Excavations
I was roaming around the house aimlessly, wondering what I should be doing, and suddenly I saw it as if I were a visitor. When you pass through the same rooms everyday, their contents are hardly visible, a white-noise hum. The indistinct background of a dream. Turn on a light switch, and things pop into view. That (object)! How long has it been lying there?
My paper stash! I must throw it all away. Seize the moment! I reach to clear the shelf, and almost before I know what my hands are doing, I am folding papers into signatures, punching holes, hunting for the waxed linen thread. I sew graph paper, wrapping paper, opened-out envelopes together, and make a book.
R's photographs are lying all over the house. Boxes of enlargements, envelopes of negatives. In a plastic shopping bag I find faded 2x3" prints, outtakes. Their blandness is mysterious: I feel obliged to look long enough to find meaning in them. I glue a few into my book.
I can’t sleep. At 3:00 a.m. I come downstairs to get some writing paper. As I pass through the atrium I hear a splash. In the fish pond, concentric rings of water are lit by the moon. A dull brown fish has made itself known. Usually they are silent, gliding along their underwater paths. They eat puffed rice and mosquito larvae, and survive. I feel a pain in my chest, as though they were very dear to me.
I draw Julius Caesar, his stone face split down the middle as if struck by lightning, and then other statues. Repetition is order is harmony. Their blank gaze is soothing: they are not interested in my nooks and crannies.
Should these water buffalo vertebrae, which I picked up off the ground from some land we had once, still be on that table, fifteen years after I casually dropped them there?
And those chairs in the hallway! Only crazy people would not have discarded them long ago – their foam collapsed, home to generations of lizards, whose miniature broken ping pong ball eggs we sweep up from time to time. Can I point my finger and dissolve them into atoms?
The big copper water vessel, those pinecones from the hills. That brass thing from Thailand that someone gave me, I never even liked it much, but here it is. Too many books! Too many dishes! I'm sinking, I'm about to disappear.
The utility room! so full of old newspapers, bottles. I must call the scrap man with his cycle-cart. But first I pull out some torn paper, and glue it in.
Okay, I'm feeling calmer now. I’m listening to a cheerful Hindi song, with a chorus which means approximately, "You bastard, you're finished! You've had it!" It's so incongruous with the bouncy music that it makes me smile. I'm drawing and singing along under my breath -- 'tu saala kaam se gaya!' The house is still a mess. Never mind.
My paper stash! I must throw it all away. Seize the moment! I reach to clear the shelf, and almost before I know what my hands are doing, I am folding papers into signatures, punching holes, hunting for the waxed linen thread. I sew graph paper, wrapping paper, opened-out envelopes together, and make a book.
R's photographs are lying all over the house. Boxes of enlargements, envelopes of negatives. In a plastic shopping bag I find faded 2x3" prints, outtakes. Their blandness is mysterious: I feel obliged to look long enough to find meaning in them. I glue a few into my book.
I can’t sleep. At 3:00 a.m. I come downstairs to get some writing paper. As I pass through the atrium I hear a splash. In the fish pond, concentric rings of water are lit by the moon. A dull brown fish has made itself known. Usually they are silent, gliding along their underwater paths. They eat puffed rice and mosquito larvae, and survive. I feel a pain in my chest, as though they were very dear to me.
I draw Julius Caesar, his stone face split down the middle as if struck by lightning, and then other statues. Repetition is order is harmony. Their blank gaze is soothing: they are not interested in my nooks and crannies.
Should these water buffalo vertebrae, which I picked up off the ground from some land we had once, still be on that table, fifteen years after I casually dropped them there?
On the way to the car, bones:
White shards half-buried. Old news,
not enough to make a whole of anything.
And those chairs in the hallway! Only crazy people would not have discarded them long ago – their foam collapsed, home to generations of lizards, whose miniature broken ping pong ball eggs we sweep up from time to time. Can I point my finger and dissolve them into atoms?
The big copper water vessel, those pinecones from the hills. That brass thing from Thailand that someone gave me, I never even liked it much, but here it is. Too many books! Too many dishes! I'm sinking, I'm about to disappear.
The utility room! so full of old newspapers, bottles. I must call the scrap man with his cycle-cart. But first I pull out some torn paper, and glue it in.
Okay, I'm feeling calmer now. I’m listening to a cheerful Hindi song, with a chorus which means approximately, "You bastard, you're finished! You've had it!" It's so incongruous with the bouncy music that it makes me smile. I'm drawing and singing along under my breath -- 'tu saala kaam se gaya!' The house is still a mess. Never mind.
Twittering My Life Away II
R advised a friend to start an effigy-making business. “Since they are burned every day in India, it’s a good source of income.”
My cook asked if she could sell ten of our surplus coconuts for 30 rupees. I said okay, while holding a packet of imported pasta costing 285 rupees.
A Marwari wedding procession passed my house, the band blaring triumphal music from a film about a Mughal emperor. The bridegroom on horseback, not quite kingly.
A rare sight: a monkey loped into the garden, bearing a stolen melon. I went out, our eyes met, it leaped into a tree.
The monkey coolly picked insects from an extended leg, while all the crows in the area gathered to heckle it. I went back inside.
All became calm again. From the window I saw crows pecking at the melon, and no sight of the monkey. Order was restored.
Indian sounds are different from American ones: I heard a hissssss today from the pump; Lakshmi said it was a pusssss.
Our good new gardener has not been seen for two days. The cook says young men are too distractible: they always want to go to the movies.
It may be 104 degrees outside, but on the other hand, it's mango season. Something is taken away; something is given.
Saw old movie Deedar. Blind hero regains sight, is rejected by beloved, blinds self again. I groan. My husband says: You don't understand that kind of love.
Days of unbearable heat suddenly broken by darkness, wind, thunder... the merest dribble of rain. Then back to our regular programming.
The monkey who crossed our garden last week is back. My neighbour prowls his garden with a stick in each hand, looking up, wondering what to do.
Spicy snacks frying, attar, vehicle exhausts, stirred together and baked in tropical heat. The perfume of urban India.
A man at the party said, In a cave in Uttaranchal a stalagmite/stalagtite will meet in 200 years; then the world will end.
I suppose it's only in Indian film songs that lovers vow to meet up with each other lifetime after lifetime.
My cook asked if she could sell ten of our surplus coconuts for 30 rupees. I said okay, while holding a packet of imported pasta costing 285 rupees.
A Marwari wedding procession passed my house, the band blaring triumphal music from a film about a Mughal emperor. The bridegroom on horseback, not quite kingly.
A rare sight: a monkey loped into the garden, bearing a stolen melon. I went out, our eyes met, it leaped into a tree.
The monkey coolly picked insects from an extended leg, while all the crows in the area gathered to heckle it. I went back inside.
All became calm again. From the window I saw crows pecking at the melon, and no sight of the monkey. Order was restored.
Indian sounds are different from American ones: I heard a hissssss today from the pump; Lakshmi said it was a pusssss.
Our good new gardener has not been seen for two days. The cook says young men are too distractible: they always want to go to the movies.
It may be 104 degrees outside, but on the other hand, it's mango season. Something is taken away; something is given.
Saw old movie Deedar. Blind hero regains sight, is rejected by beloved, blinds self again. I groan. My husband says: You don't understand that kind of love.
Days of unbearable heat suddenly broken by darkness, wind, thunder... the merest dribble of rain. Then back to our regular programming.
The monkey who crossed our garden last week is back. My neighbour prowls his garden with a stick in each hand, looking up, wondering what to do.
Spicy snacks frying, attar, vehicle exhausts, stirred together and baked in tropical heat. The perfume of urban India.
A man at the party said, In a cave in Uttaranchal a stalagmite/stalagtite will meet in 200 years; then the world will end.
I suppose it's only in Indian film songs that lovers vow to meet up with each other lifetime after lifetime.
The Inner Life of Things
When I drew this, it was metal; but my drawing seemed alive - not 'human', but 'animal' -- a streamlined relative of a pony perhaps, ready to nod its head at me. A little awkward, but good-natured. Thus we infuse ourselves into the things we produce.
I began twittering at the end of 2007. Since my early efforts are buried somewhere in Twitter's back pages, I'm posting a selection of some tweets that I like, that bring back sharp memories:
My cook's granddaughter started menstruating yesterday. Big loan from us for the festivities. She gets a ring and a silk sari for her pains.
At dusk small bats swoop through the garden. One divides our conversation with a swift brown blur.
Driving home under a discarded lemon-rind moon, a yellowed fingernail-paring moon.
I love the sound of the Urdu word 'chilman' -- a split bamboo or reed curtain; and its half-concealing, half-revealing qualities. It’s a one-word poem.
In Mahabalipuram: A sea-turtle dead on the sand. It must have been caught in a fishing net. Crows crowd it, pecking.
A friend who came with us to Mahabalipuram showed me a rubber wedge, brought to keep the door from blowing shut. "They say you should always pack a wedge."
From Hindi film Jab We Met: "No no, it's not what you think: we are just by-the-way friends."
A typical-looking Indian godman interviewed on TV - long hair, flowing robes - said in an American accent: "This is not a fashion statement."
Movie review: ''Sharath Kumar's new film is a reincarnation and revenge drama.” Ho hum. How many r&r dramas can there be?
At Amethyst, I bought magenta orchids and a bouquet of long-stemmed pineapples, each fruit 2 1/2 inches long. Slender spiny leaves - ouch.
There's a big snake in the garden, watchman says. Not a cobra. Poor creatures, where can they go, with construction everywhere.
A giant ant bit the side of my toe like the sliding in of a splinter of glass.
Our three coconut trees are being poulticed with neem powder, turmeric, camphor and salt. The coconut-man shinnies 30 feet up to the crown on a circle of rope.
Cleaning out a cupboard, I found a stack of old 25-paise postcards and gave them to my maid, who said, "But everyone talks on the cellphone nowadays."
Man on the Street on the TV news: "This area has been called Prabhadevi [Hindu goddess] since the time of Baba Adam [Muslim/Christian first man]."
My cook's granddaughter started menstruating yesterday. Big loan from us for the festivities. She gets a ring and a silk sari for her pains.
At dusk small bats swoop through the garden. One divides our conversation with a swift brown blur.
Driving home under a discarded lemon-rind moon, a yellowed fingernail-paring moon.
I love the sound of the Urdu word 'chilman' -- a split bamboo or reed curtain; and its half-concealing, half-revealing qualities. It’s a one-word poem.
In Mahabalipuram: A sea-turtle dead on the sand. It must have been caught in a fishing net. Crows crowd it, pecking.
A friend who came with us to Mahabalipuram showed me a rubber wedge, brought to keep the door from blowing shut. "They say you should always pack a wedge."
From Hindi film Jab We Met: "No no, it's not what you think: we are just by-the-way friends."
A typical-looking Indian godman interviewed on TV - long hair, flowing robes - said in an American accent: "This is not a fashion statement."
Movie review: ''Sharath Kumar's new film is a reincarnation and revenge drama.” Ho hum. How many r&r dramas can there be?
At Amethyst, I bought magenta orchids and a bouquet of long-stemmed pineapples, each fruit 2 1/2 inches long. Slender spiny leaves - ouch.
There's a big snake in the garden, watchman says. Not a cobra. Poor creatures, where can they go, with construction everywhere.
A giant ant bit the side of my toe like the sliding in of a splinter of glass.
Our three coconut trees are being poulticed with neem powder, turmeric, camphor and salt. The coconut-man shinnies 30 feet up to the crown on a circle of rope.
Cleaning out a cupboard, I found a stack of old 25-paise postcards and gave them to my maid, who said, "But everyone talks on the cellphone nowadays."
Man on the Street on the TV news: "This area has been called Prabhadevi [Hindu goddess] since the time of Baba Adam [Muslim/Christian first man]."
Waking Up
I had left this blog behind, but my sister kept telling me that I should return to it, and how could I refuse her. Let's see how it goes. While I am putting the key in the ignition, releasing the clutch, etc., I can be found on Twitter:
In its first incarnation, this blog was focused primarily on my life as a foreigner (American) living in India, and on Indian arts and culture. I'd like to be a little looser now, and to throw in a few sketches and this and that. Nothing fancy.
So. Onward.
In its first incarnation, this blog was focused primarily on my life as a foreigner (American) living in India, and on Indian arts and culture. I'd like to be a little looser now, and to throw in a few sketches and this and that. Nothing fancy.
So. Onward.
How to Sell Arms to India
This was so embarrassing I couldn't watch it all the way through -- via Wired, which writes, "Let's say you're a defense-company marketing executive. And you want to make a splash at the Indian defense ministry's annual air show. Do you: (a) buy expensive gifts for New Delhi's generals; (b) treat the press to Kingfishers and samosas; (c) produce a Bollywood-esque video featuring bare-midriff girls, flower-draped missiles, and the catch phrase "dinga dinga dee?" Unfortunately for us, Israeli arms-maker Rafael chose C.... "
An interesting interview with Danny Boyle, about filming Slumdog Millionaire in Mumbai. I particularly identified with this paragraph:
AVC: Were there places it was difficult to get permission to film?
DB: There's lots of things that can be solved with cash. [Snickers.] And there's occasional things that can't be solved with cash, which become a bureaucratic nightmare for some reason, and there's no distinction between the two. There's no way of reading a situation and saying, "Yes, that'll be a bureaucratic nightmare, but that one we'll be able to buy off." It just depends on the day, apparently. The most extraordinary thing, you'd be given permission for, and then the weirdest, simplest things, you just wouldn't be able to obtain permissions. And it would go on and on and on forever and ever, and there was no way to know. You have to kind of approach it with an open, quite optimistic mind, no matter what's thrown at you, because it will only ever result in damaging the film if you let any kind of despondency get to you. You have to remain optimistic, and that's clearly how people live their lives there. Against all the odds, they retain kind of a spirit which allows them to get through against insufferable odds...
Wit and Humour
Wondering what to post, I fell back on the amazing Wit and Humour in the Tamil Nadu Legislative Council 1921-1971, Volume I.
It is best to let such books fall open at random, so I did -- and found this:
It is best to let such books fall open at random, so I did -- and found this:
Humorous Definition of 'Tiller of the Soil'
On the 24th of September 1956, during the Debate in the Council on the Madras Cultivating Tenants Protection (Amendment) Bill, 1956, a humorous situation erupted when the Minister (The Hon. Thiru M. A. Manickavelu) tried to give a "layman's definition" as he himself put it, to the term 'tiller of the soil' by saying: "As I understand, a tiller of the soil is a person who, with a very scanty dress -- he has no coat, no turban and no umbrella in hand -- takes a plough and ploughs the land. There is sweat on his brow."
The following exchanges then took place:
"Sri A. M. Allapichai: Is it a crime to wear coat?
The Hon. Sri M. A. Manickavelu: No, not at all, even a long coat can be worn (referring to the Member's long coat). (Laughter) So, the tiller of the soil is the opposite of one who wears a coat and turban holding a walking stick or umbrella in hand and goes round his field, comes back home, takes coffee and chews pansupari.
Dr. V. K. John: Is he too old or too young?
Sri. A. M. Allapichai: Suppose he applied his mind? Application of mind also is physical labour.
The Hon. Sri M. A. Manickavelu: Yes, Sir. He must very much apply his mind because if he wants to take away the weeds, he should not pull out the crops in the process. Mind also plays its part."
Power Holiday
In India, power failure is called load shedding. At the moment, we're having 1 1/2 hours of it every day; the Chennai suburbs three hours a day; the rest of the state five hours a day, for an indefinite period.
Today I saw in the paper a new (to me) word for it: 'power holiday.'
The government's explanation is interesting. According to The Hindu:
Opposition leader, Jayalalitha's response to this was succinct: she was quoted as saying that the reasons cited by the government for power shortage are "strange and ridiculous."
Today I saw in the paper a new (to me) word for it: 'power holiday.'
The government's explanation is interesting. According to The Hindu:
The revised system of intensive load shedding... has been designed to ensure that there are no unscheduled disruptions in power supply.i.e., we're having scheduled outtages (I think this word is also local?) so that we don't have unscheduled outtages. Further,
... the main cause for the frequent interruptions in the supply is the under-frequency relay factor...inadequate capacity addition... poor rainfall ... substantial reduction in the State’s share of power from Central Generating Stations that are hit by the shortage of lignite and uranium... [and] ... sudden loss of wind energy...
Opposition leader, Jayalalitha's response to this was succinct: she was quoted as saying that the reasons cited by the government for power shortage are "strange and ridiculous."
Vogue India's latest
Boy, this is disgusting, from the New York Times: Vogue’s Fashion Photos Spark Debate in India
That bib is likely priced at about two months' wages for this lady. This looks like cruelty to me -- let them eat cake.
That bib is likely priced at about two months' wages for this lady. This looks like cruelty to me -- let them eat cake.
Old Tamil Movies
I had written a post, long back, about my first Tamil move: Pennin Perumai. There's a fun article in the Hindu, by Vijaysree Venkatraman, about revisiting the old black and white Tamil films from that era: What Old Movies Do.
I see that I should think of those old 'socials' with more respect. I still think Sivaji is a lot cuter than Gemini, though.
Update: Vijaysree Venkatraman kindly sent me this YouTube link: Vivaha Bhojanam ("wedding feast"), a song that I love, in which Ghatotkach, the son of one of the Mahabharata heroes, Bhima, and a demoness, eats an entire wedding feast by himself. I have been known to burst out with "Bhojanam Bhojanam, ha ha ha ha ha ha" on occasion, at the prospect of a feast. (This is the Telugu version, so it's vivaha bhojanambu. There's a Hindi version somewhere, as well). Do watch it, I don't think you can help laughing along with it.
Update: And here's the Tamil version: "Kalyana samayal saatham" (same visual, different language)
I see that I should think of those old 'socials' with more respect. I still think Sivaji is a lot cuter than Gemini, though.
Ghatotkach, from Maya Bazaar
Update: Vijaysree Venkatraman kindly sent me this YouTube link: Vivaha Bhojanam ("wedding feast"), a song that I love, in which Ghatotkach, the son of one of the Mahabharata heroes, Bhima, and a demoness, eats an entire wedding feast by himself. I have been known to burst out with "Bhojanam Bhojanam, ha ha ha ha ha ha" on occasion, at the prospect of a feast. (This is the Telugu version, so it's vivaha bhojanambu. There's a Hindi version somewhere, as well). Do watch it, I don't think you can help laughing along with it.
Update: And here's the Tamil version: "Kalyana samayal saatham" (same visual, different language)
Inside Outside
Five years ago, our neighbourhood was so quiet that visitors invariably exclaimed that it was hard to believe it was in the heart of the city. The land across the street was a backwater, part of the Adyar River basin, bordered with thorny bushes, and home to mongoose, snakes, and many species of birds. Now it has become a giant construction site. Here is the view from my gate now -- the new studio of Sun TV, on seven acres of land. From the depth of its foundations, I assume that it will rise so high that the blue sky in the photograph will be completely covered. To the right and around the corner, still more huge buildings are rising -- two hotels, apartment buildings, IT parks:
and looking to the left:
Here is what you will see if you stand at the gate looking in (the watchman provided that pink chair for himself. I'm not too fond of it, but it looks endearing, compared to the hulking monsters outside):
It's still peaceful to look at, but the roar of five cement mixers outside and the construction of a huge building, which goes on for 24 hours a day, is impossible to block out.
and looking to the left:
Here is what you will see if you stand at the gate looking in (the watchman provided that pink chair for himself. I'm not too fond of it, but it looks endearing, compared to the hulking monsters outside):
It's still peaceful to look at, but the roar of five cement mixers outside and the construction of a huge building, which goes on for 24 hours a day, is impossible to block out.
Mora Saiyan
What a beautiful, simple love song this is -- Mora Saiyan Mo Se Bole Na (My beloved won't speak to me). I heard it somewhere, and tracked down this version, sung by Amanat Ali on the TV singing contest Sa Re Ga Ma Pa. I like it better than the original. The visuals are nothing, but what a beautiful voice he has, and how movingly he sings:
Ghostbusters
Someone living near us died recently in sad circumstances. As usual, I only found out about it from Mary, who came to me and said, "The watchman wants more light in the back garden. There's one place near the kitchen that's very dark and he's frightened." I pointed out that we have plenty of security lights, whereas our neighbours have none at all.
Then she told me about the ghost. It has not been seen, but it is assumed that there must be one, because the death was unusual. Mary's room is outside, and when she got up in the night she felt afraid. The watchman was afraid because one night he heard a sound in that dark corner, something like "HOO!" In fact, he hadn't come to work for the last two nights. I said that there were no ghosts, and added, unkindly, that if ghosts are afraid of light bulbs, the watchman could just shine his flashlight on the dark corner when he did his rounds. I said that if it did exist, it would surely go away again soon.
A couple of days later, Mary said that some neighbours had done puja to exorcise the ghost from their property. Since we were not so protected, it was more likely than ever to linger with us. Could we also hire a Hindu priest? He would drive the ghost into a gourd, and break it on the road -- as is done with evil spirits on Ayudha Puja. I wasn't sure -- R already grumbles about Ayudha Puja. But when I asked him, he said that he would authorise a certain amount of money to hire a priest, and if that would make everyone feel better, fine.
For a week or so I heard no more about it. One day I asked Mary, "What happened to that priest you wanted?" and she said vaguely, "Oh, it's so far to go, to find one." I thought the ghost scare was over. Then yesterday she told me, "I've found a (Christian) pastor. He will come and say prayers." I asked if that would satisfy the Hindu and Muslim watchmen; she said that it would.
Later: Well, the pastor didn't show. Mary was all a-flutter -- she said he was a thaalaivaar, the leader of so many churches. I guess he was too busy. We had to go out, and when I came back and looked in the kitchen I saw a tray kept ready, with a good china cup and a pot of tea, all untouched.
I feel sorry for her disappointment, but I'm sick of this ghost now. A month has passed since the death, and no one has been harmed, except for a little fever suffered by the brave nightwatchman. Let the spirit rest, I say, and be soothed in the dark corner of our peaceful garden, out behind the kitchen.
Then she told me about the ghost. It has not been seen, but it is assumed that there must be one, because the death was unusual. Mary's room is outside, and when she got up in the night she felt afraid. The watchman was afraid because one night he heard a sound in that dark corner, something like "HOO!" In fact, he hadn't come to work for the last two nights. I said that there were no ghosts, and added, unkindly, that if ghosts are afraid of light bulbs, the watchman could just shine his flashlight on the dark corner when he did his rounds. I said that if it did exist, it would surely go away again soon.
A couple of days later, Mary said that some neighbours had done puja to exorcise the ghost from their property. Since we were not so protected, it was more likely than ever to linger with us. Could we also hire a Hindu priest? He would drive the ghost into a gourd, and break it on the road -- as is done with evil spirits on Ayudha Puja. I wasn't sure -- R already grumbles about Ayudha Puja. But when I asked him, he said that he would authorise a certain amount of money to hire a priest, and if that would make everyone feel better, fine.
For a week or so I heard no more about it. One day I asked Mary, "What happened to that priest you wanted?" and she said vaguely, "Oh, it's so far to go, to find one." I thought the ghost scare was over. Then yesterday she told me, "I've found a (Christian) pastor. He will come and say prayers." I asked if that would satisfy the Hindu and Muslim watchmen; she said that it would.
Later: Well, the pastor didn't show. Mary was all a-flutter -- she said he was a thaalaivaar, the leader of so many churches. I guess he was too busy. We had to go out, and when I came back and looked in the kitchen I saw a tray kept ready, with a good china cup and a pot of tea, all untouched.
I feel sorry for her disappointment, but I'm sick of this ghost now. A month has passed since the death, and no one has been harmed, except for a little fever suffered by the brave nightwatchman. Let the spirit rest, I say, and be soothed in the dark corner of our peaceful garden, out behind the kitchen.
Some Faces
Trying to do a better job of drawing faces -- from photographs, in my new gray-white paged sketchbook:
(late) Kishore Kumar, one of the greatest popular singers in Hindi
Dilip Kumar, the ultimate tragic hero in Hindi films when my husband was a boy.
a young girl, drawn from the newspaper
A Maharaja of Patiala, from an old photograph. What a beautiful face -- more beautiful than my drawing. And dripping with jewels. The way one imagines a Maharaja should be.
(late) Kishore Kumar, one of the greatest popular singers in Hindi
Dilip Kumar, the ultimate tragic hero in Hindi films when my husband was a boy.
a young girl, drawn from the newspaper
A Maharaja of Patiala, from an old photograph. What a beautiful face -- more beautiful than my drawing. And dripping with jewels. The way one imagines a Maharaja should be.
Lost at Sea
I am honored that the literary/arts blog/ezine Qarrtsiluni has accepted my poem Lost at Sea for its latest issue, Water. There is a recording of me reading it as well.
Qarrtsiluni publishes art, photography, writing, video of very high quality, each issue organised around a general topic. Its founders, and a number of the contributors, are people whose writing online I have been following with great pleasure for years. Take a look.
Qarrtsiluni publishes art, photography, writing, video of very high quality, each issue organised around a general topic. Its founders, and a number of the contributors, are people whose writing online I have been following with great pleasure for years. Take a look.
Demolition Day
Photo by R. RaguThe Admiralty House, one of Chennai's few remaining fine old buildings, is being demolished. From The Hindu:
CHENNAI: The demolition of the Government House here, the oldest building on the Government Estate, has begun.
On Monday, workers were breaking the roof of the heritage building, commonly known as the Admiralty House, with giant hammers. The demolition will be completed in 40 days, according to an official of the Public Works Department, the custodian of the Estate properties. Some other buildings on the Estate will also be demolished, including the old MLAs’ quarters. The official says that as the buildings are vacated, they will be pulled down. The department hopes to complete the demolition of all the identified buildings by the end of next month.
The exercise is being carried out to facilitate the execution of the Rs. 200-crore Assembly complex project.
The government has selected a German-based architectural firm for the Assembly project. As per the present proposals, there will be two blocks – one housing the Assembly complex and offices of the Chief Minister and Ministers and the other accommodating offices of various government departments. While the first block will have ground and six floors, the second is likely to be a high-rise building, having a maximum of 20 floors. The government is planning to commence the construction of the proposed Assembly complex by September.
Till recently, the Government House building was occupied by the different wings of the Police department such as Crime Branch-Criminal Investigation Department (CB-CID) wing, the Economic Offences wing and Narcotics Intelligence Bureau-CID. The wings have been shifted to different places in the city. In the mid-1990s, the building, as a makeshift arrangement, even served as the headquarters of the Police department when the government undertook renovation of the DGP office building on the Marina, which is yet another heritage landmark. Till Independence, the Government House was the residence of Governors. For sometime, it also functioned as the MLAs’ hostel.
S. Muthiah, historian, wrote about the importance of the heritage monument on several occasions in The Hindu. In his column on October 29 last year, he wrote that after the French left the Fort St. George’s buildings in a shambles, Governor Thomas Saunders of the British East India Company in 1752 rented a house belonging to the wealthy Mrs. Antonia de Madeiros just across the Island from the Fort. On August 28, 1753 the Government of Madras bought the house for 3500 pagodas to serve as the Governor’s garden house. Only in 1947 did the Governor’s residence move to the present location in Guindy – Raj Bhavan.
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