Madras Memories

...scarlet jackets and pith helmets were common sights on the streets and well-brought-up English ladies sat on shaded verandahs drinking gin-and-tonic and sighing occasionally for the familiarities of “Home”

A visit to Chennai reveals evocative family links and a colourful cavalcade of a city

On July 11, 1826, a young Russian woman noted in her diary: I parted with my beloved mother & family at St Petersburg. Her name was Maria Ivanovna Smirnova and my great-great-grandmother was on her way to London and then to India. As a child, Maria was betrothed to her 1st cousin, Leonard Cooper, who was born and raised in England. Like his father, he trained in law, and like his father, he decided to practise his profession in India, now in the early days of the Raj. Thus, at age 21, Maria was put on a ship bound for Madras and the young couple were wed there in St George’s Cathedral on 18th September 1828. Leonard would ultimately become Chief Magistrate in Madras, and Maria would bear several sons and a daughter. They settled down in a comfortable bungalow, cooled by breezes that whispered in from the Bay of Bengal, and a decade later were invited to a ball at Government House to celebrate the Accession of Queen Victoria to the throne. In 1852, Leonard died suddenly (India could be a fatal experience for delicate English constitutions in those early years) and Maria decided to follow her by now grown sons out to New South Wales where they were seeking their fortunes.

Maria about the time of her wedding and, later, her departure for Australia

At about the same time Maria and Leonard were raising their family here, Major-General Peter James Begbie (1804-1864) was commanding the Madras Artillery at Fort St. George. It was here that Madras was born, in 1640, to serve the trading interests of the East India Company. As a young soldier, he rose quickly through the ranks and he was much more than a soldier of the Queen. He painted and sketched and spoke several languages fluently; he was sufficiently acquainted with Hebrew to be able to read the Old Testament in the original. Peter also used his pen to write about military campaigns and his sketchbook to capture scenes in India and Malaya (he was stationed in the Malay Peninsula from 1836-8). Peter's handwritten journal describes a sea voyage from the Malacca Straits to Madras. “A succession of squalls” he wrote, in hard-to-read pencil, “ from 4pm with much rain till 8pm; passed Malacca between 7 & 8pm”. He also wrote a well-researched book about Malaya which was recently reprinted by Oxford University Press. Peter received the Burma Medal and his remaining years were spent in Madras, as the Artillery company’s Commanding Officer. He died at age 60 — and his remains rest today, not in India, but back in England, where he was born.

Peter James Begbie

Peter had several sons who also served in India, Burma, Abyssinia and elsewhere with great distinction. His son Francis Richard, for example, had a military record straight out of the Boys’ Own Annual, filled with tales of derring-do — the Jowaki Flying Expedition 1877 (India Medal with Jowaki Clasp); Afghan War 1878-79, Capture of Ali Musjid (Afghan Medal with Clasp); Mahsud-Waziri Expedition 1881 (twice Mentioned in Despatches); Lushai Exp-edition 1888-89 (Clasp); Chin-Lushai Expedition 1889-90 (Mentioned in Despatches); Chitral Relief Force, Movable Column 1895; and Tirah Expeditionary Force 1897-98 (India Medal with three Clasps). His son Elphinstone's military record was similarly impressive. He was awarded a DSO and also made Commander of the Bath, and he was, moreover, a diligent letter-writer. From India, in 1899, to his brother Alfred in Australia, he talks of life and the cost of living: “You get off wonderfully with 17 shillings a week for wages. Our servants come to 10 pounds and 10 shillings exactly a month, although we do not keep a trap. It is a fallacy to suppose that India is cheap. The climate in the hills is delightful and we live comfortably, but not economically. The rates and taxes in Ootacamund come to 18% of the annual rental.” Ootacamund, known as Oooty (Snooty Oooty during the Raj) is about 300 km from Madras and was a hill station known for its pleasantly cool climate and an escape from the coastal heat, much like Simla, in the north.

Peter’s only non-military son, Alfred Daniel, played as a boy in Madras with Sarah, the daughter of Leonard and Maria. The pair later married and lived on a farm at Mt George, near Taree, on the Manning River. Their son was my grandfather. Maria, who lived on a property nearby and later with her daughter and son-in-law, died in 1883.

So it was that I was in India, in Madras (now called Chennai) checking out my Raj roots after years of imagining what life must have been like out here over 150 years ago, when scarlet jackets and pith helmets were common sights on the streets and well-brought-up English ladies sat on shaded verandahs drinking gin-and-tonic and sighing occasionally for the familiarities of “Home”. I discovered a surprising city of 4 million, handsomely decorated with great edifices of Empire, like the railway stations and High Court and other architectural echoes of the Raj. These monumental Victorian buildings exist today beside contemporary neighbours and a host of huge billboards, advertising everything from mobile phones to movies. I stayed at the Park Hotel, which is well situated in the downtown area, close to what I wanted to see, and made, for me, infinitely more interesting due to its ancestry as a movie studio. The old studio has gone and in its place has risen a dramatically beautiful hotel that uses movie theming in much of its decor.

The Park Hotel; a billboard advertises a restaurant; the Bay of Bengal beyond apartments

Chennai has much to offer the visitor besides its rich Raj remembrance—from the famed caves outside the city to the richly carved and decorated temples within it. The 300-year-old Kapalees-warar Temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva, for example, or the astonishing temples at Mylapore. Luz, the oldest surviving Christian church in the city, was built by a Franciscan monk in the mid 16th century. Santhome Cathedral is reputedly the final resting place of the “doubting” apostle, St. Thomas. And there’s always Marina Beach, separating the city from the sea by an immense stretch of sand.

It’s a thriving metropolis, not as crowded as Bombay or Calcutta and with its own special South India flavour. It gets hot and the heat can be enervating in its humidity but air-conditioning can be found everywhere, and in its absence, great ceiling fans keep the air circulating. It’s a shoppers paradise, with thousands of small shops and, now, large mall complexes to make browsing easier and more comfortable. You’ll find wonderful bookshops here (look for one in the basement of the Landmark building close to the Park Hotel), inexpensive clothing, a variety of crafts and restaurants which feature cuisines from the north, south, east and west of the sub continent. But I was here to go back in time, which is what I mostly did.

My first stop was the old fort area, where you’ll discover an impressive museum, ancient regimental barracks, the house of Clive of India and St Mary’s, the first Anglican church built in the country. Its thick walls provided protection when the French bombarded the place. St Mary’s was the church attended by Clive and also by Elihu Yale, who went on to found the great American university. It was later the Garrison church when the Major-General was giving orders and parading his men on the parade ground close by. On the walls of the church are dozens of marble memorials to an era that has gone forever. And St Mary’s Churchyard was also on my list of places to see. It is not by the church but some distance away, near the huge Central Railway Station. The place is sadly neglected and overgrown. Goats graze among the crumbling tombstones and the locals are prone to relieve themselves here —so watch your step. It’s also a playground for little children who frolic among the Departed.

The old cemetery attracts visitors

I visited next the cathedral, where young Maria was married, all those years ago. St George’s is a handsome building, with a tall spire and a facade of impressive Corinthian colums. The day I visited, it was filled with young children and their minders; they were busy with Bible learning and soft drinks and more and the old nave was bustling with activity and noise. Next to the Magistrate’s Court, where Leonard Cooper presided. Today, it’s painted a vivid red (probably in sympathy with the red sandstone High Court not far away) but the interior looked much as it might have a century ago— drab and dusty and uncared for—as a case droned on and bored lawyers struggled to stay awake. The magistrate? Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t here.

St George's Cathedral; the High Court; the Magistrates Court

And finally to Rajaji Hall, part of the old Government House compound, named now for Sri. Rajagopalachari, the first Governor General of India. The handsome hall, in its birthday cake colours and closed for renovation, was built by the British to commemorate the victory of British over Tipu Sultan. A sweeping flight of steps takes you up to where Maria danced the night away all those years ago.

1838: an invitation to a Ball

As I walked up those steps and along its wide verandahs, trying to find a way in, a young worker with impeccable bearing stopped me with a smile and shook his head. Sorry, you can’t go in, he told me, in his sing-song accent. Oh, no, not after all the trouble getting here? But those great doors were firmly shut. My driver stood waiting, arms folded, in the shade of a huge banyan tree.

Rajaji Hall

Could I hear, however, behind those shuttered doors, the faint strains of a string orchestra playing Boccherini? The clink of glasses. The murmur of a hundred guests?

Or was it just a trick of hearing on this hot Chennai day?