Noelnadesan's Blog

My train journey started in Rameswaram and finished at Egmore Railway Station. Compared to Colombo Fort station, which I knew well, this one seemed ten times bigger. The crowd was immense — a sea of thousands of heads stretching in all directions. Coming from the small island nation of Sri Lanka, I was stunned by the massive number of people. How does anyone even get by in this crowd? How do they share nature’s resources and the fruits of labour among themselves?

Having come from Sri Lanka — a land rich in natural resources but scarred by war — I couldn’t help but think, from the moment I landed on Indian soil, that our ethnic conflict was like two children squabbling over their mother’s attention.

Just a few decades ago, countless Tamils from Tamil Nadu risked crossing the Palk Strait in illegal boats to reach Sri Lanka, seeking survival. Many passed through my native village, Eluvaitivu. Even before I was born, a young boy arrived from Ramanathapuram in South India. He settled in our village, worked as a toddy tapper, and helped raise me. I still remember the smell of Ramalingam’s brother’s sweat — broad-shouldered, curly-haired, his skin darker than midnight, yet always gleaming. The scent of toddy mixed with his sweat, trickling down his body like jungle streams in the monsoon. He often lifted me onto his shoulders. My mother would scold him, “Shower before lifting the child!” and he’d shout back, “Mind your business, Chinnamma!” These are memories from my earliest days.

Many who arrived by boat stayed at our place briefly before moving on to other parts of Sri Lanka. The police caught some of them. I saw all of this as a child. Only Ramalingam stayed safely with us for many years, until he eventually went back to Ramanathapuram and married a woman from his Nadar caste — a fact I learned later.

In 1984, auto-rickshaws were unheard of in Sri Lanka. Seeing them lined up at Egmore like bullock carts was a novelty. I don’t even recall seeing them in films from that era. Eager to leave the station, I got into a parked auto.

A slim, young man, probably in his mid-twenties and about five feet nine inches tall, with a lean build, approached me with a questioning look.

“Where to, sir?” he asked, smiling — though his eyes seemed focused on someone behind me.

I stayed silent, thinking he wasn’t talking to me.

“You, sir. Where do you want to go?”

We only addressed teachers and professors as “sir.” The word felt unfamiliar, and hearing it from this young man gave me a slight jolt.

“Mambalam area.”

“Are you from Ceylon or Kerala, sir?”

“Ceylon.”

“Good, sir! How brutally they’re killing Tamils over there. Inhuman!”

I wasn’t in the mood to talk politics — fatigue had sealed my lips.

“How much for the fare?”

“What fare? You’re one of us. Pay whatever you can afford at the end.”

“No, this is my first day here — better to know upfront.”

“Come on, sir. Between us?”

“No. Tell me.”

“Alright, five rupees.”

I didn’t know if that was fair or inflated, but his sincerity disarmed me from bargaining.

“Where will you be staying?”

“That’s why I’m headed to Mambalam.”

“You seem educated. Want me to take you to a good hotel?”

“I don’t have much money, but if it’s clean, that’s fine.”

“There’s one for forty rupees a day — good facilities.”

The hotel had modest but adequate amenities. After a refreshing shower to wash off the travel fatigue, I headed out in search of food. Most nearby restaurants were vegetarian. Having grown up in Eluvaitivu, I was accustomed to a diet of fish curry, fish gravy, fried fish, eggplant-milk curry, and drumstick dishes. I always longed for non-vegetarian food. On meatless days, such as Fridays or Aadi Amavasai, I’d at least roast dried fish or fry eggs in palm leaves.

Before boarding the boat, my aunt had served me a farewell meal in Mannar — fish head curry and since arriving in Rameswaram, nearly 48 hours had passed without so much as the smell of fish or meat. I longed for even a trace of it from the train, but all I encountered were the scents of curd, sambar, and lemon rice.

Driven by hunger, I walked for half an hour and finally found a Madurai Muniyandi Vilas. At the time, in Chennai, only Madurai-style or Kerala Muslim-run eateries offered what I craved.

After lunch, I planned to nap and then catch a movie. From my hotel window, I spotted a distant poster with the words “Leader of Sri Lankan Opposition.” Though it likely referred to Amirthalingam, my thoughts turned to S.J.V. Chelvanayakam, the founder.

When I was about seven or eight years old, a general election was held in Sri Lanka. Chelvanayakam, leader of the Tamil Arasu Kachi, visited Eluvaitivu with local MP V. A. Kandiah and called into our home. My grandfather, Namasivayam — a retired teacher and postmaster — was also a prominent figure in the island’s motorboat cooperative. He welcomed Chelvanayakam and offered him his comfortable chair. Kandiah sat beside the leader.

In his soft voice, Chelvanayakam said, “Master, you must vote for Tamil Arasu Katchi again. We need your support.”

“Sir, why cross the sea just to say that? Just place a piece of palm wood under the Tamil Arasu symbol — people will vote.”

“I know. But I wanted to see you. I’ve heard some people are working for the other side.”

“Some dogs will do anything for a few glasses of arrack. Don’t worry about them.”

Villagers gathered in the courtyard, listening. Chelvanayakam and Kandiah had lunch at our house before heading off to an evening meeting.

A week later, the Tamil Congress — led by G.G. Ponnampalam’s supporters — held a meeting in our village. With no electricity, it was lit by a Petromax lamp. Fewer than ten people showed up. Suddenly, someone hurled a stone at the lamp, shattering it and scattering the crowd. The culprits were our relatives, whom my grandfather later scolded.

The incident might have been minor, but it taught me something that resonated throughout life: When a popular party is backed, the candidate doesn’t need brains, talent, or honesty. My grandfather — a teacher for forty years — was ready to vote even for a “piece of Palmyra wood.” The stone-throwing was trivial back then, but it reflected the gun-toting politics that would emerge later. Back then, the snake was still a baby.

Though the violence wasn’t encouraged by Namasivayam Master , he may have appreciated the passion behind it.

What strikes me most is that the only opposition to Tamil Arasu Katchi came not from Sinhalese parties, but from supporters of the Tamil Congress. To Tamil Arasu backers, this betrayal was intolerable.

Leaving politics behind, I headed towards the theatre in Pondy Bazaar. I hadn’t gone far when I came across a surprise — a big crowd had gathered around something on the street. I squeezed through and realised it was a film shoot.

On my way to watch a film, I got to witness one being made on my very first day in Chennai.

A police officer was repeatedly kicking someone; the same shot was taken from different angles. The actor was dark-skinned and muscular, with bloodshot eyes and visible veins. He looked nothing like the heroes I was used to.

I turned to the man beside me. “Who’s that?”

He looked at me curiously. “Vijayakanth, sir.”

“New actor?”

“Second film, yes. Where are you from, sir?”

“Ceylon.”

“Ah, that explains your Tamil. I thought you were from Madurai. Vijayakanth is from nearby. He has great love for Sri Lankan Tamils.”

Vijayakanth kept leaping and kicking. Each action was filmed five times.

I thought, what could be more boring than making a film? Even dead bodies had to be shot from multiple angles. That day, I lost all desire to witness a film shoot again.

I hurried into the theatre.

When there’s nothing else to do, the cinema becomes a refuge from the sun, rain, or boredom. Later in life, I turned to Tamil cinema as a way to pass the time. I believe that has always been its true purpose — sometimes even the only one. Across the Palk Strait, the strongest connection between Sri Lankan and Indian Tamils has always been the Tamil film industry. Politics, language, music, and even religion come second.