sight in the racecourse was that of poor people coming with a get-rich-quick dream, and then standing there weeping with all their hopes shattered. Many women who sold vegetables or fruits for a living came to the races and stood expectantly with their empty baskets after vending their wares the whole morning. Someone known to them read the tips from a Tamil newspaper, and they placed their bets accordingly. Perhaps their whole week's earnings went into the betting.
When the race was over you could see these women with devastation writ large on their faces, making their tragic exit from the racecourse. But one day it was different. The Tamil paper had tipped a horse called Premchand. No other paper had mentioned this horse.


The vegetable women were as usual faithful to the Tamil paper - and Premchand won! The women threw their baskets up in the air and did a jig as they celebrated their victory. And as the winning horse was led into the paddock, the women crowded at the railings and cooed, "Premchandu, Premchandu!" and held their palms together in a gesture of thanks. It was very moving. And everyone there savoured the moment which was perhaps never to be repeated.


The V.I.P. Punter

A well known public figure from Madurai was a regular at the races. But unlike the rest of the crowd, he sat in splendid isolation under a tree in the members' enclosure. A chair was kept for him there, and two men attended on him. He was always in a cream coloured bush coat and trousers to match. His walking stick rested against the arm of his chair. An enormous cigar dangled from his lips. Every time a race was announced he called one of the attendants and pointed to the number of the horse of his choice in the race book. Then he dipped his hand into capacious lower pocket of his bush coat and pulled out a wad of currency notes which he handed to the man without counting. He never went to the railing to see his horse's performance, but just sat there placidly puffing away at his cigar. When the race was over the man came and stood before him with a miniscule shake of his head. The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders and kept puffing away.


Sometimes the horse won, and the man came back clutching a lot of money. Which the gentleman stuffed in his pockets without counting. We thought that it must be nice to have so much money to throw around.


But all that money didn't bring him the excitement lesser mortals like us felt and expressed in the racecourse which was what made it all worthwhile for us perhaps.




J. VASANTHAN
© Copyright 2000 - 2009 The Hindu

REMEMBERING M.A.T.

Remembering M.A.T.



I FIRST met Dr. M.A. Thangaraj (MAT) when I joined the faculty of the Madras Christian College as a tutor in English. He was the head of the department of Physics and the warden of St.Thomas's Hall. We came across each other every day in the staff tiffin room and exchanged pleasantries.


Cartoon fun

Dr. Gift Siromoney, the secretary of the staff association, had asked me to do a series of cartoons to put up on the board in the staff tiffin room. So almost every other day a new cartoon was there on the board. MAT enjoyed these very much, and never failed to comment on them appreciatively. Once when he was about to go to the US on a brief assignment, I did a cartoon, which showed Uncle Sam carrying MAT off with William Miller (founder of MCC) in hot pursuit.
MAT gazed at this for awhile, and then turned and asked me, "Who got me in the end?" "Miller will get you back in the end" said Prof. Bennett Albert who was standing nearby. After that MAT and some other professors like Dr. Sanjeeva Raj would exaggeratedly hide their faces when I came into the staff tiffin room, pretending to be scared of being caricatured, though they actually enjoyed seeing themselves in a cartoon.

When I was promoted as a lecturer, I was entitled to a flat. The best flat available was in St. Thomas's Hall on the top floor, overlooking the entrance. So I moved there and was one of the three assistant wardens.


Playing to win

On special occasions like Independence Day or Republic Day some basketball and volleyball matches would be arranged between a students' team and a staff team in each hall. I had taken part in these matches when I was a student in Bishop Heber Hall and later as a tutor in Selaiyur Hall. These matches were more like comic exercises, with the students deliberately giving away a few points to the staff and winning in the end after a lot of clowning. But not in St.Thomas's. MAT played these matches seriously. There was no lighthearted comic approach to the game. Everyone played as if his hearth and home depended on winning.
When he played tennis in the evenings also he always played to win. To MAT a game was neither exercise nor pastime, but a war to be won at any cost.


Interrogation method

Sometimes, an intruder trying to steal things from the hall would be caught. And then MAT and I would interrogate the suspect. We devised a method for this, which seemed infallible. MAT would play the tough guy, blustering and threatening, and I would be the soft-hearted kindly interrogator. He would shout, yell and threaten, and then storm off into another room. And I would advise the suspect to come clean before the terror returned. This technique never failed. Later, we used this method a few times in American College, where he had become Principal and I had joined the Department of English as a lecturer. I must say we both enjoyed playing these roles. After the culprit had left, we would laugh over our performances, recalling the highlights.


A Great Couple

Once when speaking at an informal meeting in American College MAT recalled his days in Toronto where he had gone to work for his Ph.D. He had to make a speech there on some occasion, and it seems one young lady there kept bombarding him with questions. "I couldn't stop her," said MAT. "So I married her." Mrs. Mary Thangaraj was a committed social worker. They had two sons. The younger, Suresh, was mentally challenged. Probably this prompted them to start `Anbagam,' an institution for mentally challenged children.

One day Dr. and Mrs Thangaraj called me to their house and asked me whether I could make a documentary film on `Anbagam.' I agreed, and started work on the script. I had to interview them both several times for the material of the film. And it came out in these interviews that they knew their child would be mentally challenged even before he was born. Mrs. Thangaraj had had German measles while pregnant, and the doctors had made it clear that the child would be mentally retarded, and so had recommended an abortion. But Mrs Thangaraj vehemently rejected the idea.
"If Suresh had not been born, we would never have thought of establishing `Anbagam.' Because of him so many other children have benefited. That must have been God's plan in giving us Suresh," the couple said.

I was touched. And the making of the documentary film was no longer a mere job, but an inspired effort to pay tribute to this remarkable couple. The film won second prize in an international competition.

Dr. Thangaraj passed away in 2003 at the age of 85.




(The author could be contacted at jvasanthan@sancharnet.in.)
© Copyright 2000 - 2009 The Hindu