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History at his fingertips
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Kora Chandy, the true-blue Bangalorean, interacted with old Bangalore like a vast networker of events and human beings. In his death, a piece of 20th Century social history has gone unwritten
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With daughter Cecella (left) and the wife of former Governor Govind Narain
HE WAS ninety-five and bedridden. I went to see the old man accompanied by his daughter Cecelia Anthrapar. He lay in one of the bedrooms of the apartment owned by his son, Thomas Chandy, the founder of HOSMAT. His kind and uncomplaining wife sat in a chair beside him. The room appeared stuffy, as old people's rooms often are, comfort and convenience overtaking aesthetic pretensions. I knew that this was the last time I was going to see Uncle (as I called him), and with his departure many of us would experience a disconnection with a Bangalore that was once genteel, friendly, and full of promenades.
This was Kora Chandy, a friend of my father's, who once interacted with old Bangalore like a vast networker of events and human beings. As children we only knew him as a wonderful man, who held important positions and was cherished by everybody, particularly the Malayali Christian community of the city.
When Kora Chandy died a few weeks ago, a piece of 20th Century social history, yet unwritten, went with him. He knew Bangalore like few others did, as a sleepy little Cantonment town, where houses did not need ceiling fans and the weather was balmy most of the year. He came to the city as a young lawyer in 1930, and headed the legal department in the Office of the British Resident, Humprey Trevelyan (later to be known as Lord Trevelyan, Her Majesty's ambassador in Moscow). From 1947 to 1950, he was the Secretary of the Bangalore Civil Station Commission, a position of considerable significance. In 1950, he joined the High court as Deputy Registrar and official liquidator of companies.
Kora Chandy knew the city of the old as a sleepy little Cantonment town. —Photo: K. Gopinathan
I remember the time when as a teenager I played hockey with his sons Bernard and Tommy on the street behind their house. It was a time when there were few cars in Bangalore and anybody owning a car was immediately classed as distinguished. While we played, Mr. Chandy would occasionally drive past in his chauffer-driven car. He was always dressed in suit and tie. With his big Roman nose he was clearly an impressive man. In later life, he would have been an apt choice to play Julius Caesar in a Bangalore theatre production. Of course, at my age, I was more interested in casting oblique glances at his two pretty daughters Cecy and Mela, as they returned home from school, arms laden with books. Time goes by swiftly, and the above-mentioned children and me are well into middle age today.
On that last visit, as I stood by his bedside, I realised that Kora Chandy was now a wisp of his previous self, unable to get out of bed. I was prepared to hear him complain about the tribulations of ill health — the understandable reflections of one who is so old. But no, he immediately launched into old recollections of Bangalore, of the time when he knew most of the streets and the secrets of all the fine-looking buildings. Without him having to mention it I knew that the late T.P. Issar's book Bangalore Beautiful, owed him quite a bit. So did several other memoirs of the city.
Before leaving I asked him if he had any regrets. "Of course, I do," he said. "Of course I do. My biggest regret today is that all the pretty women in this apartment building don't know that I'm around!" His eyes twinkled mischievously and his thin lips widened into a smile. Beside him, his wife looked on fondly.
SIDDHARTHA
(The author is a writer and cultural critic. He can be contacted at sidd@vsnl.com.)
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Bangalore
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