Remembering Kochi - Part One

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.