Of all Chennai's artisan trades, you might imagine that the temple umbrella makers are struggling to survive. Not so! In Ayya (or Iyya) Mudali Street in the central Chintadripet neighbourhood - which is enclosed on three sides by the Cooum river - about fifteen family businesses survive. Among them is at least one with an impressive website. And both demand and prices are generally bearing up. Don't confuse this craft with parasol making. Sure, these umbrellas are to protect from the sun not the rain. But these aren't small dainty sun shields - these are often large and ornate umbrellas, with designs and motifs specific to a particular Hindu deity or temple. The main complaints of the temple umbrella makers are that the next generation are not interested in pursuing a livelihood passed down from father to son, and that it's difficult to find the labourers to undertake the tricky task of assembling the umbrellas' bamboo frame. By most accounts, there's still a decent living to be made in this trade. I came across these temple umbrella makers during a heritage walk round Chintadripet led by Padmapriya, to whom many thanks!
2 Comments
Plumb in the middle of Chennai's nicest beach - Elliot's beach in Besant Nagar (and so generally known as Bessie's beach) - is a sturdy ninety-year-old memorial. It's to a Danish man, Karl A.J. Schmidt. In December 1930, Schmidt - in his twenties and working in what was then Madras - went in to the sea here to try and save an English girl who had got into difficulties. He drowned; the girl survived. Some of the accounts of the incident suggest that Schmidt was Dutch and a sailor - which seems to be untrue. So it's quite possible that this detail is also invented - but let me share it all the same. It's said that the evening after the incident, New Year's Eve, the girl attended a party as if nothing amiss had happened. The governor of Madras was apparently so outraged that he decided to construct this memorial to the gallant rescuer. Over the decades, the memorial started showing signs of subsidence and became a loitering spot covered with graffiti - as you can see ... A few years ago, the authorities decided to restore the memorial - and they have done a good job. The signboard which recounts the incident succeeds in capturing the attention of passers-by (and there's another one in Tamil on the other flank of the structure). The memorial of course privileges European lives, as was routine in times of Empire. I fear that quite a few people have drowned here over the years, and I'm sure some in as noble an endeavour as Karl Schmidt. Nevertheless, it's heartening to see a monument to valour which is in such good shape. A bishop bringing the gospel to the heathen. That seems to be the message of this ornate memorial in St George's Cathedral, the main Anglican place of worship here in Chennai. The cathedral - built in 1815 - is stuffed full of imposing high colonial statues and memorials, as well as plaques and tablets (I've already blogged about the memorial to Ralph Horsley, who was 'cut off by the hand of an unknown assassin'). To my mind, the most remarkable are those showing - or at least visually alluding to - the engagement between the agents of Empire and its religion and their colonial subjects. This is a memorial to Reginald Heber, who was consecrated as Bishop of Calcutta in 1823 and died three years later at the age of 42. This work by the sculptor Francis Chantrey depicts the bishop 'ministering to his flock'. Here's another in similar style - - a statue of the first Bishop of Madras, Daniel Corrie, who was 'a preacher of salvation by faith in Christ both to his countrymen and to the natives' intending 'to bring the heathen to the knowledge of Christ and to hasten his kingdom'. In the statue, Corrie's 'convert' is sporting both a tuft and a sacred thread - so I take it this is a brahmin who has been won to Christ.. Corrie also didn't last that long as bishop - less than two years. Quite as striking are the depictions of women mourning, prostrate in their grief - their design classically influenced (though you also wonder whether there's a nod at 'bibis' lamenting the passing of their partner). This first one is of a medic - and perhaps is more classical than salacious, even though the sight of what seems to be a bare breasted woman in such a stiff and formal cathedral is truly astonishing. This is a memorial to John Mack, 'assistant surgeon on the Madras establishment' who died in 1832. He was doctor to at least one local princely family. The sculpture is said to show Hygeia, the goddess of health. And this memorial? Perhaps another classical allusion, but that's not at all clear. Here's another sculpture which tells a story about the relationship between agents of Empire and those they regarded as their subjects: And below is the memorial to Thomas Parry, trader and entrepreneur, who gave his name to Parry's Corner, still a Chennai landmark. In architectural terms, St George's is undeniably imposing - perhaps not of the first order of East India Company churches but not far off. The original Anglican church in the city, St Mary's - a wonderful late seventeenth century building in St George's Fort which is happily still in use - was both too small and a touch too pedestrian for the increasing importance of Madras and of its European community. St George's was both large and grand - and altogether more of a match for the nineteenth century idea of Empire. In 1835, with the installation of the first Bishop of Madras, St George's became his cathedral. It has also played an important part in the reshaping of Christianity in India in the independence era. The Church of South India was established here in the weeks after independence in 1947. It's part of the Anglican communion but has brought together the other principal Protestant denominations of the colonial era: Presbyterian, Methodist and Congregational. But not everyone joined in. And the exceptionally grand Kirk of St Andrew's in Egmore a few miles away - of similar date to St George's and a match in terms of design - continues to go its own way. The cathedral also has a cemetery - still in use and complete with its own separate bell tower. It's worth coming here just to see that! Of all the memorial plaques in Chennai's Anglican cathedral, this is the one that most caught my eye: Ralph Horsley, a civil servant in his mid-20s, killed 'by the hand of an unknown assassin'. And look at the date: 1856, a year before the great uprising which Britain came to describe as the Indian Mutiny. The timing, and the use of the word 'assassin', makes you wonder whether the young Mr Horsley was the victim of a politically-motivated attack. The church which houses this memorial - St George's Cathedral - dates back to 1815 and is one of the grandest of the colonial-era churches in India. Inside it is sumptuous, and a treasure-trove of high colonial plaques, memorials, statues and tablets ... which will be the subject of my next post on this blog. But what of Ralph Horsley and his seemingly brutal demise? Well, he was India-born in 1831. His birthplace was Courtallum, a small resort in the Western Ghats in the far south of the country. His father was also a member of the Madras Civil Service. At the time of his death, Ralph rejoiced in the title of Acting Head Assistant Collector at Bellary - a city now with a population of 400,000 and in the state of Karnataka but then part of the Madras Presidency. Horsley is buried in the cantonment cemetery at Bellary, apparently one of the last interments there. And a Raj antiquarian, J.J,. Cotton - who listed all the British graves in the Madras Presidency, a resource now online - set down what he understood to have befallen this stalwart of Empire. Here's his account: 'The murder took place in the whist room of the present Bellary Club, then a private house, into which the deceased and his younger brother, W.D. Horsley, a student at college, had recently moved. The situation was lonely, the house standing by itself and being commanded on three sides by hills. On the night of the July 4th, at about half past twelve, Mr. Ralph Horsley was heard to call to his servants sleeping in the verandah, and was found a few minutes later lying dead in his writing room, which opened out of the bed room. An office box was then missing from its usual place under the cot, and was subsequently discovered broken open on the rocks some 300 yards away, the only object stolen being the silver handle of a seal. On an examination of the deceased’s body, it was seen that the wound, a stab in the back, must have been sufficient to cause instantaneous death. No trace of the murderers was discoverable. The peons and servants had apparently heard nothing to attract their attention, although four of them were sleeping in the front verandah of the house. An inquest was held and an exhaustive enquiry instituted by Mr. C.R. Pelly, the Collector, but the crime long remained a mystery. It seemed probable that robbery and not murder was the motive of the intruders, and that Mr. Horsley was stabbed while endeavouring to prevent the theft of his month’s pay. Several persons were arrested at the time on suspicion, but were subsequently discharged. At last in 1864, a man, about to be hanged at Delhi for another crime, made a full confession of Horsley’s murder, giving such details and so correct a description of the treasury then in the Fort and of Horsley’s house that the Collector and Horsley’s brother William had no doubt that his statement was true and had cleared up the whole secret.' Curiously, another resource - also happily online - seems to have a different wording for Horsley's memorial in the cathedral (perhaps there's a second tablet somewhere) as well as listing several other violent deaths, some at least of which were clearly political even if Horsley's was not. The Horsley family seems to have been steeped in Empire and in the East India Company. Ralph's father, John Horsley, was born in Calcutta; the birthplace of his mother, Elizabeth Story, was Cawnpore (now Kanpur) in north India; Ralph's younger brother. W.D. Horsley - the one who was a student at the time of the murder - gave his name to the Horsley hills or Horsley-konda in Andhra Pradesh. I wonder if Ralph ever saw Britain, the country he chose to serve? And on a different note - this piece has been posted on the tenth anniversary of this blog's first post. And by the way, Horsley died a century to within a handful of days of my birth. What about that! Up early this morning for a free concert in the local park (Nageswara Rao park). On the first Sunday of the month, the park hosts a 'kutcheri' - the word for an assembly of musicians and audience for Carnatic music. It kicks off at 7 o'clock - things start early here because of the heat! And for half-an-hour or so I had the privilege of a gentle, musical start to the day. Amid the promenading of the morning power-walkers and the sometimes raucous badminton games, some sixty or more music lovers gathered to hear the sort of music that still attracts a powerful resonance in many South Indian homes. This is an up-market corner of Chennai, and the 'Sunday Kutcheri in the Park' performances are sponsored by a finance company - good on them! Such a nice way of starting a Sunday -
Just a few minutes walk from where I stay in Chennai, there's a small but lovely park - Nageswara Rao park in Mylapore. Every morning, large numbers come there to walk, do exercises, practise yoga, play badminton, chat with their friends ... all the things that a really good urban park facilitates. Do please come with me on a circuit round Chennai's Nageswara Rao park: And in case you are tempted to see the park for yourself, and indeed to do a few circuits, here's where it is -
I am back in Chennai for a fourth successive year spending a semester teaching at the Asian College of Journalism. Over the next couple of months, I'll be spending twenty contact hours a week with the same TV journalism class - so it's sort of important we get on. I met the class for the first time just now, and I think things will work out fine. They even laughed at a couple of my jokes - that's unprecedented! Hanging out at all my old haunts in Alwarpet, I noticed that my excellent local supermarket has had a name change. Last time I was here it was called 'Wait Rose London Supermarket' - which struck me as a pretty clear-cut case of "passing off". The name seems to nudge at a connection with the up-market Waitrose chain of supermarkets in the UK, established back in 1904 by Mr Waite and Mr Rose (and, confusingly, Mr Taylor too). Now my local mart in Chennai has been rebranded - it's the 'White Rose London Supermarket'. Though as you can see signs of its old avatar are not exactly hard to spot - White Rose has five medium-sized supermarkets across Chennai, and as far as I can tell from its website all have been rechristened. Why? That's not at all clear - and an email to the company has so far gone unanswered. But I spotted a news report suggesting that Waitrose, the British chain, is expanding its operations in India which might have made it a touch more protective of its brand name. That's simply my speculation, you, understand - nothing more. So that's all fine then. But hang on. Look again at the White Rose signboard - and at the rose between the two words. That's not a white rose at all. It's red! Don't they know that wars have been fought between rival champions of the white rose and the red - It wasn't THE English Civil War - that came a couple of centuries later - but it was a civil war, The white rose was the symbol of the House of York while red represented Lancaster. To this day, Yorkshire's symbol is the white rose while Lancashire is the red rose county. These are not trifling issues. How can a signboard carry the White Rose name and the red rose symbol? In case any should wonder, yes I have a stake in this contest. Born and bred Yorkshire.
So the White Rose will continue to enjoy my custom. But please, get rid of that blob of red! Priests and congregation at the annual mass at the Armenian church in Chennai, February 2019. Mike Stephan, a prominent member of the Armenian comunity, is on the left and next to him the Jesudian family. The priests are the Very Rev. Fr. Movses Sargsyan, Pastor of the Armenians in India and Rev. Fr. Artsrun Here's the script for a piece I wrote and recorded for 'From Our Own Correspondent' on BBC Radio 4 and the World Service. The introduction reads: In India there are still a few communities, much diminished in size, whose roots lie in the trading links which came with Empire. Andrew Whitehead has come across one such group in the southern city of Chennai which, for the first time in centuries, is growing in numbers again: I didn't expect to see a baby in his mother's arms among the congregation. India's Armenian community - once conspicuous in commerce, though always modest in number - has been fading away for many decades. In Chennai, they are barely clinging on. The city's serene eighteenth-century Armenian church holds just one service a year. It's the oldest church in what was once called Black Town - the place that became home for those not allowed to live in the British fort at the heart of what was then Madras. The place was one of Asia's commanding ports in that earlier era of globalisation and Empire. And the Armenian traders had money - that's reflected in the stylish design of this pocket-sized church, its large grounds, striking plaster cherubs and their bugles, and a separate tower complete with church bells cast in Whitechapel in London’s East End. Two priests from Kolkata came over for the annual mass - a two-hour flight away, where the Armenian congregation can reach the heady heights of a hundred or more worshippers, at least at Christmas time. The clerics brought with them to Chennai the incense, ornate clerical headgear, capes and crucifix which are such essential parts of Orthodox worship. Even counting well-wishers and the curious - and I suppose I fit both descriptions - the number attending just touched double figures. So the young family made up I guess a quarter of the congregation. The baby's name is Suren. His father, Kapilan, is an architect – Chennai-born and, he insists, 100% Tamil; his mother Ashkhen, with red hair and pale complexion, describes herself as Armenian through-and-through. As is often the case with marriages across the frosted boundaries of race, religion, language and nation, there is a heart-warming measure of coincidence in this love story. Kapilan was so often told when a postgraduate student in Canada that his surname, Jesudian, sounded Armenian that his interest in the country was aroused; Ashkhen performed so well in Hindi lessons when she was at school in Armenia that she won a study trip to India, and on her return took on a role promoting links between the two countries. When Kapilan arrived in Armenia as a tourist, Ashkhen showed him round. "He asked me if Armenia is safe" - she recounts, with feigned shock and amusement. "He's from India - and he asks if my country is safe!" When she was, in turn, invited to Chennai she was wary - "don't think I'm coming there to get married", she insisted. But a day before her return home, they got engaged. A white wedding followed, held in the Armenian capital, Yerevan. Ashkhen found her first year in Chennai tough. She was hit by South India's ferocious heat and humidity. She missed her family, her language, her food, her favourite kind of coffee. Her husband is a Christian but the services at his Protestant church in Chennai didn't sound - or smell - anything like the orthodox worship she had grown up with. Over time, she came through and adapted. She started teaching Russian and - with admirable entrepreneurial flair - worked as a business coach, offering Indian businesses advice on branding and on commercial etiquette when dealing with the Russian-speaking world. That’s just one story. But there are more. Hundreds of Indian students now attend medical schools in Armenia. Ashkhen reckons that sixty or more Armenian women have married trainee doctors and accompanied them back to India. Suren is not the only youngster in Chennai with an Armenian Mum and an Indian Dad. Not all the young Armenians in India cleave to the church as a marker of their identity – but they do network, and Ashkhen is now the regional coordinator of the India-Armenia friendship group. She’s worried about her son growing up in a culture where inter-racial marriages are still rare, and where anyone with a fair skin is likely to be seen and treated as an outsider. Chennai is no longer the cosmopolitan city it once was - but Ashkhen is determined to – as she put it – make herself comfortable there. So for the first time in a couple of centuries, the Armenian community in India is growing. "If you want to find the bad things about India, you will", Ashkhen counsels her friends – and her clients. "If you want to find the opportunities for business, you can. There’re plenty." Then she checks herself - looks at her husband - and declares with a laugh in her voice: "I sound just like one of those Armenian traders who came here back in the 1780s, don't I?" It's difficult to disagree. Time's up - my semester teaching at the Asian College of Journalism is over. But before I head back to cold, grey, Brexit-limbo London, here's a few warm memories of the last few days. Thanks guys!
It's an unlikely spot for a statue - tucked away under Chennai's first flyover, in the middle of one of the city's busiest junctions, and all but inaccessible to pedestrians. But here it is - C.N. Annadurai, the key figure in Dravidian (to put it at its simplest, Tamil pride) politics, sitting lotus style reading a book. Above him the traffic rumbles along the city's principal artery. This was once Mount Road - it now takes Annadurai's name and is known as Anna Salai. Annadurai was the last chief minister of Madras state and the first of the new state of Tamil Nadu, created in 1969. Less than a month after the renaming of the state, Annadurai died of cancer. He was 59. Ever since his landmark election victory in 1967, Tamil politics in south India has been dominated by two parties - the DMK and the AIADMK - which both regard Annadurai as their mentor. Krishna Prasad, a friend and renowned journalist, pointed out this hidden away statue to me, and I captured him on video talking about the man and the memorial to him - If you are curious, the statue is close to the US Consulate, where Cathedral Road goes under Anna Salai - and when I say it's right in the middle of one of Chennai's busiest traffic intersections, I mean it. Good luck!
|
Andrew Whitehead's blogWelcome - read - comment - throw stones - pick up threads - and tell me how to do this better! Archives
May 2024
Categories
All
|