Murrays Gate Road
SOME THINGS haven't changed from the Madras of 50 years ago to the Chennai of today. The name of the street where I grew up, for instance. Murrays Gate Road has remained Murrays Gate Road, and our old house, Suprabha, remains there pretty much as I remember it.
Those were the days of fresh milk being delivered at your doorstep. The quiet stillness of sleepy afternoons was punctuated by the buffalo's grunts and groans, even as her master by expert sleight of hand, emptied the cylindrical receptacle to show you it had no water in it, yet managing to dilute the milk.
The dawning of festival days was heralded by the family barber producing unearthly sounds on a battered nagaswaram. Domestic help splattering the front courtyard with cowdung solution was a daily ritual.
Journalist uncle Sundaresan's attempts downstairs at grabbing much needed sleep during the day after doing night duty were invariably scuttled by the noise of thudding feet as we siblings and cousins played deathless test matches between England and Australia in the corridor upstairs.
In the afternoon, the action shifted to the compound and by evening, to the ground across the street.
The ground was a huge expanse of land where today you see Venus Colony. It was remarkably level. The wicket was hard and even, the result of several people and cattle using it as a shortcut between Venus Studios and Murrays Gate Road.
On rainy days, quite a nasty rough was created by the hoofmarks of buffaloes returning from grazing beyond country or long-on. These rarely created any problems for the batsmen as few of the bowlers could land the ball on those spots on purpose.
The street had its share of celebrities, major and minor, besides the number of amateur cricketers there that went on to play competitive cricket at school, college, league and first class level.
Of the extended family, the late P. S. Ramachandran who lived on Eldams Road, played for Madras as a fast bowler in the very first Ranji Trophy match way back in 1934. The family produced many other cricketers of merit.
Arguably the most celebrated of the regular visitors to our neighbourhood was Sathya Sai Baba. He was a guest of one of our neighbours, though we knew nothing about him beyond his quaint hairstyle and that he travelled in luxury in a Mercedes Benz if my memory is not playing tricks.
Another famous person endeared herself to the children of our street with her unaffected ways and unfailing courtesy. K B Sundarambal, a singer of film songs, had made an indelible impression on young minds with her portrayal of Avvai, the great Tamil poet of ancient times.
A Bhim Singh, the successful Tamil film director, was another distinguished resident. His sons Narendran and Lenin were to become our playmates in the Sixties.
The highest point of their lives for most of the residents was the time the Sage of Kanchi accepted pada puja from individual households on our street. To see him at close quarters and receive his blessings was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Itinerant visitors included the Chinese seller of muslins and silks who carried his merchandise on the carrier of his bicycle and Karim with his wondrous cache of scents and perfumes.
'Anugundu Ayyavu' of wild hair, bloodshot eyes and eccentric clothing, suspenders, hat and all, regaled us with tall stories once we got used to his appearance. His claim to fame rested on the bit parts he played in the movies.
And there was this salesman of cheeppu, kannadi and colour kumkumam, with his variegated stock of multihued powders.
The Murrays Gate Road of then was a quiet place all right, but it was a happening place for the kids on the block. We were always in and out of each others' houses playing an unending variety of games from cricket and ball badminton to hopscotch and gilli- danda, depending on the time of the year.
I am sure anyone who ever lived or played in the neighbourhood carries memories of a remarkable childhood.
Those were the days of fresh milk being delivered at your doorstep. The quiet stillness of sleepy afternoons was punctuated by the buffalo's grunts and groans, even as her master by expert sleight of hand, emptied the cylindrical receptacle to show you it had no water in it, yet managing to dilute the milk.
The dawning of festival days was heralded by the family barber producing unearthly sounds on a battered nagaswaram. Domestic help splattering the front courtyard with cowdung solution was a daily ritual.
Journalist uncle Sundaresan's attempts downstairs at grabbing much needed sleep during the day after doing night duty were invariably scuttled by the noise of thudding feet as we siblings and cousins played deathless test matches between England and Australia in the corridor upstairs.
In the afternoon, the action shifted to the compound and by evening, to the ground across the street.
The ground was a huge expanse of land where today you see Venus Colony. It was remarkably level. The wicket was hard and even, the result of several people and cattle using it as a shortcut between Venus Studios and Murrays Gate Road.
On rainy days, quite a nasty rough was created by the hoofmarks of buffaloes returning from grazing beyond country or long-on. These rarely created any problems for the batsmen as few of the bowlers could land the ball on those spots on purpose.
The street had its share of celebrities, major and minor, besides the number of amateur cricketers there that went on to play competitive cricket at school, college, league and first class level.
Of the extended family, the late P. S. Ramachandran who lived on Eldams Road, played for Madras as a fast bowler in the very first Ranji Trophy match way back in 1934. The family produced many other cricketers of merit.
Arguably the most celebrated of the regular visitors to our neighbourhood was Sathya Sai Baba. He was a guest of one of our neighbours, though we knew nothing about him beyond his quaint hairstyle and that he travelled in luxury in a Mercedes Benz if my memory is not playing tricks.
Another famous person endeared herself to the children of our street with her unaffected ways and unfailing courtesy. K B Sundarambal, a singer of film songs, had made an indelible impression on young minds with her portrayal of Avvai, the great Tamil poet of ancient times.
A Bhim Singh, the successful Tamil film director, was another distinguished resident. His sons Narendran and Lenin were to become our playmates in the Sixties.
The highest point of their lives for most of the residents was the time the Sage of Kanchi accepted pada puja from individual households on our street. To see him at close quarters and receive his blessings was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Itinerant visitors included the Chinese seller of muslins and silks who carried his merchandise on the carrier of his bicycle and Karim with his wondrous cache of scents and perfumes.
'Anugundu Ayyavu' of wild hair, bloodshot eyes and eccentric clothing, suspenders, hat and all, regaled us with tall stories once we got used to his appearance. His claim to fame rested on the bit parts he played in the movies.
And there was this salesman of cheeppu, kannadi and colour kumkumam, with his variegated stock of multihued powders.
The Murrays Gate Road of then was a quiet place all right, but it was a happening place for the kids on the block. We were always in and out of each others' houses playing an unending variety of games from cricket and ball badminton to hopscotch and gilli- danda, depending on the time of the year.
I am sure anyone who ever lived or played in the neighbourhood carries memories of a remarkable childhood.
posted by Ramnarayan at 2:59 AM
3 Comments:
OMG what a small world, my paatis house is in Maharaja Surya Rao Road right opposite to the house where Sai Baba used to stay. This post has got me all tearful for some reason, will forward it to my mother.
Like Lalita I too landed here via Gilli, this has made my day
I should know you then, at least your family. Thanks for dropping in. I am not surprised by the tears, though. It's the problem with childhood memories. There are some old Hindi film songs which remind me of Delhi in the 60s (where my father's job took him), and the lump in the throat can be pretty painful. Do you remember the noise the buffalos and milkman made in the sleepy afternoons of our pettai? Maybe you are not old enough to know THAT part of life in Alwarpet.
Cool blog, interesting information... Keep it UP » » »
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