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Growing up in Richmond Town
April 12, 2004
When we moved to Richmond Town in the mid 1950s, it was an altogether different world - a stylish, laidback world of charm, elegance and yes, fun - a great place to grow up in. Very different from what it has turned into today.
Richmond Town had spacious bungalows with monkey tops, delicate wooden trelliswork and hanging flowerpots. Trees grew in abundance. Manicured lawns and well laid out gardens marked homes. Some, like B M Chakravarthi's had in their garden, a fish pond where red-orange gold fish thrived. Homes had quaint names on the gate piers - Ashleigh Cottage, Fifi Villa, Melrose Place, Ramona, Verdan Villa, Raylands, Rochester, Dorchester.... Street names seemed to come right out of a London map - Richmond Hill, Alexandra Street, Leonard Lane, Laurel Lane, Clapham Street, Myrtle Lane, Kingston Street, Bride Street...
All roads - big or small - had footpaths and children walked to schools using them. People were careful about littering. The garbage collection system worked. "Everything was nice and tidy those days. There was hardly any sound pollution," says Ms Tauro, a long time Walker Lane resident., "Of course, neighbours were very considerate. They didn't blare their radio or music beyond a certain time in the evening."
It was like being in a hill station. Or even in England. The butcher, baker and vegetable vendor spoke in an amusingly interesting form of English. Among themselves they conversed in Kannada, Urdu or Tamil. But with the residents, it was English.
On Sundays or on social occasions, it was literally a fashion event on the streets - men in suits, ladies in trendy dresses and high heels. They walked or went by hand-pulled rickshaws. The richer ones hired Kutchik's white horse drawn carriage or owned cars - Austin of England, Vauxhall, Citroen. Ms Flanagan of Rose Lane - famous for her bridal bouquets - drove a vintage car, circa 1920s!
Once back from the office, people threw themselves into various leisure pursuits - tennis, jogging, gardening, clubbing and dances, music and the arts, often with the whole family. Weekends often meant fishing or picnics.
On Sunday mornings, one would hear joyous sounds from across Convent Road. The famous bandleader Fred Hitchcock held his rehearsals at that time in his cottage. People downed chilled beer, shandy and pink gins. Energetic old couples even jived on the grass!
At that time, there were far less eateries than there are now. People mostly dined at home, with the whole family at the table. We had to freshen up for dinner.
As kids, when we walked around town, the heavenly aroma of cooking would hit us. We identified each house with a particular olfactory signature. If we landed up at Brian Woodley's house at the 'right' time, his mother would treat us to a saucer of goodies - food that goes by the tag, ‘Anglo-Indian’ cuisine. To savor this genre of delectable food today is not easy. At London's up-market Chutney Mary's for instance, similar fare costs a bomb.
The Woodley family, who lived on Wellington Street also had a fantastic collection of fish (for viewing, that is, not eating). Their aquarium was certainly larger than the present one in Cubbon Park!
Getting back to food, the Koshy's bakery opposite the Woodleys’ with the aroma of freshly baked bread, the heady whiff of macaroons, etc., took our breath away...
On Serpentine Street, one could eat chilly bajjis, tiny masala vadas and potato bondas at a modest roadside eatery - eight pieces for two annas.
In the huge bungalow that was home, Grandfather would sit in his tall, straight back chair in the verandah facing the large Gul Mohar tree and Richmond House, across the road. He would make me read aloud the day's newspaper. But after about 10 minutes, my interest would wane and grandfather would ask me to count the number of vehicles passing by. In about five minutes, I would count something like five to eight vehicles. For most parts of the day, there were hardly any vehicles, not more than 20 in my census. Compare that to the present mayhem there!
The quiet Convent Road held much fascination for us children growing up in the area. After St Anthony's school closed for the day, the street would become barren. Sometimes we would see someone learning to cycle on it. In the evening, the pretty, tomboyish Maxine Millet would roller-skate on the road - with her Dalmatian in tow.
How safe was Richmond Town? "Richmond Town was very safe. We didn't have one robbery or any crime," remembers 75-year-old Nelly Saldanha of Mossglam, Convent Road. My own doctor father seldom had our front gate locked or the front doors shut - even at night. In all our long years there was not one case of theft. A friend later joked, "Hey, get real. Who'll want to hit a doctor's house that has a skeleton dangling in it?!"
Harry Black and the Tiger or Jungle Book
April 30, 2004
Summer holidays for us kids growing up in Richmond Town brought with it kite flying, cricket, soccer and an interesting game mimicking life and the arts. The biggest inspiration for this game came from the movies.
When Harry Black and the Tiger played in our town, around the same time my neighbours, Poppet and Nipper, were gifted Daisy toy air guns.
The movie shot in Bandipur was a thrilling jungle adventure. Soon we were enacting scenes from it in our bungalow. Poppet played Stewart Granger, the hunter on the trail of a man-eating tiger that was terrorising an Indian village. Nipper did Don Anderson. The brothers got these plump macho roles because it was their gun, while with grandfather’s dhoti, I got to be the tracker I S Johar.
The heroine Barbara Rush, in our game, was a pillow, secreted out from the bedroom, and brought to the stone bench under the flowering honge tree. There under a full moon, the Steven brothers took turns to smooch her while I guarded the machaan.
Earlier in the evening, with the dhoti turned into a turban, and barefooted I waded through the thick undergrowth among the trees that marked our ‘dreaded jungle’, stalking the renegade ‘tiger’. Moving stealthily I found our quarry. The dangerous feline sat on the branch of an old mango tree. It was hunched over, licking its paws, no doubt cleansing itself after a kill. It turned its gaze in our direction. A pair of piercing yellow green lights hit us.
‘‘Sahib, there it is,’’ I whispered. Acting swiftly, ‘Harry’ Poppet raised his rifle, aimed and squeezed the trigger. So did ‘Don’ Nipper. What followed was a blood-curdling shriek and the sound of glass shattering. Almost immediately our jungle exploded. Birds leapt from nearby trees. Kites flew low, wheeling and screeching. Crows went berserk.
House lights kept coming on all around. In the mayhem, some voices stood out. A loud, incensed school-marmish voice demanded, ‘‘Who shot our garden light?’’ Mrs Steven said, ‘‘Nipper! Poppet! Come home at once.’’ From the neighbouring house, a gruff male voice thundered, ‘‘Babsie, who’s shooting our ventilators?’’
Meanwhile, our quarry escaped under the cover of darkness. We scooted in different directions. Babsie Samuel abandoned Amazing Grace on the piano, and brought her large dignified persona to the wall. ‘‘Are you naughty boys again shooting at my poor cat?’’, she charged. Inside, the man, now angrier, said in exasperation, ‘‘For heaven’s sake, Babsie, of course they are. And who the heck is that half-naked chhokra boy with a turban on his head, running into the doctor’s house?’’
Babewatch
June15, 2004
When it first hit the small screen it made us wonder if such wondrous gorgeous creatures actually inhabited our planet. Babewatch on the boob tube, as we called it then.
Me…In Paradise City Now we had a chance to see the babes in real life. We, that is, wifey and I, were on the famed Manhattan Beach where they shot the ‘Baywatch’ show. I was wondering they were shooting CJ (Pamela Anderson’s character) sprinting on the sand in the episose this morning. I should add here that I’d have preferred one of my golfing buddies on this outing rather than the present companion.
On the beach was the familiar watchtower. Orange life-bouys et al. White sand. Seagulls flew low over the water. There seemed little activity around though. Some children descended on the scene with a Frisbee. And yet there were no life-guards. No David Hasselhoff. No babes. Maybe we were early for the surf and sea action.
Praise the Lord! A Blonde! As I put my camera away, I kicked the sand and said, “Maybe there’s no shoot scheduled today. What the #@*qs!!” The wife said, “Speak up, hon. I can’t hear you over the sea gulls and the waves!” “Nothing,” I muttered unhappily, and kicked more sand.
After about an hour of beach combing, we got ready to leave. Just about then I saw a couple of girls jogging in the distance towards us. Oh, boy! I said to myself and pulled out the camera. Then my excitement skidded to a stop. These were no babes. These were babies – gawky, pimply pre-teens – racing to the hot dog stand!
Wifey feigned sadness and suppressing a mischievous smile said, “Don’t woryy, something is bound to come your way!” It did. As we got ready to leave. I saw in the distance a fetching figure with sunglasses coming down the steps from the road to the beach. Wifey shriekd, and jumped up and down, “A blonde! A blonde at last for my husband.” And turning to me said, “Grab that pic!”. Confused I chased giggling wife across the sand to the steps.
To cut a long story short, I clicked the wife and blonde. You won’t believe what happened next. Introductions and pleasentries over, the blonde smiled and said, “Lemme take a picture of you guys.”
If I look sheepish and silly in that picture, with a wife by the side doubling up with laughter, please forgive me. I don’t know how you would have reacted if you were shot by a 71-year old platinum blonde even if she was in a thong.
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