Society

Houses On The Beach

Bachelor-time has long resisted the times in Triplicane’s mansions. That may change now.

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Houses On The Beach
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If there is a place where the soul of old Madras slumbers on, refusing to yield to the gleaming new malls, multiplexes, lounge bars and highrises that proclaim the new Chennai, it is Triplicane. Its legendary “mansions” (boarding houses in more prosaic language) lining narrow, chaotic streets have for decades beckoned young men from the state and beyond in search of a home, and a dream, in a forbidding new city. And many who responded to their invitation of cheap, convivial bachelorhood—even, legend has it, stalwarts of the Dravidian movement such as Periyar, C.N. Annadurai and even Chief Minister Karunanidhi—went on to lead bigger lives as university “toppers”, poets, filmmakers, actors, intellectuals, politicians and businessmen.

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Styled life, a chat

A room with a fan, a tubelight, a “cot” and a shared bathroom may not sound like much. But when it comes for just Rs 1,000 per month, and is in the heart of the city, within easy distance of the beach and the cinema, it is a young man’s paradise. Especially in a city that remains staid, despite its trappings of modernity, and does not regard single men as ideal tenants. “With the concept of ‘paying guest’ alien to a conservative place like Chennai, the mansions came up to fill a need, as more and more young men came here to study, or for jobs,” points out mansionite Ramalingam, who works in a human resource consultancy.

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Today, some 200 “mansions” are crammed into the lanes and bylanes of Triplicane (Thiruvallikeni for purists), two- or three-storey structures with about 30 to 60 rooms apiece, some with “character”, crumbling balconies and  forlorn courtyards, others rebuilt or renovated in lurid colours. Around them, nearly 100 eating joints feed thousands of mansionites. You cannot throw a stone without hitting a “mess” serving “meals ready”, biriyani joints, idlis for just Rs 2 a piece, or carts selling “fast food” whose USP is not hygiene but price. Many bachelors queue up at the 37-year-old Kasivinayaga mess, where the food, served on a banana leaf, is the closest they get to home cooking. “It once used to cost Rs 1.50 for a meal,” recalls Vasudevan, the owner. Even now, at Rs 35, it is the cheapest, most wholesome meal in town. Matronly mamis living in the agraharams, the Brahmin enclaves that lie cheek-by-jowl with the mansions, also augment their incomes by supplying meals to bachelors.

Originally a hub for boys from modest homes, Triplicane began to also attract a more gentrified crowd with Chennai becoming a software and banking city. Some mansions acquired cachets of comfort like TVs, ACs and services such as regular cleaning, to lure upwardly mobile young MBAs, and quite a few have found the proposition irresistible. Rents rarely go over Rs 3,000 and not just food, but washing and ironing are also available on tap, promising a deliciously carefree bachelor life. There are downsides, of course, from poor sewerage, to erratic water (which can be salty too, because of Triplicane’s proximity to the sea) and electricity supply, and rather less spit and polish than some would like. “But,” asks  P. Narendran, an officer at the Royal Bank of Scotland on Anna Salai, “Where else in Chennai can you walk to work?” He has been staying for the last 18 months at King’s Palace, one of the fancier lodges, and, like many residents, will move out only when his bachelorhood is taken away.

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Styled life, lunch at Triplicane

Successive generations of mansionites have luxuriated in Triplicane’s cheerful anonymity and the opportunities for male bonding—not to mention abridged dressing—that abound in this monastic world, where women are not allowed to visit, leave alone stay, at the boarding houses. T.E. Narasimhan, a journalist with the Business Standard, who lived with his parents in a nearby agraharam, recalls going out with mansionite friends (one of whom is now the GM of a shipping company in Malaysia, another works for a software firm in Chennai) to late-night movies and then crashing with them at their digs.

Today, too, residents tell stories about smuggling in guests (to avoid paying extra) and other late-night revelry. “The camaraderie stays even when you move away and start another life. There’s nothing like sharing a plate of biriyani and cups of tea while discussing current events, books—and your future,” says Raja Swami, a software engineer, who has set his sights on Silicon Valley.

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These days, however, the subject most discussed in Triplicane’s rooms and dining halls is how long its unique sub-culture will survive the March 13 inaugural of Chief Minister M. Karunanidhi’s magnum opus, Chennai’s spanking new Assembly and Secretariat complex in Omandurar Estate, just a stone’s throw from the mansions. Will it remain an insouciant enclave of bachelordom when security drills, police verification, and all the other trappings of vip proximity come into place in the security zone to which it now belongs? 

Some things are changing, for sure. Already, there is talk with Orwellian undertones, of ID cards, scanners and CCTV cameras. Says V.A. Ravi Kumar, joint commissioner of police (central zone): “Never in the past has the assembly been so close to mansions and commercial complexes. We have to take precautions because anonymity cannot exist.” He even speaks of each mansion ultimately having a scanner to check those entering and exiting.

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Styled life, a mess queue

S. Dhasthagir, secretary of the Mansion Owners Association, reveals the police have asked the owners to instal surveillance cameras, provide a list of residents with proof of their identity, and employer references. Smuggling guests in, and the impish delight that came with it, in cocking a snook at the management, will soon be history. And residents are getting used to waking the watchmen when they return late, to open gates that are now locked by 11 pm.

Owners take a practical approach—they really have no choice. “We could be at risk if the police arrests someone and he says he is staying in a mansion,”  points Mohammed Haris, owner of King’s Palace. Some residents, like sharemarket businessman P. Movendran, see benefits in the new security regimen, like thefts and traffic nightmares being reduced. But others, among them bloggers who spent their salad days in Triplicane’s mansions, and are now ensconced in other parts of India or the world, are already in mourning.  As one blogger, Raj, puts it: “Triplicane’s beauty will be lost....”

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A mansion-lined Triplicane street

But it’s not just young men who find sanctuary here. The old, lonely and unwanted do as well, embracing mansion life to avoid the hardships and indignities of the world beyond. People like M. Thangavelu (62). The retired bank official is separated from his wife, and chose to live in a mansion over staying with his married daughters. A veteran blood donor (he has given blood 124 times), this sprightly man has lived here seven years and loves it. He says, “The other bachelors call me ‘uncle’ and come to me for advice; I see smiling faces here, as compared to a lonely life elsewhere, and having to move from a flat every time the landlord hikes the rent by a few thousands.” Age has its own priorities, for he says the mansion is safer now—thanks to the new security drill.

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