Noelnadesan's Blog

In Chennai’s bustling Pondy Bazaar, renowned for its jewellery and textile shops, stood a four-storey building. The lower levels housed a wedding hall, while the upper floors contained small rooms rented exclusively to men. Since the area stayed lively until midnight, we felt carefree as well. Although I only stayed there for a few months with my friend Visakan, the time we shared was unforgettable.

Visakan studied at Jaffna University. Like me, he was separated from his wife and child—a shared sorrow that brought us closer. He had a quick wit and a passion for political debates.

Having studied in Jaffna, Visakan was familiar with members of various political movements, especially those aligned with leftist ideologies. He introduced me to Mr. V. Ponnambalam, who had split from the Communist Party and later became the leader of the “Senthamilar Movement.” Mr. Ponnambalam was highly respected for his integrity. To me, he was like a walking university. He later helped me find work in Tamil Nadu. The first person he introduced me to was Savithri Devanesan—the wife of Professor Chandran Devanesan of Madras Christian College, and sister of well-known Sri Lankan leftist Leslie Gunawardana. Savithri ran an NGO in Chennai called Roof for the Roofless. I joined the organisation and spent a month working as a veterinary surgeon in the rural villages of the Chengalpattu district.

When I visited Comrade Ponnambalam in T. Nagar, I often bumped into Mavai Senathirajah, who was always sipping tea. Ponnambalam helped me understand many of the complex aspects of Tamil politics. People like Uma Maheswaran and Pathmanabha frequently visited him. Although he acted as a link to young political activists, I’m not sure if his ideas were ever fully accepted or put into practice.

Visakan held a degree in anthropology and was deeply interested in sociology and politics. He claimed to have come to the University of Madras to pursue higher studies. He often complained that Professor Indrapala had blocked his appointment as a lecturer at Jaffna University, alleging that he had been sidelined.

That might have been true—or perhaps not. Nepotism and discrimination were common not only at Jaffna University but also at Peradeniya. Because of Professor Mahalingam at Peradeniya, I had to retake microbiology four times, which cost me a distinction and a higher class rank. Sometimes, sexual favouritism among male professors influenced the selection process. Still, whether I passed regularly or with a distinction, I knew I would become a vet. But Visakan kept holding onto his grudge. Many people in Sri Lanka shared similar frustrations, but only Visakan kept revisiting his grievance every day, often with a drink in hand.

He might be the only student Professor Indrapala is remembered for!

One day in Chennai, we returned to our room early. Visakan looked clearly upset. He didn’t even have enough money for his usual evening drink.

“What’s bothering you more than usual?” I asked.

“I heard there’s been a crackdown within the LTTE. I’m worried something might have happened to my brother-in-law,” he said, then muttered a string of expletives directed at the LTTE leader. At that time, most internal purges weren’t carried out by the LTTE but by PLOTE (People’s Liberation Organisation of Tamil Eelam), under Uma Maheswaran.

As children, we learned the word ‘weeding’ (kalai eduppu) in the 1960s, when students from Jaffna who were not involved in farming were bused to weed rice fields in Kilinochchi and Paranthan during Prime Minister Dudley Senanayake’s government. Later, the term became a metaphor used by Tamil political leaders for removing traitors. Students also adopted it into their political language.

Hari Chandra, who is Visakan’s wife’s younger brother, was living in Salem at that time.

I told Visakan, “We don’t know what the LTTE did or didn’t do. I only have ₹50. I’ll give it to you—do what you must. But bring us back a food parcel—non-vegetarian, please. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”

With a burst of energy, he headed out and returned after an hour with two food parcels and a bottle of white liquor. It was one of the finer spirits produced in India, not cheap moonshine.

In Sri Lanka, moonshine is often brewed as a devotional act. It’s uncommon to see reports of deaths from drinking in the newspapers. Arrack from places like Thangottuwa in Negombo is comparable to Russian vodka. It’s an art form treasured by the Sinhala community and is popular among Sri Lankan workers in the Middle East.

The bottle Visakan bought cost ₹40, and the remaining ₹10 went towards food. I couldn’t drink much— it burned my stomach. But Visakan finished the bottle. When I opened the food parcel, it was just plain rice. I asked how we were meant to eat it, and he opened a smaller parcel, claiming it contained chicken curry. But it was filled with chicken combs, beaks, red toes, and perhaps intestines. As a vet, I immediately recognised them as parts from leghorn chickens.

I asked him crossly where he bought it.

“From the petty shop next to the liquor shop,” he replied.

In Chennai, shops near liquor outlets often sold these cheap meat portions in small containers.

I didn’t say a word. I just ate a handful of rice to calm the burn in my stomach. I had no cash. Hunger was all I had left.

“How many are sacrificing proper meals and fighting for their nation’s liberation? Do you know how many come from wealthy families and still undergo weapons training?” he lectured me until I drifted off to sleep. Though he worried for Hari Chandra, his resentment towards Indrapala remained stronger. I knew there was no use in reasoning, so I stayed quiet.

A few days later, something unusual happened. One evening on his way home, Visakan bought a soft drink, drank half, and added liquor—his usual way. In Tamil Nadu at the time, drinking mostly took place in fancy hotels or shady taverns. Middle-class folks had nowhere to drink openly, so many drank in secret, hiding liquor inside soft drink bottles.

Moderation was unusual. People often drank until they hit their ‘climax.’

One day, while drinking from a soft drink bottle in Pondy Bazaar, Visakan was caught up in a police roundup. I rushed there when I heard the news.

I expected to find him in a vest and underwear, like in Tamil movies. But to my surprise, the people detained were well-dressed professionals just returning from work. I explained to the police that we were from Eelam and unfamiliar with local laws. They released Visakan with a warning.

Back then, the word Eelam held a lot of magic in Tamil Nadu. People respected it greatly. Many Eelam refugees would hop on trains without tickets, using just their names. But over time, the image of Eelam started to sour, smelling more like a dead rat’s stench, thanks to the actions of a few.

After I rescued Visakan from the station, he told me, “It’s not just me. Even top Tamil Brahmin officials can’t drink at home, also among us.”

Later, through Prathapan—Harichandra’s younger brother and fellow student—Visakan made contact with Harichandra in Mysore. We found out that Harichandra was a high-ranking and trusted member of the LTTE. His devotion to the movement and Tamil Eelam was only rivalled by his steadfast loyalty to Prabhakaran.

Though Hari Chandra was two years younger than me at Hindu College, when I met him, he exuded brotherhood and sincerity. He never lied, used sarcasm or foul language, and never discussed politics. After I enrolled at the university, we lost contact. I later heard he worked at Hatton National Bank in Colombo. Eventually, my classmate Jayakumar told me that Hari Chandra had been affected during the 1983 riots. He returned home, joined the LTTE, became known as Lieutenant Colonel Radha, served as the Jaffna district commander, and died in action.

The 1983 riots even radicalised those who were apolitical. They believed that violence should be met with violence—a core principle of Prabhakaran’s philosophy.