THE PONGAL MATCH

 

The Presidency Match of Madras, played at Chepauk between 1915 and 1952 was born of one Indian's desire to meet the Englishman on equal terms on the cricket ground, and try to vanquish him. As it turned out, the Indians won substantially more matches than the Europeans, and these were the two protagonists of this Pongal festival of cricket that drew large, enthusiastic audiences, in the days before Test matches.

It was Buchi Babu Nayudu, known as the father of Madras cricket, who conceived the idea of the Presidency Match, angered by the apartheid practised by the Madras Cricket Club, which required Indian players to sit under the tree and eat their lunch in the shade, while the Europeans enjoyed the comfort of the club's pavilion. It was this democratic and patriotic impulse that drove Buchi Babu to found the Madras United Club (MUC), and dream of an annual fixture between the rulers and the ruled.

Unfortunately, Buchi Babu died before the first Presidency Match in 1908. The match was organised by his trusted lieutenant B Subramaniam and the Indians were led by B S Ramulu Naidu. The MCC President, P W Partridge of King & Partridge, captained the Europeans, but the match had to be abandoned after a few hours as it rained heavily.

The Presidency Match was resumed only in 1915, this time R D Richmond and B Subramaniam leading the two rival teams. The big-hitting R B Carrick, R K Green, R D "Denny" Denniston, C G Plumer and E K Shattock were among the prominent Europeans, while besides Subramaniam, C Ranganathan, C R Ganapathi, N N Suvarna and the brothers Baliah, Bhat and Ramaswami, the sons of Buchi Babu, were the Indian stars.

The first match was drawn, the Indians making 199 and 304 for 7 and the Europeans 296 and 53 for 1. The successful players of the match were N N Suvarna (70), C R Ganapathi (57 not out), M Baliah (70 not out), R D Richmond (74) Plumer (66) and W O Newsam (54).

C Ramaswami, one Madras cricketer of yore who wrote extensively of his cricketing days, recalls that Richmond was an astute captain who often trapped Baliah and Ramaswami, by inviting them to loft the ball, something neither left hander could resist. Both were known to hit sixers and both tended to get out caught in the deep.

Ramaswami rated C R Ganapathi as "one of the best bowlers in India of the right arm medium paced type." "Immaculate in length with a good nip off the pitch, he always kept the batsman guessing since he could turn the ball both ways." This intriguing reference to the turn obtained by a bowler described as a medium pace bowler is a recurring theme, not only in Ramaswami's writing but also other cricket writers of the day.

About his brother Baliah's batting, "Ramu" says: "What a graceful and attractive left handed batsman! During my cricketing career of well over forty years, I had seen many left handed batsmen, but I have not come across one who could be compared with my late brother in the finer points of batsmanship — grace, power and style. I found only Frank Woolley of Kent equally attractive."

According to Ramaswami, the first five years of the Pongal match were dominated by B Subramaniam, C Ranganathan, C R Ganapathi, Thangavelu and "we three brothers" on the Indian side, and Richmond, Carrick, Denniston, Green and Shattock among the Europeans. "Young Thangavelu, poor in constitution, was a good left hand all rounder with a sound defence and of medium pace. "On him and C R Ganapathi, the Indians depended for their attack."

To continue with Ramu's narrative, "The Presidency Match of 1917 was of special interest to me. A student of the Presidency College, I was participating for the second year in a representative match. A medium fast right arm bowler from Bangalore who had a reputation for accurate bowling — Captain Britton Jones —had arrived to assist the Europeans. Even though we had never heard of such terms as swing bowling, cutters etc., Britton Jones must have bowled swingers with the new ball and in this match, he had created a sensation by disposing of a few of the Indian batsmen for small totals in quick succession. The skipper B Subramaniam had withstood the onslaught of Britton Jones and I joined him at the wicket      at a critical stage. My concentration and determination enabled me to assist my skipper to score between us a hundred runs for the fifth wicket, my contribution being 92. I was a victim of the R D Richmond-R B Carrick combination. I traced my way back to the pavilion when with my score at 92,1 lifted the wily delivery of the European skipper as planned by him into the safe hands of R B Carrick at long-on boundary promptly to be neatly held. That day was a proud day for me and for the valuable innings I had played in the match, I was presented with a silver cup by Sri P S Muthu Mudaliar, who was the captain of the MUC then." The Indians won that match by five wickets.

C K Nayudu played for the Indians in 1920-21, and made a spectacular 128. In that match, the Colonel was reported to have hit a ball so far that it landed in a coconut grove some 50 yards from the Chepauk ground, a distance in all of 150 yards from the crease. Nayudu completely eclipsed C K Krishnaswami Pillai who made 120 in the match and was involved in a big partnership with him.

In 1922 arrived Oxford Blue H P Ward, whose "hearty hits to the squareleg and the long-on will ever remain in the memories of those who played with and against him and also watched him score heavily for the Europeans." Ramaswami also found him to be a wicket keeper unequalled in his time.

Penfold was another Englishman who arrived in Madras hereabouts and with considerable help from Ward, became an accurate medium pacer, to have quite an impact in the Presidency Matches. His inswingers often trapped Nayudu in the legslip   area, something Ramaswami attributes to Ward's shrewd captaincy.

Ren Nailer was perhaps the most exciting batsman to turn out for the Europeans in the Presidency match, though of Eurasian descent. "Unorthodox in his execution of the shots, his keen eyesight and powerful wrists enabled him to play with consummate ease shots to cover and extra cover. When he played against Gilligan's team for Madras and hit Maurice Tate and other bowlers of repute all over the field, Tate ventured to remark that Nailer's runs were lucky to be got and that they were not the result of good hitting. Tate was also confident that Nailer would not be allowed to score even a single in the second innings. Ren however proved to Tate that his judgement was wrong and proceeded to hit him all over the field in the second innings also. Medium paced bowling had given him quite a bag of wickets in the Presidency Matches. Nailer minus his batting and bowling would have found a place for his fielding alone in any representative side. Ren had kept up his interest in the Presidency Matches by playing for the longest period — twentynine years in the series."

C P Johnstone, a senior of Ramaswami in Pembroke College, a double Cambridge Blue in cricket and golf, and a Kent cricketer, came to Madras in 1925 from Calcutta. According to Ramaswami, if Johnstone had not chosen to come away to India, he might have played for England, even become the captain, so highly did he rate his all round ability. "He signalled his appearance in the Madras Presidency Match in 1926 with a score of 135 runs."

Ramu, like many others who played with Johnstone, described him as a grand batsman to watch, a fine left handed opener with a penchant for cover drives, once he got over his nervous starts. He was a magnificent slip fielder, too, and a more than useful "off spin" bowler. (This is again a confusing categorization, as Johnstone often opened the bowling). According to Ramu, "his wickets were bagged by clever changes of flight, pace and length."

"During his stay at Madras for well over twentythree years, Johnstone had endeared himself to all the cricketers and cricket enthusiasts of Madras because of his genuine interest in the improvement of the game in Madras. As the President of the Madras Cricket Association for a number of years, his ardent enthusiasm enabled him to contribute not a little to the organisation of the cricket programme in Madras."

Johnstone it was who decided that young M J Gopalan's was a precious talent worth nurturing and appointed him as an employee of Burmah Shell, so that he would enjoy the job security that would enable him to play cricket without a worry. Gopalan made his Pongal Match debut in 1927 and took ten wickets in the match. An aggressive batsman, Gopalan could hit sixes at will, according to Ramaswami, bowled a good length and moved the ball both ways. Partnering him from the other end for the next four years was the steady C K Lakshmanan.

Like Johnstone an MCC president, C N Reed played for the Europeans from 1938 till the last Presidency Match in 1952. He was an attractive batsman whose off drives were his trade mark.

A G Ram Singh played his first Presidency Match in 1931. In Ramaswami's words, "Till he got set, he always preferred to get most of his runs behind the wickets, and with his eye in, hooked and drove hard. Bowling medium slows, his clever change of pace, flight and length obtained him many wickets. Like Vinoo Mankad of the present day, he was a great trier who could be relied on to go on bowling a number of overs without giving away many runs."

A V Krishnaswami was a right handed opening batsman whose 71 and 100 in the 1937 Presidency Match gave him a star status in the series. He was a consistent batsman who combined a sound defence with judicious aggression but often complained of poor health. According to his contemporaries, it did not seem to affect his cricket overly. He was known for his "crisp cuts and leg glances."

From 1937 to 1941, the Presidency Match was illuminated by the delightful presence of that entertaining all rounder G Parthasarathi, "GP" to everyone. "He believed in using the long handle and particularly delighted in scorching hits to the onside. Using his height to advantage — the high trajectory of his bowling was an additional force to encounter for every batsman—this very good right arm spinner mixed his googlies with his leg breaks and made the ball come off the pitch sharply. On a turning wicket, his bowling was a potential danger and many a time has he run through sides without giving away runs."

The express fast bowler from Triplicane who went on to tour Australia with Lala Amarnath's Indians, C R Rangachari, had a memorable Presidency Match in 1941, when he took eight wickets in the match. Rangachari was a tireless fast bowler, who also took brilliant catches close-in and could bat obdurately on occasion at No. 11. His round arm action caused the ball to keep low and facilitated late outswing.

S V T Chari and M O Srinivasan were good wicket keepers like H P Ward. Chari "would have gone very high and played for India if he had not given up cricket as soon as he passed out of Medical College, to devote attention seriously to his profession. "MO" was quiet and stylish, useful as an opening bat." Both played for India in unofficial Tests.

The advent of the Ranji Trophy, and the exodus of Europeans from Madras as independence approached, meant the gradual decline in the popularity of the Presidency Match. The younger Englishmen, who arrived in Madras in the late thirties and early forties, did not show the same enthusiasm for cricket as their predecessors. By the time the fifties rolled in, the Pongal festival match was close to extinction. The last match, in 1952, was “an apology for the genuine spirit of this contest." Neither side was fully representative and the match never rose to great heights. Thus ended a glorious chapter of         Madras cricket.

Sir Robert Denniston, an MCC president who played cricket and hockey with great enthusiasm, recalls his experiences in the Presidency Match with fond memories:

"I have been browsing among the score sheets of old Presidency Matches and I find that I have seen almost every ball bowled in every match but three. And every one of these 75 happy days in the sun and the pavilion holds a memory.

Let us go back to the early days of the contest and recall the innings of some of the old stalwarts. Of old Subramaniam who always seemed to have a cracked bat, which did not prevent him from being a thorn in the flesh of the Europeans for many a year. How difficult he was to get out! His best performance was probably in 1919 when he carried his side to victory with an innings of 104 not out. The Indians wanted 210 runs to win, and got them for the loss of 6 wickets — perhaps the best performance of the series. The following year, the tables were turned, and Parsons of Warwickshire, cricket professional, soldier, and clergyman, improved the shining hour pending his demobilisation by taking 12 wickets for 115 runs — a performance only beaten by Ganapathy and Ram Singh in later years. The year 1921 saw the first of a number of joyous innings by C K Nayudu, and C K Krishnaswami — a delightful offside player — also got a century, and the Indians won in an innings.

I remember the next match because the day before, an acquaintance came to see me and said, "Here's a bat for you to make 100 with tomorrow." I opened the innings, was caught at the wicket first ball and given not out by a friendly little man in a turban, and was not out at lunch time. Alas! The magic properties of the bat had vanished and that hundred still eludes me. The game ended in a rather tame draw.

A low scoring match in 1923 was memorable for Ganapathy's 11 wickets for 70 runs and the Indians won by 10 wickets. The following year, Ganapathy, besides taking 8 wickets, blossomed forth as a batsman and made 75 runs, mostly of the Chinese variety, and the Europeans were overwhelmed. They came into their own the next year in spite of a first innings score of 66 (Ganapathy 7 for 15) and a fine recovery, in which Carrick scored 98, enabled them to win by 125 runs. The Europeans won again in 1926, thanks to centuries by Johnstone and Carrick and some splendid bowling by Penfold who took 8 for 43 in the second innings. A magnificent catch by Summerhayes settled the issue for C K Nayudu, having made 89 in the first innings was batting with the utmost confidence in the second, and drove a ball hard to Summerhayes at wide midoff, and he took a fast travelling, swerving ball with supreme confidence.

The next year saw a high scoring match left drawn. H P Ward made a superb 173 towards the Europeans' first innings which remained a record for precisely twentyfour hours, Sivasankaran obliging with an equally admirable 174. Johnstone's 6 for 65 in an innings of 485 was notable. Another drawn match followed, Ward scoring 90 and 99, the latter innings containing five sixes. All round work by Gopalan saved the Indians from defeat. A low scoring match in 1929 was won by the Europeans, with Ward, who about this time could do nothing wrong, being top scorer with 80. Penfold took 5 wickets for 13. The next match saw the closest finish of the series, the Indians winning by 10 runs. Venkataramanujulu and Suvarna made 76 and 82 respectively and Jagannathan took 11 wickets for 88 runs.

The year 1931 saw Ram Singh's first appearance, when he gave little indication of the menace he was to prove in later years. The Europeans made the huge score of 570 for 7 wickets and won by an innings, the Indians twice scoring 282, Suvarna playing a couple of fine innings and the Maharajkumar of Vizianagaram playing a plucky second innings of 66. This was J W A Stephenson's first appearance for the Europeans and he made 117 and took 6 wickets. Stephenson subsequently did great things in county cricket in England, and I saw him captaining Essex in 1939.

The European batting strength about this period was most formidable and in 1932, Ward and Nailer scored hundreds in a total of 425. Palia produced what is almost the best all round performance in the series and was on the field almost throughout the three days of the match, which ended in a draw. After bowling 45 overs for 7 wickets and 109 runs, Palia proceeded to make 65 and 143. The next year, it was Shahabuddin's match and the Europeans were overwhelmed by an innings, C K Nayudu scoring 139 and Shahabuddin taking 13 wickets for 63 runs. There was little of outstanding note in the 1934 match which the Europeans won by 31 runs, but Ram Singh gave signs that a valuable all rounder was in the making. This fact he demonstrated to the full the following year when he contributed towards a European rout by making 70 and taking 13 wickets for 48 runs. Hereabouts the Europeans were not a strong side and a further defeat awaited in 1937, A V Krishnaswami playing two solid innings of 71 and 100. A high scoring match next year was left drawn, Nailer, Reed, and Ram Singh scoring hundreds. Gopalan and G Parthasarathi, in a splendid sixth wicket stand, saved the Indians when all seemed lost. In 1939, the Indians won by 4 wickets, thanks to admirable all round play by Ram Singh, and despite skilful bowling by Spitteler, who took 9 wickets for 82 runs. A similar result was seen the following year when a century —his first in the series —by C Ramaswami and two glorious innings by Nailer were the chief features. Ram Singh took his usual ten wickets and Spitteler again bowled well. The Indians won again in 1941, but there were no special features except that there were ten wickets once more for Ram Singh, and Vesey-Brown bowled equally well for the Europeans.

In 1942, with the majority of their young men on active service, the Europeans were unable to raise a side, but at the end of the year it was found possible to play a two-day match, and though the Europeans won it in the end by the comfortable margin of 8 wickets, it was a match of strange fluctuations of fortune and the time factor added to the excitement. The Indians made 268, with M Swaminathan — quick on his feet —Ram Singh and Gopalan batting well for 56, 54 and 89. The Europeans replied with 242 which might have been more had Johnstone not been run out for 75. De Kretser, Robinson and Mischler scored usefully. In the second innings the Indians collapsed before Robinson (slow leg breaks) and Blunt (fast medium) and the Europeans looked to be winning easily, but Srinivasan and Parankusam put on 47 invaluable runs for the eighth wicket, "Pincushion" batting like a No. 1 batsman. They were both victims of superb fielding, Nailer throwing Parankusam's wicket down from the long field, and Srinivasan falling to an astonishing catch by Lindley Jones on the square leg boundary. He ran 20 yards or so, took the ball low down, turned a somersault or two and managed to retain the ball. The Europeans had to hurry, and at one time were behind the clock, but after Johnstone and Edge had put on 57, Robinson and Nailer came together and by the brightest cricket in the match added 48 runs and won the match with about 3 minutes to spare.

Whether a Presidency Match will be possible this year remains to be seen, but if so, numerous changes are likely in the European side, since army cricketers are birds of passage. Perhaps by the end of next year we shall once more be enjoying a peacetime Presidency Match. I have a feeling that Indian cricket in Madras is rather standing still, but once we can get a full season's cricket unmarred by war conditions young cricketers will have their opportunity."

According to S K Gurunathan of The Hindu, writing in 1955, "The standard of cricket witnessed in these matches was very high — sometimes higher than the present day Test matches —and we had on both sides players whose skill would shine in the highest company in any part of the world. This series of matches was in those days looked upon as the biggest event of the year and the goal and ambition of every budding cricketer was to play in these matches some day. The Presidency Match necessarily played a great part in the development of the game in Madras."

Gurunathan calls the years between the two great wars the most decisive period in the history of the MCA. He connects the formation of the Board of Control for Cricket in India to the 1926 tour of India undertaken by the A E R Gilligan-led official Marylebone Cricket Club team. The team played three matches at Madras, in which veteran C R Ganapathi and young M J Gopalan showed glimpses of the past and the future with their sparkling performances.

At the end of that tour, Gurunathan says, Gilligan suggested that a Board of Control for Cricket in India be formed so that organised cricket might come to India. His suggestion was immediately accepted and the board was formed with R E Grant-Govan and A S de Mello at the helm. Soon member associations were formed in various provinces.

The Madras Cricket Association, formed in 1930, had three members: the MUC representing Indian clubs, the Anglo-Indian Sports Club, and the Madras Cricket Club, the "European" club. Sir Daniel Richmond of MCC was the first president of the MCA — and this practice of the MCC president heading MCA continued into independent India —while B Subramaniam and Buchi Babu's son M "Bhat" Venkataramanujulu were members.

MCA then came to life only at the time of visits by touring teams like Douglas Jardine's MCC in 1938 and Jack Ryder's Australian XI in 1935.

The Presidency Match was conducted under the joint auspices of MUC and MCC, and when gates were collected for the first time in 1921, the two clubs shared the proceeds.

 

As the Indian team for the Pongal match was selected by MUC and South India Athletic Association (SIAA) "without consultations with the other Indian clubs, there was widespread dissatisfaction."

This dissatisfaction led to the formation on April 10, 1932, of the Indian Cricket Federation (ICF), embracing 20 clubs. Their representatives assembled at Emmanuel Club and at a meeting chaired by Prof. C K Krishnaswami Pillai —the C K Krishnaswami whose offside batting Sir Robert Denniston describes as delightful — the following were elected to office:

President: Dr P Subbaroyan

Secretary & Treasurer: T Govindarajulu

Asst. Secretary: C D Parthasarathi

MCC, MUC and SIAA abstained and did not join ICF, promoted with great zeal by Govindarajulu of Emmanuel Club.

The first league championship of Madras was instituted by ICF. The

18 teams        that participated in the first season were:

1.                            Triplicane Cricket Club (Winners)

2.                            The Madras Emmanuel Club

3.                            The Mylapore Recreation Club

4.                            The Minerva Cricket Club

5.                            The Chepauk United Club

6.                            The Madras Eastern Club

7.                            The Nowroji-Gokhale Union

8.                            Mambalam Cricket Club

9.                            The Madras Aryan Club

10.                      Progressive Union

11.                      The City Central League

12.                      The Mars Union

13.                      Trades Staff Club

14.                      The Royapettah Students' Club

15.                      Perambur Recreation Club

16.                      Corporation Sports Club

17.                      The Postal and RMS Recreation Club

18.                      The B & C Mills Athletic Association

 

Arnab Goswami WhatsApp Chat Leak | Explained by Dhruv Rathee

R. Ashwath Narayanan, at The Music Academy, 25th December 2020

A PEARL FROM TAMRAPARNI

Triveni, October 1955

By K. V. RAMACHANDRAN

Among our rivers, the Tamraparni is said to be the home of pearls, of a kind considered priceless, in ages when the pearl was greatly prized. Among the human pearls that emerged from its banks was Nammalvar in the remote past, and the late Sri V. Narayanan in the recent past. Nammalvar had to wait for centuries before one who had poetry in his soul and was thus uniquely endowed to interpret him, came along in the person of Narayanan. In the neighbourhood of Tamraparni, is the sacred mountain from which arose the father of Tamil, the sage Agastya. Narayanan resembled Agastya not only by his stature, but also by repeating Agastya’s feat of drinking up the twin oceans of Sanskrit and Tamil. Venkatanatha (Vedanta Desika) who hailed from the banks of the Vegavati, paid his homage to Nammalvar when he named him the Muni and his work the Dramilopanishad and ranked it higher than the Veda; and lest anyone should perversely dispute his opinion, well on to add that “when a puny cloud threatened a pompous downpour over Agastya, who had drunk the sea dry, the river Tamraparni broke into a pearly smile.”¹ Venkatanatha was one of the intrepid defenders of the ‘Divyaprabandha’ and he helped to give the Tamil language its place in our life and culture. But his approach was religious and philosophic. Narayanan, whose approach was artistic, discovered Nammalvar quite independently; and he made his own significant contribution to Tamil letters when he undertook to interpret the Tamil classics, for which his gifts and equipment so eminently fitted him. He loved Tamil and wooed her like a lover. But like the fabled Chakora that subsisted on moonbeams, and Parikshit who took no other food than the ambrosia of Saka’s words, Narayanan drew his nourishment from Valmiki and Nammalvar almost exclusively. One may say that he had dedicated himself to these so wholly, that he outgrew his taste for anything else.

The only son of his father, he married the only daughter of the late Justice P. R. Sundara Iyer, a recollection of which he has preserved in the wistful reverie ‘Ayyarval’s son-in-law’ after he had lost his wife and become ‘visarada’. The saintly lady passed away in 1936, and till then she had taken sole charge of the family and the domestic responsibilities, relieving Narayanan completely and leaving him free to his harem of books and dream-children. At the time, Narayanan was such a stranger in his own house and was so seldom seen, that his children addressed him as ‘Sir’ when he did appear. But when she passed away, he replaced her, playing the role of Tayumanavar (Matrubhuta) so wholly and tenderly that the children never missed the mother, and when they were a little older, he combined the role of father and mother like Siva Ardhanariswara. In the reverie referred to above, he relates how he handed over his marriage invitation to his teacher, who did not even remember his name and who was greatly surprised to learn that his humble pupil had been chosen as the son-in-law of a High Court Judge. One can imagine the young Narayanan, diminutive and demure, with felt cap on big head and a pair of goggly spectacles, chuckling to himself at the teacher’s discomfiture. It was a habit so characteristic of him; he would express the most devastating opinions in a grave and apologetic manner, laughing in his sleeves all the time.

He had already taken his M. A., and M. L., with distinction after a brilliant academic career. He practised law for some time rather perfunctorily. I remember him in his legal garb with watch and chain, turban and brief-bag, appearing in a literary case where a copyright was involved; but I do know Narayanan got far more deeply involved in the labyrinth of Kadambari. His heart belonged to literature and not law. When years later he joined the Tamil Lexicon, he got work that found an outlet for his knowledge of languages. Sri N. Raghunathan justly praises his accurate scholarship and appreciation of the nuances of meaning and overtones of suggestion, that found full play when Narayanan played the role of Dr. Johnson, for a while, at the Lexicon. The Tamil Lexicon was one of the sagas of our time and had a long and chequered history. But that portion of it with which Narayanan was connected, bears the stamp of his genius and learning.

I also remember his depredations of the Hindu office, annexing an enormous booty of miscellaneous books, which he would review with the patience and fortitude of a Job. He loved the dingy old Hindu building of which he had very pleasant memories; one of the reasons why he joined the Indian Express later was perhaps because it was located in that dear old building. But he did not admire the then new sky-scraper of the Hindu, which he considered lofty and American. In those days, I was one of those who considered, early rising immoral. Narayanan, an authority on the ethics and aesthetics of early rising–vide his discourses on Palliyezhuchi–and the sacred month of Marghazhi, was a confirmed early bird. Almost every day Narayanan would arrive on his bicycle and, with an agility worthy of a better cause, clear the stairs at one bound, accompanied by his war-cry ‘C-M’ (an abbreviation of my nickname–Caveman–because I always kept indoors) and be at my bedside, leaving my wife to scamper off as best she could–a heroic attempt on the part of Narayanan to set our crooked habits straight, though not a very successful one. The bicycle was his favourite vehicle and his daily routine (which was of course subject to variations) was to inject Prof. K. Swaminathan with his theory about the text of the Ramayana, because he was his neighbour and nearest to him; then invade Perungulam House at Elliot’s Road and spar with Sri Anantanarayanan, I. C. S., over his father-in-Law’s Ramayana theories and exchange compliments with M. Krishnan who was just winging for the stellar height where he now is; drop in at Prof. Kuppuswami Sastri’s for a sloka or two; hold up Sri N. Raghunathan for at least half an hour before he left for office; and to peep in at the ‘Asrama’ to clear his accounts of the funds of the Sanskrit Academy of which he was the Treasurer. The beach and the evening he reserved for Tamil and friends like Somasundara Desikar, Pundit Rajagopala Iyengar, who edited ‘Ahananooru’, and Sri Vayyapuri Pillai. In between he used to look up his relations, of whom there were quite a number, irrespective of their worldly success and importance, and attend to their wants, as in duty bound.

Besides the literary page of the Hindu, he was a prolific contributor to the ‘Everyman’s Review’, ‘Triveni’, ‘Journal of Oriental Research, ‘Vedantakesari’, ‘Bharatamani’, and ‘Silpasree’. He also gave some very valuable talks under the auspices of the Archaeological Society and the Sanskrit Academy. Prof. K. Swaminathan said that “about a dozen associations and two or three dozen journals exploited his goodness and learning”. But Narayanan never considered himself so exploited. Out of his innate goodness, he scattered the gems of his thoughts far and wide to whoever wanted them, and even to those who did not want them. If I may be permitted to say it, the late Prof. P. T. Srinivasa Iyengar, who was himself a very good scholar, was not above borrowing ideas from Narayanan. Narayanan was therefore a scholar sought out by other scholars–the scholars’ scholar, so to say. He gave cheerfully and he gave lavishly without any motive of gain or fame. Equally disinterested was his pursuit of knowledge. He threw himself heart and soul into the functions of the Sanskrit Academy, and was ebullient and beside himself with happiness when scholars of the stature of Pundit Raghava Iyengar, the Elder, were honoured. For Raghava Iyengar whose outlook was very similar to his own, and who was the one man who could understand his own work, he had genuine affection, which he has given expression to in an essay describing a visit to him. Once he sat up a whole night to prepare a Tamil version of ‘Swapna-Vasavadatta’ because the All India Radio wanted it urgently. It can never be said that Narayanan was a recluse who kept to himself; not only did he take considerable interest, but also participated with gusto in contemporary life. He was never idle, but was always reading or writing or discussing literature and art.

In the make-up of Narayanan was an excess of modesty (vreeda) which ripened and mellowed into a saintly humility as he grew older and which completely masked the prodigious range of his attainments. He had so much to say and said so little of it, that I gave him the nickname ‘Iceberg’ which was mostly submerged under water, the top alone being visible and a month before he passed away, in a tragic flash of illumination, he wrote to me that the ice was thawing and on its way to join the ocean. If ever there was a man without trace of vanity, it was Narayanan; he never talked about himself nor allowed others to talk about him. Even the little appreciation he did get appeared to delight him, as though he had partaken of a banquet. Rich in contentment and equipoise, he never seemed to regret the lack of recognition, and went about his work as cheerfully and nonchalantly as ever. He wrote just to disburden himself of some divine discontent and not to canvass for fame and name. He had a genius for friendship and a good assortment of talented friends. He took pleasure in reading poetry with friends; and some poems he was never tired of reading again and again. Needless to say that I learnt a good deal from his readings and conversation.

It was Sri Aurobindo Ghose who thought that the ‘Uttarakanda’ was a late addition and pleaded for its exclusion from the Ramayana, as also the other patent interpolations in the other ‘Kandas’. But it was Narayanan who studied the Ramayana in close detail and tabulated the various species of interpolations that the Poem invited in the course of ages from various agencies. Relying on the Alvar he would quote ‘Uruttezhhli vali Marbil Oru kanai Uruva otti’ and make out that in the Ramayana known to the ALvar, Vali rose against Rama and was quelled by a single arrow. From the beginning of the ‘Aranyakanda’, the theme, according to Narayanan, was the prowess and heroism of Rama which rose in a crescendo and reached its climax in the defeat and destruction of Vali. What a pity that before he could restore the pure gold of the quintessential Valmiki, Narayanan was snatched away! How invaluable would have been his masterpiece on the masterpiece of Valmiki, had he been spared to write it! His favourite passage was Sita’s message to Hanuman, in the course of which she breaks down in a hallucination and addresses Rama in the first person, as though she saw him bodily there. When Narayanan read it, his voice would falter and choke, and tears flow down his cheeks.

            In a moving narrative Narayanan has recounted how his deeply religious father and mother came under the spell of Sarada Devi, wife of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, whom they actually entertained in their house and from whom they took lessons in spiritual discipline. Later Narayanan made a pilgrimage to the village where the lady was, near Calcutta, along with his mother; and there he was fascinated by an image of Rama. The saintly lady, reading his unuttered thoughts, bathed him in the nectar of her eyes and initiated him into the worship of Rama. The incident throws light on Narayanan’s subsequent outlook and development. He was an intimate devotee of Sree Rama; and it was his faith that sustained him in his hour of trial when he lost his wife, and forged a new link between him and the Ramayana. In an early essay, he speaks of the sacred ladies of his harem. As one who understood him, may I take the liberty of unveiling the principal Goddess there–his Bhakti. The other Goddess who was part of him–Modesty–I have already uncovered. In another mood he described “the solitude of star-lit nights on seashore with the billows sweeping over the sand, while the immensity beyond glowed in the phosphorescent curl of the wave where he met infinity face to face”. So this shy young dreamer saw the Pilot face to face even before he had crossed the bar! How tellingly he expresses himself and his exaltation! Delicious are some of his early essays, revelling in the impish perversities of paradox caught from Chesterton, as in his plea for the cult of unintelligibility and his defence of failure, and the one on the folly of wisdom. In the last, he tilts against Tagore whom he had seen at ‘Santiniketan’, Mylapore, decked out all in velvet. In another piece he rewrote the map of the world, replacing the geographical features with the intellectua1 and spiritual creations of the respective regions. One of the most charming was his dissertation on ‘the lamp’ in the course of which he compared the light-house to the “one-eyed Cyclops rolling his big eye round the broad sea at his feet”. All this was excellent writing,–‘angelic’ as Sri K. Chandrasekharan calls it, from a young man just out of college. If Narayanan had stuck to English, he might have achieved distinction as a master of the personal essay. But the lure and challenge of Tamil and Sanskrit proved irresistible and he turned his back on English to seek his fulfillment elsewhere. Such a step was in harmony with our own outlook and tradition, which reckon achievement as something impersonal and work as higher than the man. But it did deprive him of his share of contemporary appreciation to an extent.

Narayanan had the capacity to do easily what others found it difficult, and attempt things that no one had attempted before. Like Arjuna he was ambidextrous and could formulate with one hand a new approach to the problems of Federation and throw off a formidable thesis on Ramanuja’s indebtedness to ‘Tiruvoymozhi’ with the other. He could hold forth on the doctrinal differences between Kumarilabhatta and Prabhakara Misra and pile Ossa on Pelion to scale the Upanishads. Among his papers are excellent studies of the early Alvars and expositions of the various facets of the Ramayana and the moods of Subrahmanya Bharati. Essentially a thinker, his approach was fresh and original always.

Take his thesis on ‘Chola Polity’, of unique value to those who wish to read and understand history aright. He begins by criticising the method of reconstructing history from the records of foreign travellers and cross-sections of dynastic lists and lexicons, without taking account of the basic concept and philosophy of life of the people. The Solar Race was the ideal of the Cholas; if Bhagiratha brought down Ganga from heaven, so did Kavera bring down Kaveri; the Cholas were ‘Adityas and Vijayalayas and resembled Vishnu; likewise did the eyes of the Chola Kochenganan tinged red with grace resemble Vishnu’s; if Dasaratha went to help Indra, so did the Chola Muchukunda; Raja raja (a title of Kubera) not only resembled Kubera by his boundless riches, but also by his devotion to Siva; Karikala bore the name of Siva who tore asunder the elephant and did not get his legs burnt to a cinder in an attempt at firewalking. The line in the Chola inscription ‘Kanthalurchchalai kalamaruttaruli’ is responsible for a number of amusing deductions on the part of the professional historians. ‘Kalam’, according to the Tamil dictionary, means a boat or ship or eating vessel; and ‘chalai’ is a road or Oottupurai. One school of historians claim that the Chola smashed a fleet of ships in the harbour of Kandalurchali; the other claims that the Chola broke all the eating vessels in the Oottupurai. This is history indeed with a vengeance! If Mohamed Ghazni smashed images, the noble Raja Raja smashed pots and pans in a hospitable eating house! Narayanan said that the Chola, like Vishnu, got rid of the pest of wicked men (khala) and established Dharma in that region, especially because in the first two lines ‘Thirrumagal polap perunilach chelviyum thanakkeyurimai poondamai Manakkola’ the Chola is said to have made the wide earth, along with Lakshmi, his very own like Vishnu. The word ‘aruli’ denotes an act of grace and the historians, unaware of the poetic approach of the king to his duties, not only miss the significance of the reference, but misread and distort it. What a vista of happy circumstances does the title ‘Sungamthavirthapiran’ of Rajendra, evoke! But it has meant nothing to the historians, because they are not students of literature and fail to read the overtones of the poetic title. Besides, the Vaishnava commentaries of the middle ages represent untapped sources for reconstructing social history, which no historian seems to have utilised. Narayanan concludes, “Every brick in the edifice of history must be truth-moulded and put in proper place with utmost care, or the edifice will tumble down. This is specially so in Chola history, as Chola Polity was suffused with poetry and philosophy which moulded the life of the people of that great epoch.” His incursion into historical research was not unlike the advent of the bull in a China shop. But what a valuable lesson he taught when he said that history, no less than literature, needs men of creative imagination and taste! How one wishes that the research scholars benefit by his suggestion and realign their enquiry from the new angle, however unsweet the taste of his rod.

His note on ‘Tamil Civilisation’ in ‘Triveni’ was a closely reasoned argument. Beginning with a reference to the late R. Swaminatha Iyer’s thesis that the peculiarities of Tamil grammatical form and construction were features common to most prakrits, and that the early Tamil vocabulary bears close affinity to Vedic vocabulary and that of the early prakrits of the Punjab, Narayanan passes on to explain the co-existence of Vedic and Agamic forms of worship in the same community; and after examining certain crucial words, concludes that the evidence only reinforces an identity of culture throughout India–a conclusion on which the new State of India and her policy are based.

His interpretation of the word ‘Sanga’ as the variant of ‘Sanghata’ i. e. Anthology, and his suggestion that many of the poems” of ‘Purananooru’ represented the speeches of characters from old Tamil dramas playing the parts of poets and kings, started a new era in the understanding of Tamil poetry and chronology, and were as sensational in their own way as Prof. Dubreuil’s discoveries in Pallava history. According to him the Sangam Anthologies represented a literary dialect like Sanskrit, that found favour at Royal Courts and was confined to a specific literary group that adhered to a specific set of literary conventions; it was therefore but a segment of the Tamil literature. There must have been and were other groups earlier and later who did not conform to the conventions, or chose themes with which the conventions did not fit in, or chose a different diction altogether. Indeed there was more than one school of literary conventions that flourished side by side when Tamil was a creative language. Narayanan therefore thought that an intensive study of Tamil literature as a whole was more immediately needed than deductions based on a segment of it. I am yet to find a scholar who studied Tamil as Narayanan did, or summed up his findings as neatly and succinctly. Whether it was history or literature, his standard of truth in investigation was very high. Unfortunately for him, the world of Tamil was more bleak and lonely than history; and where he expected a multitude of voices for and against him, he was disconcerted by listening to just one voice and that was his own.

Besides, he had an original explanation for the female icon interposed between Krishna and Balarama in the Puri temple, and he derived Narasimha from the sculptured pillar. His essay on the interplay of arts gives an insight into the inwardness of his knowledge of art. He was the first and only one to interpret the significance of the dances described in ‘Silappadikaram’.

When I started ‘Silpasree’ in 1937 Sri Y. Mahalinga Sastry hoped that even as ‘Sree’ (Lakshmi) chose Narayanan in the primeval Swayamvara, ‘Silpasree’ would choose Narayanan. So she did. During the two years of its existence, it was Narayana who sustained and kept the journal going. He wrote on how to rejuvenate Tamil and prescribed some ‘kayakalpa’ treatment for it. Out of the many fine things he wrote, I would single out the Playlet ‘Natakavataram’ portraying the origin of the drama under the guidance of Bharatamuni, in which Krishna plays the part of Rama, and Rukmini and Satyabhama contend for the part of Sita, as something entirely original.

Towards the end of his career he was attracted by the hymn literature in Sanskrit of which he gave some very readable translations.

I hope I have given an idea of the work Narayanan was doing which called for talent and capacity of a very special kind. It is one thing to have merit and quite another to get it recognised. The latter demands faculties of an entirely different order. No wonder that Narayanan found himself quite alone in his pursuits. He was indeed the stone rejected by the builder, though to us, his friends, it seemed that his place was as the headstone of the temple. If, according to Ibsen, the strongest man was he who was most alone, Narayanan may be said to have achieved that ideal, closely followed as he is in his spiritual isolation by others, among whom I include myself. Did not Cassandra stand most alone, though she spoke nothing but the truth?

Sri N. Raghunathan has said that ink was in Narayanan’s blood; I am Sure that at least some of that ink was of the indelible kind–the kind that survives, unlike that which vanishes. Sri Raghunathan hit him off when he said that literature was his passion and that, once started, his non-stop discourses delighted more prosaic souls by the serenity with which he ignored the importunities of the clock! And who does not share his regret that Narayanan is not here to waste one’s time by his genial buttonholing way? The late K. S. Venkataramani wrote that “in the last five years Narayanan was ripening so perfectly that every hour I spent with him was a great fertiliser to me. In any other society he would have been gratefully used for a higher purpose and honoured and recognised as a dynamic hermit, a Karma Yogi saturated in the culture and traditions of our life”.

We all remember the story of how music was buried in the time of Aurangzeb and how Aurangzeb asked the musicians to bury her deeper. Some ages happen to be uncongenial and unpropitious for certain causes and ideals. The time-spirit had undoubtedly its share in denying collaboration to people like Narayanan. If a complacent and self-sufficient society that had no use for the thinker and dreamer, notwithstanding pious professions to the contrary, kept aloof, no wonder that though Narayanan had plenty to give and gave freely, he did not give of his best. Clearly the society did not deserve it. The infant mortality of journals like ‘Everyman’s Review’ and ‘Silpasree’ and the lifelong martyrdom of ‘Triveni’ are eloquent of a malady for which no treatment has yet been devised. The romance of archaeology ought to tempt people, but at the Society where Narayanan lectured, the audience consisted of about seven people, of whom two must have been the peons waiting in impatience for the speaker to cease, so that they may close the doors the sooner. The following epitaph by Emily Dickinson seems to have a topical appropriateness for the circumstances of our own time and place:

“I died for Beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb

When one who died for Truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

“He questioned softly why I failed

‘For Beauty,’ I replied.

‘And I for Truth; the two are one,

We brethren are,’ he said.

“And so as kinsmen met anight

We talked between the rooms

Until the moss had reached our lips

And covered up our names.”

To us his friends, however precious the pearl-like hours spent with him, the recollection of them is but a poor substitute for the real pearl of peerless sheen–the pearl from Tamraparni–irretrievably lost six years ago.

“Oh for the touch of a vanished hand

And the sound of a voice that is still!”

¹ That is to say, the river with its myriad pearls seemed to laugh at those who, with a little knowledge of Sanskrit, looked down upon Tamil.