Kochi of the sixties permitted no beginnings, no
ends.
Shanmugham Road, too, did not start anywhere nor ended
anywhere. It formed a barrier along the west coast of Ernakulam, holding the
backwater away from the commercial chaos of Broadway where people from Israel
and Kunnamkulam sold goods and dreams to the people of Kochi and nearby
districts. Starting from the end of the Banerjee Road or from the High Court
junction, not sure where, Shanmugham Road lost itself as it curved to look at the CSI church.
Along the way, however, it presided over a host of important landmarks; the High
Court of Kerala, the Police Club, the seat of the Archdiocese of Verapoly, the Police
Commissioner’s Office, Ernakulam Central Market, Sridhar Cinema, Sea Lord
Hotel, Menaka cinema and Cochin Refreshment House, CRH, a favorite eatery of
the Kochiites. Rocky parapet bordered the road on the west where people sat
with their backs to the sea, unaware that the evening sun was splashing a
thousand hues on the horizon. The fishermen too, who were returning from the
day’s work, were too busy thinking of the evening drink to notice the colourful
canopy spread over their heads.
A canal split the road midway through and flowed
into the Market Pond adjoining the Central Market. Commodities of all sorts,
fish included, reached the Market through this canal from the nearby islands
and the Fisheries Jetty. The steps leading to the pond were crowded with
vendors and buyers on Tuesdays and Fridays; beyond the steps, the Market
paraded its stalls and shops through a labyrinth of passages. A small bridge
over the canal watched the bustle below with indifference.
Ramkumar, Raman to his friends, was an enfant
terrible during his college days. Born to Vyloppilly Ramankutty Menon, who
himself was known and feared for his candid remarks and repartees, Raman had a
tumultuous life during his young days at Kaloor Government High School and Maharajas
College; the elder Menon soon realized that his son would fit a normal job only like
a square peg in a round hole. He talked to his friend, Srinivasa Shenoy and
thus Raman joined Sridhar Cinema as Assistant Manager. An avid movie buff, he
changed the focus of the theatre to make it a preferred joint of the youth of
Ernakulam. His circle of friends grew rapidly and he still remains a favorite
among them.
Sridhar Cinema was the first air-conditioned movie
house in Kerala and was a quantum jump from the school auditorium styled
theatres found all over the State, during those days. Built by the Shenoys' Group, it brought in a new
experience to the moviegoers with its ergonomically designed seats, multilevel
floor, multiple curtains, clean interiors and marble-clad pillars. Every day,
as the first show of the day opened at 6.30 pm, a tall man, wearing slacks and
dhothi, would stand in the lounge, leaning on the staircase rails and watching
the crowd. His head was tilted to one side due to a chronic neck condition. His
name was Pallan and he was the manager of the theatre. This was before Ramkumar
joined Sridhar Cinema.
Between Sridhar and its owner’s hardware warehouse, a
small lane ran southward to reach the first ice cream parlour in Kerala. The
shop sat on the ground floor of Sealord Hotel, the first high rise and the
tallest building in the State. During a period when refrigerators were the
stuff of dreams, this small outlet lured passersby but catered only to those
who had money to burn on the snowy delights. This is the place where George, a small
time contractor, was fooled by his mates who wanted to play a prank on him, to order
for “ice fry”. The perplexed vendor wondered how ice can be fried; “fried ice
cream” was not known during those times.
Sealord Hotel stood majestically facing the waters
and could be seen from all the islands nearby. With many firsts on its belt,
such as the elevator, the cabaret floor and the like, the iconic building was a must see
for all the visitors to the city. Built in 1966 by a trader whose main line of
business was liquor, the hotel was a mystery to most of the Kochiites who
wondered how a girl could dance in skimpy clothes in front of a host of rich
men, all enjoying the physical richness of the dancer than the dance itself.
Years later, the hotel changed hands and the cabaret stopped to give way to the
rich music of 13 AD, a rock band which went on to become one of the major music
groups in India.
Cochin Refreshment House always smelled of biriyani.
This was the place my father would bring his wife and four children, every
month without fail, for dinner. We would be treated with biriyani, ending the
meal with Falooda, and CRH was the only place that served Faloodas. Behind CRH,
Bharat Cafe offered vegetarian dishes and cold coffee to the intellectuals of
the city.
Towards south, the road became
nameless; the name Park Avenue came much later. Three parks lined the road, one
for girls, one for children and the largest of the three, Subhash Bose Park,
for all and sundry.
Subhash Bose Park attracted people
from all walks and small time vendors and prostitutes earned their daily bread
from here. It was here, people of Kochi and Travancore states, through the
forum, Aikya Kerala Vedhi, started their agitation for the unification of the
two princely states, paving way for the State of Kerala. Deservingly, the Park
witnessed the lowering of Kochi State flag, to be replaced by the Indian Tricolor.
People thronged the lawns of the Park, especially on holidays. A lonely monkey,
in a cage placed near the Park Office, waited for kids to feed him and, in
return, entertained them with his antics till he died on a desolate monsoon
day. The chilly winds and the pouring rain distressed the animal to such an extent
it decided to call it a day.
Rajendra Maidan, to the south of Subhash
Bose Park, was an empty expanse which came to life only during meetings
organized by political parties. Due to the proximity of a full-fledged park, it
attracted very few people and remained mostly empty. Rama Varma, erstwhile raja of Cochin,
stood on the ground gracefully, mindless of the weary solitude.
The eastern side of the road
hosted three colleges, all special in their own rights. St. Theresa’s College
was the only all girls college in the city and rightfully took its place
opposite to the Girls’ Park. One of the most prestigious girls’ colleges in the
State, perhaps rivaled only by All Saints’ College in the capital, it shone on
academic, cultural and sports areas, proving its caption, Shine Where You Are,
meaningful. Boys from other colleges in the city made excuses to move around
the area to ogle the girls and try a hand at romance, which more often than
otherwise, ended in misery.
Across the canal which caressed
St. Teresa’s College, the Government Law College operated out of a few newer
buildings. Due to the professional nature of their studies, the law students
considered themselves elite, rarely mixing with the student population of the
city. Their involvement in the city’s cultural milieu almost always evoked
laughter. Participating in the Kerala University group music competition armed
with kitchen utensils and brooms, entering dog shows with silver painted
mongrels or performing a streaking through the crowded Broadway, a first in the State, they always
added a smile to the faces. One of the maverick boys who organized the strip
show, a young handsome man, later became the symbol of Malayali manhood. He
answered to the name, Mammootty.
Maharaja’s College was an
institution by itself. Started in 1875, its activities were spread across a
sprawling campus of 10 acres. Lush vegetation, moth eaten wooden roofing,
parched floors, skeletons of fountains, dark corridors and sandy pathways lent
the college a primeval look. Many literary stalwarts graced those archaic rooms
with their scholarly classes; Prof. M.K. Sanu, Prof. M. Thomas Mathew, T.R.,
Prof. M. Krishnan Nair and Prof. Bharathan were some of them. Great
personalities like Swami Chinmayananda, A.K. Antony, N.S. Madhavan and Dr. M.S.
Valiathan sat on the benches to listen to the discourses. It was here, in the thirties, the
students of the College started a bloody agitation against the Raja of Kochi which
could be suppressed only by ruthless police intervention. Political activism,
literary endeavors, scholastic pursuits and artistic expressions found ways of
easy coexistence in these fabled surroundings.
During the seventies, a young man,
with unkempt hair, careless attire and perpetual presence of pan in his mouth, wandered
through the dark corridors of the college. The students and the faculty
suffered his eccentricities with a smile as he was dear to them. Soon, he was
recognized as one of the most promising writers in Malayalam only
to fall back into a shell, never to fully realize his potential. Years later, on a miserable morning, T. Ramachandran,
fondly known as Teeyar, was found dead on the street side, pan still dripping out of his mouth.
A wall across, functioned the
lower courts of the district. A few shabby buildings, all painted brick colour
and in states of poor repair, witnessed how law was interpreted, upheld or
distorted. Lawyers, criminals and laymen rubbed shoulders on the dirty paths of
the building complex which concealed the District Treasury, where old people
queued to receive their pensions at the beginning of every month.
A young man with disheveled looks
was a regular visitor to that office; in fact, he worked there. Much earlier,
he had recited his poem, Yathramozhi, at the Sahithya Parishad golden jubilee
celebrations at TDM Hall where he received instant recognition. Balachandran
Chullikkadu, a self-proclaimed Buddhist, slowly grew to become one of the great
Malayalam poets.
Ernakulam Temple, standing on the
northern side of a round-about was a reasonably big structure. Devotees from
the city regularly paid homage there but it failed to attract believers from
outside the city and never reached the status of a major place of worship. Lord
Shiva, in the name of Ernakulathappan, was the deity. A bus by the same name,
plied the city roads, too, owned by a trader who amassed his wealth through
selling Ganja, dried opium leaves. Smoking ganja was a past time of the youths
of the city and the bus owner ensured that the users never had any shortage of
the material.
On the southern side of the
round-about was a modern building. Bharat Tourist Home was one of the most
popular places for dining, serving well-accepted vegetarian dishes to movie
celebrities and other guests. The rooms, on the western side, offered excellent
view of the backwaters and Cochin harbour. From there, one could view Foreshore
Road which took one to Fine Arts Hall, a state of the art auditorium, with
comfortable seating but no car park area, leading to chaos whenever the Hall
hosted a function.
Sandwiched between Maharaja’s College and the
Law College, were two government institutions of prominence, the administrative office of the
Cochin Corporation and the General Hospital.
On a steamy summer morning, a man
in his forties visited the General Hospital. He headed straight to the cancer
ward and joked with the nursing assistants there. They prepared the intravenous
medication while he slowly lay down on a steel cot spread with soiled sheet.
The nurse fixed the drip chamber, allowing the fluid to flow down the fatigued veins
of the man. As the chemicals began their battle with the marauding cells, the
man lifted the bottle from the stand and started his journey through the
hospital corridors. He was my uncle. He succumbed to lung cancer a few months
later.
Entrance to the boat jetty was
crowded with street vendors, rendering it difficult to walk inside. Numerous
boats, all in dilapidated condition and foul-smelling, stood moored at the
jetty, waiting for passengers heading for the various islands nearby. Boats
would move out of the jetty crammed with labourers, office-goers, students,
fisher women and street vendors; young girls would giggle as they tried to ward
off the predators.
Life was pure and simple.
