Noelnadesan's Blog

The moment I woke up that morning, a surge of feelings—urgency, eagerness, excitement—caught hold of me like a contagious fever.

In Sri Lanka, I often interacted with ministers and officials. I had met the Secretary in charge of the veterinary department, where I worked. I discussed with several Sinhalese ministers about developing the Medawachchiya region in Anuradhapura, where I had been posted. Now, as a refugee in Chennai, the thought of meeting a minister—even on behalf of others—filled me with a sense of anticipation.

Since arriving in Chennai, I stopped caring about my appearance. The city’s heat and dust had left their mark. Whether walking or riding the bus, I blended into the teeming crowd, soaked in sweat and grime. It brought a strange sense of equality—Who notices? Who cares? With no wife, no family, and no job, I often thought: You’re just another unemployed man. I became a true Chennaiite, wearing rewashed shirts and rubber sandals.

That day, however, I dressed in a white shirt, long trousers, and shoes, and made my way to the Organisation for Eelam Refugee Rehabilitation. Kashi Viswanathan Master, already waiting, greeted me with a chuckle: “You look like a groom, my boy! If you misbehave, I’ll inform your brother-in-law in America.” Laughing, he climbed into the waiting auto-rickshaw. I followed quietly.

Although Viswanathan Master was active in the refugee association, leadership mainly rested with Chandrahasan, son of SJV Chelvanayagam, who led a group of three, including Elaventhan. Whenever I spoke with Elaventhan, the conversation often circled back—like a broken record—to his meeting with Madam Indira Gandhi. I grew tired of him and would often avoid him. Chelvanayagam Chandrahassan, by contrast, spoke with careful restraint. Although many others were involved, I mostly interacted with Viswanathan Master. He had worked with me, treated me like a friend, and had a warm, generous spirit. Politically, he was right-leaning and anti-Communist, but his main focus was on helping the Tamils. “Only Padmanabha in this movement is truly honest and disciplined,” he often said.

Having taught for years at Jaffna Central College, he addressed everyone with casual Tamil endearments like “da” or “poda”—words spoken with such affection that no one took offence. He was honest and outspoken. I remember my time with him fondly.

We waited outside Minister Aranganayagam’s residence. The scene looked like a classic Tamil movie: men in white shirts and dhotis, with dark skin, moustaches, shiny bald heads, and prominent bellies—stereotypical features of the south Indian political class.

After the 1983 violence in Sri Lanka, Tamil students were unable to continue their studies at universities in the southern part of Sri Lanka. We drafted a petition requesting Tamil Nadu universities to admit Sri Lankan Tamil students who had arrived during that period. At the time, Mr. Aranganayagam was serving as Minister of Education in MGR’s cabinet, and we planned to present the petition to him.

The petition listed about twenty-five Sri Lankan students, most of whom had been taken to Tamil Nadu by the LTTE during a hunger strike in Jaffna. Some of them approached the Eelam Refugee Association, seeking support. It became clear that they could not return to continue their education, so we framed the request as a general appeal for all affected students.

Looking back, this was just one of many reckless actions by the LTTE. At the time, however, few seemed to care. Only their parents probably suffered in silence. I later discovered that Prapaharan’s future wife, Mathivathani’s father—Erambu Master, a Tamil teacher from Pungudutivu—had strongly criticised the LTTE for this.

SJV Chandrahassan, who led the association, drafted the petition with Viswanathan Master. I played a minor role—more like a sidekick in a Tamil film than the main character.

Eventually, we were brought inside to meet the minister. Mr. Aranganayagam sat stiffly on a long sofa, dressed in white, his face blank. A circle of aides stood nearby.

The master greeted him. I stood behind and offered a polite “Good morning,” as I would to a Sri Lankan minister. Mr. Aranganayagam neither responded nor glanced at me. He accepted the petition from the master, nodded courteously, and that was all. As we turned to leave, his secretary stormed out with an indignant look.

“Don’t you even know how to greet a minister properly?” he barked. “What have you studied?”

I smiled at his dark, bald head.

“Veterinary medicine,” I replied.

He spun around and walked off without saying another word.

Master turned to me and said, “You didn’t bow respectfully. That’s the problem.”

‘’ I’ve only ever bowed to Buddhist monks in Sri Lanka.’’

Ministers back in Sri Lanka would usually smile or exchange a few words, even if introduced by an official. I had even argued with the Deputy Minister of Agriculture, Chandra Bandara. Mahinda Soma, the Minister for Vavuniya District, once raised his hand to slap me but later apologised.

This incident made me realise just how rigid and hierarchical Tamil Nadu’s feudal society was—more so than anything I had experienced as a minority in Sri Lanka.

At that time, several ministers from Tamil Nadu felt sympathy for the Eelam cause. The most notable was Somasundaram of Orathanadu, Tanjore. Through his and the Chief Minister’s efforts, many students gained direct entry to universities. I believe, apart from Mathivathani, who later married the LTTE leader, most of those students went on to lead successful lives in India.

After this episode, I moved in with Visagan, a friend I had met at the EPRLF office. We stayed in a small upstairs room in a wedding hall at Pandit Bazar—an ideal spot for transport and food. Our neighbours included assistant directors from the film industry. Through our chats with them, we learned a lot about cinema and shared details about the Eelam issue.

One thing became clear: in Tamil Nadu, only the leftists genuinely understood the Sri Lankan situation. Only with them could anyone have meaningful intellectual discussions.

Others viewed it simply as an ethnic conflict— “Sinhalese killing Tamils.” Some were even unaware that “Ceylon” had become “Sri Lanka.” Tamil Nadu’s media echoed this straightforward narrative. They didn’t realise that Tamil-speaking Muslims lived in the island’s south or that Tamils also resided in the south alongside the Sinhalese. Most political groups in Tamil Nadu found it easy to stick to this black-and-white view of the events.

Leftist groups, such as the Eelam Revolutionary Organisation (EROS) and EPRLF, attempted to counter that narrative but achieved limited success.

During my time in Pandit Bazar, I saw many interesting things.

One day, while the LTTE was running training camps in Tamil Nadu, Kugan—a commander also known as Ponnamman—spotted me in Kodambakkam and flagged down a jeep to have a quick chat.

I was both pleased and surprised.

He had lived near Jaffna Hindu College, in Senior Lane, where I had also stayed once. He was a year younger than me at school. Although we weren’t in the same class, we were friends. He often stopped by my gate for a chat, especially around 1971–72. His elder brother, Naren, who studied a year above me, later became a ‘Yogi Master’, an LTTE political leader. While I knew Naren, we weren’t close. They were quite different: Naren was calculating and businesslike; Kugan was sincere and emotional.

His family had faced government pressure because of his LTTE ties. I admired Kugan for his dedication and selflessness. Seeing him in Chennai warmed my heart.

“What are you doing in India?” he asked bluntly.

“I’m volunteering with OFERR.”

“They’re useless. Work with us. Your wife can help with medical work. I’ll make sure you get ₹3,000 a month.”

‘’ I’m not concerned about money. I want to help in any way I can.’’

‘’That won’t do. You need to work only with us.’’

“That’s not for me. I want to serve independently.” I emphasised the importance of unity among Tamil liberation groups.

He then asked sharply, “Would you let someone else live in your house?”

I switched the subject, feeling there was no point.

“I’ve only been here a few weeks. Still getting settled. I’m also thinking of studying further.”

Kugan left.

That monopolistic mindset—present from the LTTE’s top leadership down to its foreign supporters—was like a cancer. It would be their undoing. Sadly, many Tamil intellectuals failed to see this. In any civilised society, such a movement would not have been allowed to flourish.

Although many early members of the LTTE later distanced themselves from the group, a few, like Shobha Sakthi, dared to criticise it openly. The majority remained silent, believing that authoritarian rule was necessary to combat the Sri Lankan state and military.

That silence has cost the Tamil people dearly. It caused devastation from which the community is still trying to recover.