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 The Relic of Srirangam

Let us travel exactly decades into the past… to October 31, 1938.

With a series of rhythmic, heavy chugs, the locomotive spat out its surplus steam. Indifferent even to the towering presence of Lord Erskine, it let out a sharp, definitive shriek.

Neelakanta Iyer, the Station Master, stood there with his traditional panchagacham tucked well above his knees, clad in a formal alpaca coat. Clutching the green and red flags tightly under his armpit, he flustered nervously, shouting, "Hold on, hold on! Let the Dorai (Governor) pass first!"

Surrounded by a grand entourage of davalis (peons), dubashies (interpreters), the Assistant Collector, and a handful of clerks, His Excellency Lord Erskine, the Governor of the Madras Presidency, stepped out of the station. With a cigar resting between his lips, he climbed into his Austin Tourer. With a sudden burst of smoke from its rear, the automobile sped away at a breathtaking, roaring speed of twelve miles per hour. Behind it, the rest of the officials scrambled frantically, tossing themselves into jutka (horse) carriages to keep up.

Meanwhile, Neelakanta Iyer was busy scraping the last remnants of akkara adisal (a sweet rice delicacy) from a torn banana leaf. Licking the back of his hand, he sighed with immense gratitude, "I was terrified that the Dorai's arrival would delay the train and my sweet would go cold. Ranganathan did not let me down! Then again, Mani’s Cafe never disappoints, does it?"

That day, the otherwise dusty school gate shone with rare splendor. A crowd of local officials from the Trichy district, clerks, and village elders had gathered in anticipation.

"What say you, Mudaliar? How long will the Dorai stay?"

"Why the hurry, Srautigal? Today is a feast for you anyway, isn't it? After all, your Dvadasi fasting ended yesterday itself!"

"Oh, keep quiet, will you!"

"Swamin! Have you brought the temple prasadam? Knowing the Dorai, he will ask for you the moment he arrives."

"Leave that to me. You better keep your accounts straight. The dubashie will skin you alive if anything goes amiss."

"Hush now, everyone. It is time for his arrival."

The Austin Tourer arrived with its grand convoy, and the mere sight of the Governor sent a shiver of reverence through the crowd. As he stepped down, Mudaliar hesitantly whispered to the interpreter, "Would His Excellency care for some tender coconut water?" The interpreter conveyed this to the Governor, who replied with a brief, clipped "No, no," breaking the English language with colonial brevity.

The interpreter turned to the Chairman, "Well, Chairman! Time is ticking. Is everything in order?"

Adayavalanjan Adivaraha Mudaliar stepped forward, presenting a pair of silver scissors resting elegantly on a cushion of fine muslin silk. The interpreter handed them to the Governor, who, with practiced poise, snipped the yellow ribbon hanging before a silk curtain that draped the wall. Instantly, a davali pulled the cord, unveiling a three-by-two cement plaque where crisp white letters gleamed against a dark background:

Opened by His Excellency Lord Erskine, Governor of Madras 31-10-1938

As the crowd erupted into applause, the Governor offered a haughty nod of acknowledgement, promptly climbed back into his Austin, and settled into his seat. Once again, chaos ensued as the entourage scrambled toward their jutkas and rickshaws. The local dignitaries bowed and bent at impossible angles, saluting the Governor through the car's glass window as the automobile rolled away.

Adivaraha Mudaliar turned to the municipal davali, Muniya Servai, and instructed sternly, "Listen, Muniya! It is your sole responsibility to wipe this plaque and keep it gleaming every single day. Understood? It was opened by the Dorai himself—never forget that."

Srautigal, whose mind was already drifting toward the coriander chutney awaiting him at home, chimed in with a warning, "Indeed, Servai! This is a boys' school. The children will ruin it in no time. You must watch over it with utmost care, do you hear?" With a deep, contemplative clearing of his throat, he hurried along his way.

And so, for the rest of his living days, Muniya Servai kept that plaque immaculately polished.

From the 1940s, only fragmented echoes of the school's daily life survive in records:

• Desikar, the Tamil teacher, was a fierce anti-Brahmin ideologue. If a student failed to recite the verses of Tayumanavar flawlessly, he would mockingly address him as 'Achariyar' (priest) while violently twisting his ears.
• The Sanskrit teacher, sporting a cleanly shaven head, would routinely grab the boys by their traditional tufts of hair (kudumi) and swing them around.
• It was strictly a boys' school. The girls' school sat in the adjacent compound. If a boy managed to scale the compound wall, the girls could be seen in the far distance, appearing merely as tiny, floating polka dots.
• It was on this very school ground that the legendary Srirangam local cricket team pulled off a miraculous victory against the formidable, highly acclaimed Tanjore team.
• The ground was also the local arena for learning how to ride a bicycle. The Headmaster's son would teach others using the most battered, rickety bicycle borrowed from Chinnaraju. As the Headmaster's son ran alongside, holding the bicycle to steady the rider, the remaining members of their little 'association' would sprint behind them for no apparent reason.

As long as Muniya Servai was around, the plaque unveiled by Lord Erskine remained untarnished. How it fared through the rest of the 1940s remains a mystery to history.

Today, however, defaced by stray betel-juice stains, shabbily painted over, and surrounded by crumbling plaster, the plaque stands in a pathetic state of neglect—a sight Lord Erskine would have hardly found amusing.

Ah, I forgot to mention…

We only know any of this because a student who studied in that very school during the 1940s took the time to jot down these memories in his personal notes before he left us.

They say the man who wrote it was a certain Rangarajan...

What an absolute wizard of a writer!

Note: An ode to "Sujatha" Rangarajan, my favourite mentor and idol! The photo was snapped by me during my visit to the School in Srirangam where he studied and later on, chronicled!