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Vol. XXV No. 18, January 1-15, 2016

Childhood visits recalled

to Monegar Choultry

A sure sign of growing old is that you start developing an interest in the past. I now recall that when I was a child, my Sundays had a set routine. After breakfast, my parents, brother and I drove to my (paternal) grandparents’ home and spent the day with them.

They lived in a place called Monegar Choultry, which was across from Stanley Medical College in one of the older neighbourhoods of Madras. It was about half an hour’s drive from our home in Perambur, but seemed to exist in another universe altogether, with the strangest cast of characters, a terrifying bathroom, (a dark, damp space with cockroaches that rustled about only a dim light barely illuminating it) and a belligerent buffalo named Lakshmi.

Their house was set in a very large plot of land that was full of trees. At the entrance to the house was a board with my grandfather’s name and qualifications (he was a doctor); it proclaimed him Superintendent of the place, a word I could barely get my tongue around and whose meaning was delightfully hazy to my childish imagination. In addition to the main house, there were several other buildings, occupied by very old people who always seemed very happy to see us. I had no idea who they were, or why they were there.

Post-lunch, my grandfather and father collapsed into a food-sated afternoon nap while my grandmother and mother chatted quietly in the living room. I wondered through the tree-laden grounds of Monegar Choultry where I would be accosted by some of the old people living there. There was one I remember vividly, a bent, toothless old woman who was always either chewing on or smoking a beedi. She would grab hold of my hand and pepper me with questions about my life while around her gathered several of her mates who watched and listened in smiling silence.

monegar-choultryThe entrance to Monegar Choultry today.

If I like all things, this, too, had to end. My Thatha passed away. Over the next few weeks, the Monegar Choultry establishment was wound up and my Paati came to stay with us. We never went that side again; there was no occasion to do so.

* * *

The years went by. I got married, had my children, moved abroad. I visit Madras at least twice a year now and on a visit in January, a dear friend, Sumi, and I decided to go on an early morning wander around Madras’s oldest neighbourhoods: “Town” (George Town).

My father is in his late eighties and yet his spirit of adventure is undiminished. When he heard about our early morning walk he was eager to come along as well, to revisit the places and memories of his childhood and working years. And so, early one gloriously pleasant January morning, we set out, the three of us. To our amazement, he remembered, in vivid detail, every landmark, every shop, every street name, from his wandering around there in his early childhood years, well over seven decades ago. What a memory! Sumi and I listened in silent awe as he recreated for us this part of Madras of the 1930s, bustling and vibrant, the robust commercial heart of the city.

We saw some treasures that even Sumi, a veteran wanderer about Town, was unaware of. The 17th century Chennakesava Perumal Temple, the first to be built in the city after it was founded by the British, and home of the patron god of Chennai – the temple itself had some beautiful carvings but the entrance was a shameful mess, full of litter and grime; the peaceful haven of the 18th Century Armenian Church, built by and for the once-thriving Armenian trader community; and the old YMCA and Pachaiappa’s buildings whose beauty became evident once you stared at them hard enough to see past and through the dilapidation, the muck and decrepitude of decades of neglect. The sun was fully up and the day was getting warmer. We were well sated after a yummy breakfast at Saravana Bhavan and were ready to return home when my father spoke up, excitement, threaded through with just a sliver of disquiet, in his voice. “Monegar Choultry is so close by,” he said, “let’s just drive past it.”

We were there within minutes. There was the gate, with the sign, just as I remembered it. Monegar Choultry. Estd. 1782. Home for Destitutes Disabled Persons.

monegar-choultry-today
monegar-choultry-today1

Monegar Choultry today.

It’s time now for a little history lesson. Back to the 18th Century and Hyder Ali. In 1877, F.C. Danvers, the Registrar and Superintendent of Records, India Office, London, wrote, in a report on agriculture and famines in India:

In 1782, while Hyder’s troops attacked and famine raged, a “maniakarar” or local village headman, established a gruel center in Royapuram. This gruel center became a choultry for the sick and the poor. It came to be called Monegar Choultry, its name derived from the “maniakarar” who established it. In 1799, a hospital was constructed on the site of this choultry. It was dubbed Kanji Thotti (Gruel Pot) hospital by the locals; later, it became the Stanley Medical Hospital. The choultry was moved across the street to the premises of the Rajah of Venkatagiri Choultry, and additional rooms were built. It stands there to this day, and still bears the name Monegar Choultry. It is a home for destitute old people, a little haven where they can live out their twilight years with care and comfort.

Now it all made sense to me. The old people, with only my grandparents and their fellow residents for nurture and companionship. My grandfather, carrying on a tradition of ministering to those had very little to call their own. And a tie, tenuous and oblique, but a tie nonetheless, to an epic figure from history, Hyder Ali.

We stood outside Monegar Choultry and gazed at it, my father and I, each of us lost in our thoughts and memories. Sumi stood aside, watching, waiting. Our reverie was broken with the appearance of a smiling woman who came out from inside the house. She told us that her name was Bhavani, that she was the superintendent of Monegar Choultry. I introduced ourselves, told her that my father had spent many of his growing up and young adult years here, that my grandfather had been the medical superintendent. A warm smile broke out on her face and she insisted that we come inside and see the house.

When we finally stepped out of the house, Bhavani took us around the grounds. Along the way we met a bent old lady. Bhavani told her that my father used to live there many years back and upon hearing that and seeing him, a wide smile spread across the old lady’s face. She clutched my father’s hands and then out poured forth a stream of reminiscences! This lady had been living there ever since she was a child – she was a child widow – and she had vivid and oh-so-fond memories of my grandparents and father! As a widow, she had lived in shadows and corners, invisible, but all-seeing. She had watched him grow up, she said, her voice shaking with pride and affection, from the days he used to cycle to school to when he used to visit with his beautiful wife (my mother!) and children. She remembered so many little details, so many people and incidents that my father had locked up into memory’s vault. Monegar Choultry had been her entire universe, almost the sum total of everything her life was about and she cherished every memory, every little detail, like a precious collection of jewels, for that was all that she had. The bond that my father and this old lady discovered, of a life lived, together, yet so far apart, was very moving to see.

old-inmateAn old inmate with Bhavani, who is in-charge of the facility, and the
author’s father.

The old lady joined us on our tour of the premises. For someone so old and so bent, she moved with remarkable speed. She was bright-eyed and full of life and an absolute delight.

We were taken to the Choultry’s kitchen, a small building at the back. There were several women in front, with headscarves for hygiene. They were Monegar Choultry residents and they were on kitchen duty. Proudly, they showed us the day’s preparations: a huge vat of sambar, brimming with vegetables; a delectable looking potato roast; freshly fried papadams; cabbage poriyal; rasam and rice. Five huge burners at the back provided more than adequate firepower to cook for the nearly 60 residents who live here. The kitchen was spotlessly clean, the food looked really mouthwatering and it was so heartening to know that everybody there got hot, freshly cooked, delicious and nutritious food. The women in the kitchen were eager to share their food with us. We were seriously tempted, but we had just eaten, and were full.

We wandered around the compound. There was a large hall which is a gathering place where they occasionally get together and sing, or pray. A garden area, overgrown with vegetation.

Next Bhavani showed us the rooms where the residents lived. These are new rooms, she said, the old ones (that I remembered, long rows of them, cage-like and dark) were demolished and the land they stood on was no longer part of the Choultry. There are four wings, surrounding a sun-drenched courtyard which was planted with flowering bushes. Corridors lined the rooms and everything was spotless. Men and women have separate wings. We took a peek into one of the rooms; everybody has his or her own cubicle with a bed and small storage cupboard. Each bed had a fan overhead, and privacy was provided with a dividing wall. All the beds were neatly made; a gleaming plate sat atop each of them, awaiting the day’s meal. The bathrooms were also very clean and in good condition. We were greeted warmly by everybody we met; there was much smiling and camaraderie.

Finally, Bhavani took us to her office and offered us coffee and biscuits. I was extremely impressed with Bhavani. She took time out of her day and treated us, complete strangers, with great warmth and hospitality, understanding how much being here meant to my father and me. The world is a better place for her, one of so many unsung heroes and heroines.

Kamini Dandapani

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Comments

  1. RAJA KANDASAMY says:

    Excellent flashback and awesome old history.

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