For the Good Times

When I first set my eyes on Veteran Lines, way back in 1986, I was most impressed by the serenity and solitude of the surroundings. All gone, dear Readers, gone into the gloaming. Today, right from the crack of dawn, we have jay-walkers, gay-walkers, stragglers, hagglers, vendors, delivery boys, drag-racers, moon-walkers and, finally, night-walkers. Where bicycles and the occasional scooter or motorbike were easily stowed away in individual gardens, even the streets and lanes are now decorated with parked vehicles of all description, because even the greenery is overtaken by pieces of metal crap [read “mechanized transport] here, there, and everywhere.

Way back then, a slow walk from Pallavaram Station meant passing through avenues of banyan trees—St Stephen’s Church Road was full of them—with their extended roots/branches beckoning you to enjoy the shade they provided. All gone, all gone, except one that is there to jog the memory back to a simpler life and time. This one banyan tree stands inside the army camp, close to where I stay, and is home to hundreds of screeching birds when evening comes.

The periodic storms and cyclones took all the banyans—except one—to their final rest. But they were soon replaced by the over-spreading rain trees (called “thoongu-moonji” in the local lingo). This was a pet project of our pet Councilor of the Cantonment Board, the one and only Mr. Nandakumar. In those days even politicians had recognizable, human faces, and Nandakumar-ji strove, earnestly, to be one of us, an active member of the Veteran Lines community. I have noticed, of late, that even this wonderful legacy of his is being lopped off to make way for random wires and cables.

The quaint little bus-stand at the corner of St Stephen’s Church Road and Veteran Lines First Cross Street, has long lost its baby, the beloved 52G bus, that trundled through our area in days gone by. Its backside (to use an Indian-English term) is now a rubbish dump, but it is not as bad as the mountain of refuse that now denies entry to the old “Kottaii Road” and the much-missed cinema “Kottaii” in between the Lines and Signal Office Road beyond. There is some solace to be found in the vicinity, albeit using a circuitous route, for the booze shop is right there, tantalizing with its string of serviceable bars that add to your comfort and ease.

The small hockey ground, adjacent to the school is now in shambles, but enthusiasts still play tennis-ball cricket in the area. At night the place becomes a temporary cow-shelter, until the owners arrive to take the cattle home. Gone, forever, are the Sundays when the ground was crammed with hockey players, young and old, all willing to play until the light was gone.

The other hockey field, right inside Veteran Lines, did not find favor with the crowd, although it was bigger. It was just down the lane where I reside, and, to prepare the field—remove the thorn bushes, cover up the pot-holes, mark out the playing area—all it took was half-a-dozen Anglo boys and two bottles of Rum. Those were the “Gimme red” days and it was all looked at as a labor of love. But, as the album dictates “All things must pass” and our refrain can only be “My Sweet Lord”.

What about our very own “Dance” floor? Some of you may still remember the wonderful New-Years-Eve dances, among others, that we conducted in the open yard in front of my place. The preparations included putting up the huge parachute provided by one of our members, the setting up of chairs all around the square, the special spots for the DJ and the snack bar, the beds with mattresses and mosquito nets for the infants to sleep in heavenly peace and the barricading of the entire area. One particular year we had over 300 guests! Nowadays, if you observe closely enough, you will see the ghosts of Veteran Lines congregating there. The have ample space to hide in the rubbish all around.

What I am trying to tell you, dear Reader, is that while Veteran Lines continues to grow vertically, the little slums, to be seen everywhere, also grow in size. When you enter Veteran Lines from the West, a huge garbage disposal area greets you. The same is the case if you enter the Lines from the South. But what is most galling is the number of scrapheaps, even in the heart of the Lines. It is as if we enjoy existing in splendor and squalor at the same time, the sights, the sounds, and the smells adding to the mayhem. And to hell with anyone who thinks things can change—for the better.