A Temple in the Land of the Konyak Nagas

🪖🤔 Ponderings of a Pongo 🤔🪖

Back in 1980, I found myself thrust into the world of staff duties at a charming little hill station in Nagaland called Chakabama.

My first staff posting - ah, the joy! A whirlwind of responsibilities descended upon me like an avalanche, lovingly delegated by my commanders, who, having handed them over, promptly developed a remarkable ability to forget that they had ever assigned them!

Thus, I became the proud - if somewhat reluctant - foster parent of a whole assortment of orphaned tasks. After all, in the Army, everything is training - even unsolicited babysitting! 😩

One such stray responsibility landed squarely on my unsuspecting lap: the renovation of a temple at Mon (Nagaland), nearly 200 kilometres away, in the remote and turbulent land of the Konyaks.

I tried every trick in the book to wriggle out of it. But divine dispensations, as I was soon to discover, are not easily negotiated. 😇

A Temple in the Wilderness

The temple had humble beginnings. About a decade earlier, during the height of fierce insurgency in the Naga Hills, an elite infantry battalion had put up a simple ‘gummat’ - a makeshift, dome-like shrine - with Sri Durga Ma as its presiding deity.

The battalion had survived the turbulence and emerged victorious from its operations. Naturally, the soldiers attributed some of their good fortune to the Divine Mother.

Who were we mere mortals to question Her choice of architecture? 🙏

By 1980, however, the little shrine needed a facelift - or, as events would prove, something much more ambitious than a facelift!

But before embarking on this unusual mission, we had to acquaint ourselves with the land and, more importantly, its people.

A Date with the Ang (The King)

Mon was no ordinary place. Nestled deep in the Naga Hills, it was the homeland of the Konyaks - a proud and fiercely independent tribe, once renowned for their headhunting traditions and legendary warrior spirit. In those days, the region was also an active theatre of fierce insurgency.

We visited Lungwa, a Konyak village of ‘Naked Nagas’ right on the India - Myanmar border, to seek the blessings of the Ang, the traditional Konyak chief.

Lungwa itself was fascinating. Its traditional ‘morongs’ - large communal dwellings - straddled the international boundary, with border pillars appearing to have been placed almost as an afterthought. In some places, India was literally on one side of the room and Burma - now Myanmar - on the other!

The morong of the incumbent Ang was an enormous structure, reportedly stretching nearly 100 metres. It had separate cabins for his thirty wives - an arrangement that, I thought, made even Army accommodation planning look remarkably simple!

I was fortunate to have an audience with the Ang himself.

The entrance to his royal morong was quite an introduction to Konyak history. It was decorated with the skulls of enemies - grim trophies from the days of headhunting. Skulls of mithun (wild buffaloes) were also mounted prominently, presumably to add a touch of local aesthetics to the otherwise macabre décor.

Above us was a magnificent ‘A’-shaped canopy adorned with scores of metal-tipped spears. Their shafts were wrapped in long red fur, giving the entire structure an unmistakable air of tribal grandeur. 🤴🏽

As we waited for the Ang to appear, two royal attendants carried in a throne and placed it upon an elevated pedestal. On closer inspection, I realised that the throne was none other than the pilot's seat from the cockpit of a wrecked Dakota aircraft, a relic apparently salvaged from the Burma Campaign of the Second World War! The seat had, naturally, undergone some local modifications - spears, red fur and tribal embellishments had transformed a humble aircraft seat into a royal throne. Only in the North-East, I thought, could a wartime Dakota cockpit become a king's throne!

Then, with due ceremony, the Ang appeared, flanked by his guards.

His age was impossible to guess. His face etched by heavy dyes seemed to have been carved by time itself, carrying within it the stories of generations.

His elongated earlobes sagged beneath unusual ornaments made from flattened and rolled steel torchlight covers. His long hair was tied into a knot on top of his head and secured with yet another torchlight casing. And then came the crowning glory - two enormous wild-boar tusks mounted on either side of his head like a Roman coronet.  He wore a garland of beads interspersed with some wild animal's deadly fangs. Draped in a traditional red Naga shawl, he nevertheless exuded a quiet and benign authority.

He summoned us closer. We paid our respects.

The Ang spoke in the Konyak dialect. An interpreter translated his words into Hindi. We replied in Hindi, which was then translated back into Konyak. Our mission was duly explained. The Ang listened, blessed us, and gave us his permission. And just like that, our royal appointment was over.

The Malayalee Interpreter

There was, however, another little surprise waiting for me.

            The interpreter's name was Raju - a rather quaint name to encounter in that remote corner of the Konyak country. As I shook hands with him and exchanged a few pleasantries, he suddenly began speaking to me in chaste Malayalam - my mother tongue! For a moment, I wondered whether I had somehow been transported from Mon back to Kerala.

Raju soon solved the mystery. As a young boy, he had accompanied an Inspector of the Madras Special Police (MSP), whose company had been deployed to provide security in the Mon area, to the Inspector's home in Kerala. Raju had spent nearly eight years there, attending school and helping the family. In the process, he had picked up Malayalam as well as Hindi.

And there I was, deep in Konyak country, exchanging Malayalam pleasantries with a local interpreter! The world, I discovered, was considerably smaller than the map suggested.

The Curious Crowd

Meanwhile, a curious crowd had gathered at a respectable distance.

The women were adorned with nothing other than elaborate beaded necklaces, while some had teeth darkened with traditional dyes. The men wore little more than loincloths and carried their traditional dah, or hatchet, as naturally as we urban folk carry our mobile phones today.

One thing struck me as particularly strange. There wasn't a single dog in sight. Why?

I decided that some mysteries are best left unsolved! 😄

It was an experience of a lifetime - though strictly on the sidelines.

For me, however, the real adventure was only about to begin.

Mission Impossible -  Mon Temple

The humble gummat stood on a flattened hilltop, alongside a Company of the local militia and Mon's very own helipad. What was officially described as a "renovation" was, to put it mildly, a complete construction project!

My team consisted of just seven men and me, operating nearly 200 kilometres away from the resources of my parent organisation. And my only tangible financial resource? A princely donation of ₹500 from my Commander, accompanied, of course, by his profound blessings!

That was it. ₹500, seven men, a remote hilltop and a temple to be built.

Clearly, someone upstairs had great faith in us!

The trials and tribulations that followed - and the remarkable assistance that came from unexpected quarters - could fill another chapter. And perhaps it should.!

When the Army Meets the Civilian World

One of our greatest sources of support came from the Road Construction Company (RCC) of the Border Roads Organisation and its Officer Commanding Mr Nambeesan - a pious elderly person. A supervisor, Mr Kunju Ahmed was detailed who took personal interest in the project. Not only was he an excellent technical supervisor, he was also a remarkably good mason. The RCC provided technical manpower and other assistance, and suddenly our impossible-looking project began to look slightly less impossible.

I also contacted the Officer-in-Charge of the Tizit Forest Division - Mr Nambiar. He too took an extraordinary interest in our endeavour. On his advice, we procured timber at remarkably low rates, and arrangements were made to transport it to the construction site by him.

With the timber arriving, technical assistance available and my seven-man team raring to go, we got cracking.

The VIP Visitors - and Their Shradhha (offerings)

From time to time, senior Army and Assam Rifles officers visited Mon. Their helicopters would land right next to our construction site. The moment the rotors stopped, the VIPs would invariably make their way to the little gummat, offer their prayers and pay obeisance to Sri Durga Ma.

And, almost without fail, they would leave behind a handsome donation towards the construction. The temple, it appeared, had developed its own fundraising strategy!

There was, however, one major problem.

We had timber. We had labour. We had technical expertise. But we were desperately short of steel for the RCC work.

That was when the local Marwari business community came to our rescue. They collected sufficient funds for us to purchase the required steel. We travelled down to Sibsagar, the foothill township, to procure it. The cause itself earned us a substantial discount.

It was becoming increasingly clear that the temple had friends everywhere.

Shramdaan (voluntary labour) and the Malayalee Connection

The local people also came forward with shramdaan. Local contractors contributed materials, manpower and whatever else they could spare.

The District Collector, Mr Raghu Menon, was another great supporter of the project. His encouragement, sponsor  and assistance were invaluable.

Our common Malayalee connection soon turned into a warm personal friendship. In a remote corner of Nagaland, far from Kerala, I discovered once again the extraordinary usefulness of the Malayalee network!

A Friend Called Chingwang

Among the locals was Mr Chingwang Konyak, the son of the Ang. He was something of a ruffian - but a ruffian with a heart of gold. He moved around Mon in the only car in town and invariably carried a pistol for his protection.

We clicked almost instantly. Chingwang became a close friend and one of my strongest local supporters and in the environment of insurgency my bodyguard. He was eventually inducted as a Life Patron of the temple.

His friendship would prove particularly useful when the temple ran into its first serious controversy.

When the Pastor Came Calling

There were two schools close to the temple site. Naturally, the construction activity attracted the curiosity of the local children. Soon, they began visiting the temple, where the priest would happily distribute sweet prasad to them, which they liked verymuch.

One day, the local pastor came to see me. He accused me of trying to reconvert the local population. The thought had honestly never crossed my mind. I explained that we were simply renovating a temple that had existed there for years and that the children were merely curious visitors.

The pastor, however, was not particularly convinced. He warned me of unpleasant - and potentially fatal - consequences.

It was one of those moments when an Army officer has to decide whether to argue, negotiate, or discreetly summon reinforcements. I chose the latter! I mentioned the incident to my friend and self-appointed bodyguard, Chingwang .

He dealt with the matter in a manner that, I suspect, only a Konyak could. I never saw the pastor again. Nor did I receive any further warnings.

Some negotiations, I learned, are best conducted locally! 😄

Three Months - and a Miracle

Against all odds - and whether by divine intervention or sheer Army stubbornness - the temple was completed in a record three months. The little gummat had been transformed into a proper temple.

And the date chosen for its formal opening could not have been more appropriate:

Durga Puja.

The temple was ceremonially opened to devotees and local people of all faiths.

My Commander was present. So were the District Collector, officers of the Border Roads Organisation, Assam Rifles, Border Security Force and local Police, along with a large gathering of devotees and local people.

Adding colour and festivity to the occasion was the unexpected arrival of a Bengali troupe, who seemed to have materialised almost as miraculously as the temple itself! The occasion was filled with prayer, music, fellowship and a sense of achievement that is difficult to describe.

For us, it was more than the completion of a building. It was a small bridge between the Army and the local community - and between very different worlds.

The Accidental Architect

Having now been, as it were, drafted into God's personal workforce, I found myself dreaming about the temple - both while asleep and awake. Stranded in the wilderness of Mon, I began visualising a temple reminiscent of those I had known in my childhood in rustic Kerala.

There was no architect. No architectural drawing board. No computer-aided design. Just a ‘Pongo’ (infantry officer), a pencil, a piece of paper and an overactive imagination!

So I put my thoughts to paper and sketched the temple as I imagined it.

That little sketch has survived. And so has the temple.

Nearly four and a half decades later, I look back at that episode with a mixture of amusement, affection and wonder. What began as an unwanted staff responsibility, thrust upon an unsuspecting young officer, turned into one of the most memorable experiences of my military life.

I had gone to Mon as a reluctant infantry officer with seven men, ₹500 and a seemingly impossible task. I came away with friendships, memories, a deeper appreciation of the people of the Konyak country - and, quite unexpectedly, the reputation of being an accidental architect of the Divine!

A Note of Solemn Gratitude

        As I look back upon that remarkable endeavour after more than four and a half  decades, my heart is filled with solemn gratitude to every person who, in ways large and small, contributed to the fulfilment of what initially appeared to be an impossible mission.

        My deepest appreciation goes to my 'country cousins' Mr Raghu Menon, the District Collector, for his unstinting encouragement and support; Mr Nambeesan, Officer-in-Charge of the RCC, for extending his invaluable personal indulgence; Mr Nambiar, Officer-in-Charge of the Tizit Forest Division, for his generous assistance in making timber available; and Mr Kunju Ahmed, GREF Supervisor, whose technical expertise and personal involvement were of immense value to us.

        My sincere gratitude also goes to Mr Sharma, the senior-most Marwari merchant of Mon, and to the entire Marwari business community, whose generosity in raising funds for the essential steel and other materials came to our aid at a crucial juncture. I remain equally indebted to the local people of Mon, whose goodwill, shramdaan, hospitality and spontaneous cooperation transformed our modest resources into something far greater than we could have achieved on our own.

        And I can never forget my dear friend and self-appointed 'bodyguard', Mr Chingwang Konyak -  whose friendship, loyalty and local influence stood by me when it mattered most.

        Looking back today, I am convinced that it was no mere coincidence that all these remarkable individuals crossed my path at that particular time. It was, perhaps, a divine coincidence indeed, an act of Divine Providence - that brought us all together, from such diverse backgrounds and walks of life, at the most opportune moment, for a common and holy cause.

        Each contributed what he could; together, we accomplished what none of us could have achieved alone. For that, I offer my solemn and enduring gratitude to them all.

But, in all honesty, I know who really deserves the credit.

We were merely the foot soldiers.

The real architect was Ma Durga Herself. 🙏🙏

            And perhaps that is the real lesson from Mon:

            Sometimes, in the Army, you don't choose the mission.

            The mission chooses you.

            And occasionally, the orders may even come from above - quite literally! 😇

 

= Ravi Nair-

 

ALLEPPEY’S CULLEN CONNECTION

(🚴‍♂️ Discovering Alleppey on a Bicycle 🚴‍♂️ )

Remembering Lt General William Cullen, the Soldier-Diplomat Who Made Alleppey His Home

     There are times when a bicycle ride through the familiar streets of Alleppey becomes much more than a ride. Every turn of the wheel seems to uncover a forgotten story; every canal, bridge and old street appears to whisper something about the Alleppey that once was.

         A few days ago, my bicycle took me along Cullen Road, one of Alleppey’s familiar thoroughfares connecting Mullackal, the heart of the town, to the Beach, running between and parallel to the Vadai Canal and the Commercial Canal.  🚴‍♀️

        As I pedalled along, a thought crossed my mind: How many of us ‘Alleppeyites’ have travelled along Cullen Road, crossed Cullen Bridge or heard the name “Cullen Saayip” without ever wondering who Cullen was - and why his name continues to live in our town even today?

        The name has sometimes been casually localised in popular speech as 'Kallan ' Road, or simply remembered as the old metalled road.     

        But behind that familiar name lies the story of an extraordinary man - a Scotland born soldier who rose to become a distinguished British Resident, diplomat, administrator, scholar and naturalist, and who, after nearly two decades in Travancore, chose Alleppey as his home.

Lieutenant General William Cullen - The Resident Who Became a Son of the Soil

         Lieutenant General William Cullen (1785–1862) served as the British Resident at the Courts of Travancore and Cochin from 1840 to 1860, an exceptionally long tenure of nearly twenty years. He succeeded Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Maclean, who died in 1840. 

  Cullen had arrived in India in 1804 as an officer of the Madras Artillery and went on to have a distinguished military career before entering the wider world of diplomacy and administration.

           But Cullen was no ordinary colonial officer.

        Beyond the uniform and official responsibilities of the Resident, he developed a remarkable fascination for the land in which he lived. He studied its people, languages, traditions and natural wealth. He became interested in Malayalam, Indian customs, botany, geology, astronomy, history and antiquities.

     In an age when many British officials remained essentially outsiders, Cullen appears to have immersed himself deeply in the intellectual and cultural life of Travancore.

   He was, in many ways, a soldier who became a scholar - and an administrator who developed a genuine affection for the country he served in.

A Resident and the Travancore Court

          Cullen's relationship with the Travancore Court appears to have been unusually cordial.

         His tenure coincided with the intellectually vibrant reign of Maharaja Swathi Thirunal, whose interests extended to music, astronomy, literature and the arts, and subsequently with the reign of Uthram Thirunal.

    Cullen also took a close interest in the quality of Travancore's administration. He respected capable administrators and senior officials. This was perhaps one of Cullen's distinguishing qualities: he could represent British interests firmly while simultaneously appreciating the abilities and achievements of the indigenous administration.

The Scholar Behind the Uniform

  Cullen's intellectual curiosity knew few boundaries. He wrote and corresponded on the geology, flora, culture, history and natural sciences of Travancore, contributing observations to learned journals and maintaining contact with scholars and scientific institutions.

          There is even evidence that he prepared material towards an English - Malayalam dictionary, material which was later referred to by the missionary-scholars.

   His interest in science was not merely academic. Cullen believed that knowledge of the land - its geology, minerals, flora and natural resources - could contribute to the economic development of Travancore.

           It is a fascinating dimension of his personality: beneath the formal uniform of the British Resident was a man driven by curiosity, scholarship and a desire to understand the country around him.

A Legacy in Thiruvananthapuram

   One of Cullen's enduring contributions was his association with the establishment of the institution that eventually became the Napier Museum in Thiruvananthapuram. The museum was established in 1857, and Cullen contributed geological specimens from his own collection. Thus, an institution that would eventually become one of Kerala's best-known cultural landmarks had, among its early influences, the initiative and scientific interests of the British Resident.

  For nearly two decades, Cullen stood at an important intersection between the British Government and the Travancore State. It was a period of considerable administrative, social and intellectual change.

Cullen and the Missionaries - A Complicated Chapter✝️  

          Yet Cullen's story is not without controversy.        

          His relationship with the Christian missionaries of Travancore became increasingly strained, particularly over questions concerning proselytisation, the position of Christian converts and the social changes being demanded in their favour.

          The missionaries increasingly saw themselves as champions of the oppressed and advocates of Christian equality. Cullen, however, viewed the matter from a different perspective. He was the Resident - the representative of the British Government, but also the intermediary with the Travancore State. His responsibility, as he saw it, was to preserve order, respect the authority of the Maharaja and ensure that administrative and social changes took place through lawful governmental processes rather than through missionary pressure.

           The missionaries regarded him as too conservative. Cullen, on the other hand, was reluctant to allow the Resident's office to become an instrument of missionary policy.

And therein lay the heart of the conflict.

 He found himself caught between competing pressures- between missionaries and converts demanding protection and equality on one side, and the Travancore administration and established social interests on the other. His instinct was to ensure that British authority did not become a substitute for the authority of the Travancore Government.

   That position eventually brought him into increasing conflict with missionary interests, and their grievances were carried beyond Travancore to the higher authorities of the Madras Presidency and the Government of India.

      And he came under unwarranted accusations and adverse aspersions.  After nearly twenty years of pristine service, Cullen resigned his office, formally relinquishing his position on 31 December 1859.

But Cullen Did Not Go Home

          And here, perhaps, lies the most touching chapter of the Cullen story. After spending almost twenty years in Travancore, Cullen had become so attached to the land that he did not return to Britain after his retirement.

   He stayed. He chose Alleppey.

          The British soldier and diplomat who had once represented the British Government at the court of the Maharaja decided to spend the remainder of his life in the country that had become his home.

             And in 1862, he died in Alleppey.

Cullen Memorial 

     His niece, Marion F. Marjoribanks, erected a memorial to him in the compound of the CSI Church near Kochukada Paalam, on the north bank of the Commercial Canal - today associated with Thomas Norton Road- where he was laid to rest.

             The inscription on the monument is particularly poignant:

“To Lt General William Cullen,

 Who as Resident at the court of the Rajah of Travancore and Cochin twenty years, from 1840 to 1860, was no less devoted to the British Government which he represented, than to the development of the best interests of the population and the country, which he had made his home.”

              Those last words say something profound:

              “The country, which he had made his home.” - For me, that is perhaps the most enduring tribute to Cullen.

The Silent Graves of Old Alleppey

             The cemetery of the CSI Church in Alleppey holds another fascinating, largely forgotten chapter of our town's colonial past. Tucked away in its quiet corners are old graves bearing the names of British men, women and children - among them military officers and members of their families. Some date back to the nineteenth century, when Alleppey was emerging as one of the most important commercial and maritime centres of the Malabar coast.

             Standing before these weathered tombstones inevitably raises questions.

              Were some of these officers posted here temporarily? Did some come to Alleppey in connection with its thriving port and commerce Or, like Cullen, did they eventually choose this distant corner of Travancore as their adopted home?

              Perhaps some simply found here a climate, landscape and way of life that had become familiar and dear to them.

              The CSI Church would naturally have been an important spiritual and social centre for the Christian and European community of those days.

              Today, these old tombstones are far more than markers of the dead. They are silent witnesses to another Alleppey - an Alleppey of sailing ships, bustling canals, busy warehouses, European merchants, soldiers, administrators and families who lived out their lives far from the land of their birth.

              Every epitaph seems to whisper a story.

              A military career.! A family separated from home.! A life spent in the service of an empire.! And, sometimes, an unexpected love for Alleppey.!!

              The inscriptions of Captain James Power and Eliza, wife of Captain James Falconer, among others, offer tantalising glimpses into this forgotten chapter of our town's history.

And Then There Was “Cullen Home” …

             But Cullen's story has a personal connection for me too. As a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve, I remember seeing an old, stately bungalow near the present SBI branch, close to the YMCA Bridge.

             It bore an intriguing name: - “Cullen Home.”

              As a young boy, I often wondered about the rather grand and exotic name attached to that house. What made it even more intriguing was that the house was, at the time, occupied by one of my father's close friends, Mr P. A. Punnoose Kutty Maman - our beloved “Uncle.”

             The old bungalow has long since disappeared, replaced by a commercial complex.

      But now, after learning more about William Cullen, that childhood memory has returned with a new meaning.

               I cannot help wondering: Was that the very “Cullen Home” where General William Cullen spent his final years? 🤔 There are also suggestions that his residence may have been somewhere around Sea View Ward, near the Beach.

               I cannot say with certainty.😟

               Perhaps further research - or an old map, municipal record, family document or forgotten photograph - may one day solve the mystery.

       And perhaps that is what makes history so fascinating. Sometimes, it begins with nothing more than a childhood memory.

Cullen Saayip - An Alleppey Story That Refuses to Disappear

              Today, William Cullen's name survives quietly in the landscape of Alleppey:

      Cullen Road.

              Cullen Bridge.

              Cullen Home.

              And the memorial of “Cullen Saayip.”

               The man himself has been gone for more than 160 years. Yet his name remains woven into the everyday fabric of our town. He came to Travancore as a British Resident. He served the British Crown as a soldier and diplomat. He engaged with the Travancore State as an administrator and intermediary.  He explored Kerala as a scholar and naturalist.

      He sometimes found himself in controversy as a reformer and custodian of administrative prudence.

              And finally, he chose to remain here - not in Britain, but in Alleppey.

              He died here. He was buried here. And, in a quiet sense, he became part of the story of this town.

A Soldier Who Became an Alleppeyite

              History rarely gives us people who can be neatly placed into categories.

              Cullen was a product of his time, and his legacy inevitably carries the complexities and contradictions of the colonial era.

              But history should also allow us to acknowledge the individual behind the office.

              A soldier. A distinguished military officer. A diplomat. A scholar. A naturalist. An administrator. A man who could have returned to his homeland after nearly twenty years of service - but chose instead to remain in the land that had captured his imagination and affection.

      **He came here as the Resident of Travancore.  He remained in Alleppey by choice. And he died here as one of the many people - near and far - whose lives became intertwined with the story of this remarkable town.**

              Perhaps that is the real joy of “Discovering Alleppey on a Bicycle.” 🚴‍♂️ The bicycle takes us forward. But the names beneath our wheels take us backwards through time. So, the next time we pedal along Cullen Road, cross Cullen Bridge, or pass the quiet memorial of “Cullen Saayip” near Kochukada Paalam, perhaps we might pause for a moment.

      Look around. 🚴‍♂️ 🚴‍♂️

              And remember the man behind the name.

              Lieutenant General William Cullen  -  Soldier. Scholar. Diplomat. Administrator. Resident of Travancore. And, ultimately, an “Alleppeyite” by choice. 🙏🫡

              And as I continue my bicycle rides through the streets of the town that has been my cradle of childhood, Brindavana of youth and Varanasi of old age, I realise that Alleppey still has countless stories waiting to be discovered.

     All we have to do is keep pedalling. 🚴‍♂️

        🚴‍♂️ Discovering Alleppey, one road - and one forgotten story - at a time. 🚴‍♂️ 🤔

-               - Ravi Nair -

 

When Alleppey and rest of the Nation  Kept Time Without Wristwatches.

  (  A nostalgic journey from the 1950s to the 1970s and Beyond. )

      

      Watching the Amazon Prime serial "Titan - Made in India", about the making of India’s first quartz watch and the remarkable story of how India challenged the centuries-old dominance of Swiss watchmakers, set me thinking.

        It took me back to the Alleppey of the 1950s - to the years when I was beginning to make some sense of the world around me.

        Today, a wristwatch is almost taken for granted. In fact, for the younger generation, the watch as a timepiece has almost disappeared altogether. The mobile phone has taken over that job, and now the smartwatch has entered the scene - part chronograph, part mobile phone, and perhaps part personal assistant!

        But there was a time when a wristwatch was a prized possession, a symbol of status and, for many of us, very much a luxury.

Alleppey - sans wristwatches

        In our locality and family in those days, the only wristwatch I remember seeing regularly was my father's West End - a beautiful rectangular, golden-cased Swiss watch with a matching chain and, proudly displayed on its dial, the words “10 Jewels.” It was a manual-winding mechanical watch.

        For us children, Father's watch was almost a forbidden object. Touching it was strictly prohibited. But whenever the opportunity presented itself and the watch happened to be lying unattended, we would quietly sneak up, pick it up and check the time.

        Those few seconds of holding it in our hands gave us an inexplicable sense of privilege - as though we had temporarily acquired a piece of adulthood!

        At home, fortunately, we had a large wall clock with a long oscilating pendulum. It had to be wound manually every day. Its most distinctive feature was its gong - a hammer striking a spring and announcing every hour with a deep, resonant chime that could be heard throughout the house, day and night.

        We too had a Philips Holland valve radio at home, switched on every morning when my father awoke. The valves and the glowing “magic eye” took their own sweet time to warm up before the radio came alive. Then, precisely at 5.50 a.m., came the familiar strains of All India Radio’s signature tune, 'Raga Sivaranjini', composed by Walter Kaufmann.

        For generations of Indians, that haunting melody was the sound of a new day beginning - and, in the days before wristwatches were commonplace, it was also the nation’s unofficial timekeeper.

        In Alleppey, too, the first strains of 'Sivaranjini' (signature tune of All India Radio) drifting from homes, teashops and hotels meant that clocks were checked, mornings began, and the town slowly stirred to life.

        But that raises an interesting question:

        How did people keep time when hardly anyone owned a wristwatch?

        The answer is fascinating. We had an entire network of clocks, bells, religious invocations, sirens, whistles, aircraft and even natural phenomena - none of them requiring batteries, chargers or Wi-Fi - which kept the whole town in rhythm.

Alleppey had its own timekeepers

        To begin with, there were temple bells and the 'kathina' - those miniature cannon-like crackers with gunpowder,  whose explosions announced various temple rituals. There were church bells, and of course the 'baanku vili' (Aazan ) - the call to prayer at mosques - at its prescribed intervals.

        These were not merely religious sounds. They were part of Alleppey's informal public timekeeping system.

        One of my earliest memories of time was associated with a Dakota aircraft carrying The Hindu newspapers to the capital Trivandrum. Almost every morning, at around six o'clock, the aircraft would fly past the Alleppey shoreline. Most people were already awake by about 5.30, and many of us would instinctively wait for the familiar drone of the Dakota to reluctantly shed the bed. The aircraft itself had become a morning time signal.

        Then there was the siren from the Alleppey Municipality office, which sounded at intervals of two or three hours. People knew its pattern and instinctively used it to estimate the time.

Then the factories kept the town ticking.

        Alleppey was then a thriving centre of the coir industry, with large British and German companies employing hundreds of people. Names such as Pierce Leslie, William Goodacre, Darrah Smail, Aspinwall and Madura Company were familiar landmarks of the town's commercial life.

        Their factory sirens formed another part of our informal timekeeping system. The sirens announced the beginning of work, recess, shift changes and the end of the working day. Each factory had its own rhythm, and the people of Alleppey knew the pattern almost as well as they knew the temple bells, church bells or 'azan' from mosques.

        The remarkable thing was that the system worked. Employees reported for work on time. Students reached school before the bell. Shops opened and closed at expected hours. Buses and boats were caught without anybody staring anxiously at a mobile phone. And, importantly, “I didn't have a watch” was never considered an acceptable excuse!

The sun, the moon and the sundial

        Long before watches became commonplace, people also looked upwards. The position of the sun or that of your own shadow provided a fairly reliable indication of the hour during the day. At night, the moon and stars served as natural companions for those who understood their movements. Even the rise and fall of the tides, transmitted through the backwaters into the hinterland, provided useful clues to the passage of time.

        I still remember the sundial at SDV High School - reputedly one of its kind in South India.

             To a child accustomed to clocks, a sundial seemed almost magical: time itself being measured by a shadow cast by the sun.Today, a sundial might appear quaint. To us then, it was a living lesson in how our ancestors understood and measured time.

“What time is it?”

        There was another little social custom that has almost disappeared. If you were fortunate enough to own a wristwatch, people passing by would frequently ask:

        "Chetta samayam ethra aayi ? (“ What time is it?”)

        Nobody seemed irritated by the question.

        In fact, wearing a wristwatch and being asked the time was almost an acknowledgement of one's modest affluence. The watch was not merely a timepiece. It was something worth noticing.

        I became the proud owner of my first wristwatch when I went to college - 'Kingsley' a modest American  pin-lever watch.

        It was certainly not as sophisticated as Father's West End and, if memory serves me right, had an irritating habit of developing problems at precisely the wrong time.

        But it was mine. And that made all the difference.!!

        It was also quite in order to display one's watch prominently, with the wrist resting casually on a friend's shoulder, in college group photographs.

        That was not accidental.! That was watchmanship!

From college to Olive Greens 

        When I joined the Army towards the end of the 1960s, the watch landscape had changed considerably. HMT watches were the preferred choice for many of us.

        I still remember an HMT watch kept in a glass-topped box at the Unit Quarter Guard. The Guard Commander handled it with almost ceremonial reverence. The inspecting officers religiously check its serviceability and upkeep.

        The hourly chimes, of the Quarter Guard bell goaded by this watch carried through the barracks by the became part of the rhythm of military life.

        A few HMT Jawan watches were issued to key appointment holders and were treated almost as controlled items - not unlike the regiment's rocket launchers and US wireless sets!

        In the unit, watches were still not something everybody possessed. Apart from officers and certain key appointments, most soldiers did not have one. Yet the entire unit functioned with remarkable punctuality.

        The Quarter Guard gong, the bugles - Reveille and Retreat - whistles and the calls of appointment holders were enough to keep everyone moving. Time was not something we carried on our wrists. It was something the whole unit lived by.

        I also remember the Army Canteen in those days.

        Watches were much in demand and often available only after a long wait. On one occasion, I bought an HMT Sona ladies' watch for my sister. It cost me ₹150. My monthly salary then was a princely ₹350!

        Looking back, I am not sure whether I was being generous to my sister or reckless with my finances. Perhaps both.

And then came Titan

        And then came Titan made in India.

        Suddenly, watches became more accessible, more stylish and more aspirational. The watch was no longer merely an instrument for measuring time. It became an expression of personality, taste and, occasionally, one's ability to impress others.

        Swiss watches continued to command enormous prestige - and their prices reflected it.

        But HMT and Titan brought something different: a good watch within the reach of ordinary Indians. Eventually, quartz technology transformed the watch itself.

        The humble mechanical watch, which had demanded winding and care, was gradually replaced by something that seemed almost miraculous to us: A watch that kept time without being wound!

        That was progress.

What we gained - and what we lost-

        Looking back today, the journey from Father's hand-wound West End to HMT, and from HMT to Titan and quartz watches, is much more than the story of a gadget.

        It is, in many ways, the story of changing India.

        In the 1950s, we did not need a watch to tell us every five minutes what we were supposed to do.The town itself kept time.

        Today, we have a clock on the wall - perhaps in every room. A watch on the wrist. A clock in the car. A computer on the desk. A mobile phone in the pocket. And, for good measure, a smartwatch on the wrist.

        Yet we still receive reminders telling us when to wake up, when to leave, when to attend a meeting, when to take a break and, occasionally, when to go to bed.

        Perhaps the greatest irony is that we have never had so many ways of knowing the time - and yet seem to have less time than ever before.

        For those of us who grew up in the Alleppey of the 1950s, a wristwatch was not merely something that told us what time it was.

        It told us something about who we were, where we had arrived in life, and how far the world had travelled. From a Dakota flying over the Arabian Sea to a smartwatch receiving messages from satellites, the journey has been extraordinary.

And yet, somewhere in that journey, something has quietly disappeared.

        We no longer listen for the factory siren.

        We no longer wait for the Dakota.

        We no longer calculate the hour by the position of the sun.

        We certainly don't ask the gentleman wearing a watch, “What time is it?”

        And perhaps that is why, even today, the memory of Father's old West End remains more precious than any watch I have worn since.

        It did not merely keep time.

        It kept a piece of my childhood. 💖

      

                                                                                                                                      - Ravi Nair-

#discovering Alleppey