In March 1963, I left for Madras after a short stint in Bartley Secondary School studying for ‘A’ Level in the arts stream. I enrolled at Loyola College, the best college in South India and maybe even in the whole of India then. My parents sent me to Madras because my father had a distant relative there. He was Sreedharan and he ran a hotel called Hotel Malabar Hill. His wife, Ravamma, was one of the first people in that era to receive a PhD in Music. They had agreed to be my guardians while I was there. My Chechy was in New Delhi at the time studying for her medical degree and the fact that I had family to look after me gave my parents a greater sense of security.
And so I took my first flight out of Singapore. Although I was excited, I was crying throughout in the plane. The person who sat beside me was also a student but it was not his first flight out of Singapore. He had been travelling in and out of India for more than three years. He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Is this the first time you are leaving your family? It must be hard but you will get used to it.” I cried as I was already missing my family and friends. Holding back my tears, I looked at him with half a smile and said, “I hope that I will feel better as I am feeling very miserable at the moment.”
Subhas at the airport leaving for Loyola College, March 1963. With him are Sugadha and their father.
When I landed at Madras Airport, which was absolutely chaotic, Chechy, Uncle Sreedharan and Aunty Ravamma were waiting for me. They hurried me away and Chechy asked me what I would like to drink. As usual, I asked for a Coke and they all looked at me and said, “There is no Coke here.” India had her own local drinks, like mango juice but no Coke. I was thinking to myself, “What sort of country is this without Coke?” Anyway, I decided to have whatever was available. It was equivalent to drinking coloured sugar water.
I settled into my guardians’ home and Chechy returned to New Delhi soon after that. I waited patiently for news from Loyola College, and subsequently, my application was successful.
As instructed by my parents, I made arrangements to board at the hostel in Loyola College. Student boarders of the hostel were all boys who came from all over India. The college and the hostel were managed by Jesuit priests; there were very few civilian lecturers. I was assigned to share a room with a boy who came from a distant village. He was a very humble person with a great desire to achieve as it was an honour for him to be able to study at Loyola College. In no time, we became friends. He admired the way I spoke English because his English was very poor. This was because the main language for him at school back home was Tamil. I often helped him with his English papers.
Loyola College then comprised 600 students. The school was managed with a strong sense of discipline and schedule. One day, an arrogant physical education instructor, who was trained in the United States and had acquired an American accent, ordered all 600 of us to assemble at the school field. After putting us through a mass exercise regime, he said, “If any of you can run ten laps around this field, I will take my hat off to him but if anyone can run 20 laps around this field, I will hang myself. You all look very soft and I am very sure that none of you will ever be able to make it.”
My newfound friends knew that I was a long distance runner. One of them said, “Do it. Show this fellow once and for all.” Determined to prove the instructor wrong, I agreed. I started running and pacing myself and after the tenth lap, I felt that I was able to continue running. The whole of Loyola College was there to watch and cheer me on. Upon reaching the 20th lap, to my surprise some of the students were there to lift me up and carry me on their shoulders. A few of them produced a rope and went straight to the instructor and handed it to him. In chorus, they yelled, “Hang yourself now!” He was very humiliated and stumbled to find the right words in reply. The students shouted at him, “Get lost. Why don’t you just return to the States where you are more welcome? You can’t even keep your word here.” Just to spite him, knowing that he would not do it, students were shouting, “Why don’t you just hang yourself?” That one incident made me popularly known to all.
Although I had to live a rigid and disciplined schedule, I tried my best to get used to hostel life. From the very beginning, I was already missing my mother and the friends with whom I grew up. I tried to discipline myself to concentrate on my studies instead of feeling homesick. However, even before I could really adjust to the new environment, I knew that I couldn’t stay there as my room was just next to the railway track and the noise from the trains made it impossible to study or sleep. I asked for a change of room but was denied it for they said that the request was received too late. I then decided that I should go and stay in my guardians’ house which was not very far from the college. In fact, I could even walk to college.
I went to see the viceprincipal to inform him of my intention to move out. He agreed to let me go but said that the college was not refunding the fees for the hostel. He was more interested and concerned about the money. For a better study and sleep environment and my peace of mind, I had no choice but to forego the fees that were paid. Uncle Sreedharan came with his driver, who helped me pack and took me back to his home. Thereafter, I either walked to college, took a cab or was given a ride to college and back by my uncle’s driver. It was an arrangement that I liked but my roommate thought I was leaving the hostel because of him. I had to assure him that it had nothing to do with him.
I found studying in Loyola College a bit adventurous. Some of the students could be rebellious and would unite to take up a cause when the situation arose. They joined other universities in rioting and activities like that, in the name of democracy. However, most of the students there were mild and were labelled the slaves of Loyola because we always obeyed orders given to us by the lecturers. I was elected class monitor by the students of my class but the lecturer who was in charge of our class appointed his own family friend’s son as the monitor. This did not please my classmates who wanted to protest and make an issue out of it. I advised them against it and said that I was not interested in being a monitor. I convinced them, “Let the person who was appointed be the one. He looks like a decent guy who’s embarrassed to be put in a situation like that by the lecturer.” He apologised to me and I was happy to tell him to do his duties well.
It was there that I met the nephew of Mr V Manickavasagam Pillai, who was then the Minister of Communications in the Malaysian Cabinet, I think. Manickavasagam’s nephew and I became good friends because we were both from this region. He was from Malaysia and I was from Singapore. We spent time together outside of school, having lunch or just hanging out together at my uncle’s hotel, Hotel Malabar Hill. We would have tea there and he would leave for home and I would walk to my uncle’s residence.
Generally, the lecturers in Loyola College were very steep in their style of discipline and there was no room for reasoning as far as their rules were concerned. Some of us were not used to such rigid discipline especially if they were unreasonable. There was a Brahmin lecturer who obviously felt full of himself because he was from the highest caste in the Hindu caste system. His general demeanour and attitude towards the students made most of us dislike him for no apparent reason, sometimes. He tied his veshti (traditional South Indian wraparound cloth for men) with the tip of one end of the cloth tucked into his back. One day Manickavasagam’s nephew and I were simply making a lot of nasty remarks about this man in the Malay language, amusing ourselves at his expense and laughing. Suddenly he turned around and said, “I know a little bit of Malay, too, you know.” We were shocked and frightened until he said, “But I have forgotten most of it.” Showing it with his thumb and fingers, he added, “A little little, I know.” We realised that he didn’t know what we were talking about. It taught us one lesson — don’t take for granted that others do not know your spoken language.
Not long into the school term, I fell ill with typhoid fever and was confined to my uncle’s residence. Later, my guardians decided to put me in Hotel Malabar Hill where the staff could take care of me. I was
quarantined in a room with doctors constantly checking on me. When I recovered, I developed a skin condition and had to stay in the same room until I was fully treated for that. I was completely miserable and homesick. It has only been two months since I started school and I was already dreading the whole stay in Madras. I tried my best for my mother’s sake but it was getting harder and harder to bear it all. It didn’t help with me falling sick.
By the time I recovered, two weeks or more had gone by. I brought the medical certificate to the viceprincipal. As usual, the office clerk wanted a bribe before I could see the viceprincipal. I scolded and threatened to report him. He was angry with me but also scared, and allowed me to see the viceprincipal. I went in and when I showed him the medical certificate he said, “I don’t care about the medical certificate. You are fined for being absent for two weeks.” I tried to explain that I had been ill all that time but he said, “You should have sent that medical certificate earlier.” I was irritated and asked, “How was I supposed to send it earlier when I was given the medical certificate only after falling sick.” He responded with, “I am not here to argue with you.” His stand was that I did not produce the medical certificate earlier and as such, I should be fined.
I soon came to realise that the entire lecture hall of Loyola College was actually built on the fines collected. I understood immediately their success in collecting money for the building fund. For even the silliest of reasons, they fined students. I asked how much my fine was and if I remember correctly, it was an amount that was not much when you convert it to Singapore Dollars. I took the money and gave it to him. He said, ‘Thank you very much. You can go now.” I left and said to myself, “This is the last straw. I will not be able to stay in this country and especially in this college. I have to go home.”
I sat down to write a long letter to my mother, emphasising my ordeal thus far and how miserable I was. I really wanted to go home. I knew that I should take a boat as the plane fare would cost too much. I was prepared to do that as I could not take the stay any longer.
However, days later, I received a telegram from my father which read, “Come by plane.” I showed it to Uncle Sreedharan who said that I should have consulted him before writing to my mother. I felt that there was no point consulting him or anybody else. I had already decided that I was going back. I requested for his assistance to make the arrangements for my departure. He said he would but he informed me that Chechy was coming from New Delhi to Madras to see me before I left.
I notified the principal, Father Sequeira, of my desire to leave and showed him my father’s telegram. He approved it and said, “OK, give me five to ten minutes to prepare the school leaving certificate and certificate of good conduct. I’m sorry that you have to leave.” I assured him that I was fine with the wait and he was extremely nice because he knew Uncle Sreedharan, too.
After that, out of courtesy, I decided that I should visit the viceprincipal to say goodbye. He asked, “Oh, so you are leaving? May I know why you are leaving?” I took the opportunity to say to him, “It’s because I can’t stand people like you. You are a big bully and you are corrupt. I don’t know what you are doing here. You are supposed to be a Jesuit priest but you are a disgrace to your calling.” Naturally, he got very angry with me. I said further, “You can do whatever you like, I am leaving.” I got into the car, and my uncle’s driver drove me back to the principal’s office to collect my certificates.
As I was leaving the principal’s office and walking towards the car, I saw the viceprincipal cycling furiously towards the principal’s office. I told him, “I know what you are intending to tell the principal. You are going to tell him not to give me a certificate of good conduct, isn’t it? You’re too late, old man, because I have already received it. That’s the difference when you have a bicycle and I have a car.” As I laughed at him, I got into the car and we drove off. On hindsight, I am not proud of myself but then again, I was then a young man, irrational at times. The reason I was very angry with the viceprincipal was that he penalised me with a fine for everything and he was constantly picking on me. Well, finally, I had the last laugh.
Two days later, Chechy arrived. She looked at me and said, “You look miserable enough. I’ll make the arrangements but before that, please go to Kerala to visit our relatives there. You can see the place where you were born.” I agreed.
She gave me my train and air tickets. It was an overnight train journey to Varkala in Kerala State where I stayed with my eldest maternal uncle. It was not really comfortable because there was no modern sanitation but I was glad I went and met my relatives. I even saw the place where I was born. I had no memories of my birthplace as I had left India for Singapore with my parents and my elder sister when I was only five months old. So, it was a strange but warm homely feeling as I looked around the home where my mother grew up in and gave birth to me.
I met my cousins for the first time there. They accompanied me throughout my stay. One of my cousins, Babu, and I cycled to my father’s village in Njekkad which was approximately an hour away. We parked our bicycles under a tree and saw a man walking by. Afraid that we might have trespassed into his territory, we asked him if it would be all right to park our bicycles there. He looked at me and realised that I must be a foreigner as I was wearing a pair of jeans. He asked me, “Who are you?” I replied, “I am R Anandan’s son.” With pride in his voice, he said to me, “Oh, if you stand on your parked bicycle and look, every thing that you see once belonged to your grandfather and your father.” I was shocked and said, “Wow, my father was so rich?” He replied, “Yes, but he lost everything because he was in Singapore and when his father and brother died, people came and claimed all the land. He was left with only the land on which you have parked your bicycles.” Babu and I laughed at the coincidence.
We walked a short distance and and came upon a house where my father’s elder sister lived. As I approached the house, I saw an old lady with thick white hair, still looking very strong, filling a pail of water from the well. My cousin indicated that she was my paternal aunt. I touched the old lady on her shoulder and said, “Do you know who I am?” She said, “How am I going to know who you are? I am an old lady who can’t even see properly. So tell me who you are.”
I introduced myself to her. Instantly, she hugged me and cried. She said, “At least I have seen you before I die.” I felt so pleased that I had made this overnight journey to visit everyone, especially this old aunt. I gave her some money that she refused initially but upon my insistence she took. She gave me a cup of tea and some snacks. We chatted and I could see that she was very delighted to hear my stories about Singapore and kept wanting to hear more from me. Before I left, I told her, “I will come and see you again if I can.” She replied, “No son, you will not see me again. Give your father and every one in Singapore my best regards.”A few months later, she passed away.
Even now when I think of that old aunt and the way she hugged me and cried, I am filled with tears of the memory. I could feel so much of her love when we hugged as she was so pleased to be able to meet her brother’s son. That was very important to her. Babu and I cycled back to Varkala after that visit to Njekkad.
The next day, with mixed feelings but with a store of fond memories, I left Varkala for Quilon where I spent the day with my sister’s friend, Dr Santha, in her sprawling house with her big family. The following day I boarded the train and returned to Madras.
One of the highlights of my trip to Varkala, Kerala, was to see the Arabian Sea, and to touch and splash my face with the seawater. I thought, “Now I can go back to Singapore and brag to my friends that I’ve touched the Arabian Sea.”
To a 15-year-old boy, the experience of travelling alone and meeting these people was an eye-opener. I saw so much poverty in Kerala where I was born but despite this, the people walked with dignity. They were clean and their veshtis were always crisp and white. However, it was not so in Madras where it was dirty and unhygienic. You’d know th
at the people had not taken a bath for a long time.
On arrival in Madras, I visited my guardians and spent the night with them. Uncle Sreedharan and the old barber from the hotel, whom I had grown quite fond of, accompanied me to the airport the next day. After I had checked in, the old barber touched me on the shoulder and said, “Come.” As he pointed at the International Lounge, he added, “Please take me to that place. I want to have a cup of tea from there. Everytime I come here, I look at the Lounge and wonder when I will ever have a cup of tea there. I will pay for it but you follow me so that I can go in there.” This was the year 1963 and rules at the Madras airport were lax. I agreed and accompanied him there for his cup of tea. The tea was served with sugar and milk on the side. He asked, “What is this?” I showed him how he should add the milk and sugar to his taste and mix it. He said to me, “I will always remember you, son. You made my dream come true. I can now tell others that I have been to the International Lounge and had tea!”
Soon after, I bade farewell to both of them and proceeded to clear customs before boarding the plane. A lady before me in the queue was asked to declare the amount of foreign currency in her possession. She said that she had US$500. The customs officer seemed friendly and said to her, “You shouldn’t be carrying that much money, you know. It’s illegal. Anyway, it’s alright, I will keep mum about it. Just go.” She thanked him and moved on.
It's Easy to Cry Page 13