Dogged Pursuit :The Madras Tea Salesman Series Volume 1

By Raghavan Srinivasan

This is the first volume of a 2-part series, a bio-historical fiction, centred in Madras and covering a period of 4 decades from the late 1920s.

Raju, the main protagonist, was born a posthumous child. After losing his other parent at the age of 15 and tossed from one school to another and later from one job to another, he finally finds his home in the historic, but rapidly modernising city of Madras.

Disgusted with the Endowment Department’s collusion with an artefact thief in his first job as a Temple Inspector, he shifts to a job as a Tea Salesman in a multinational company in Madras. The artefact thief happens to be Sankar, his childhood nemesis. Gaining insight from his earlier encounters with Sankar, Raju’s keen mind takes him into the dangerous realm of international antique and gold smugglers. His first mentor, Natarajan, guides him in his risky endeavours to put Sankar behind bars. It will take a lot of innovation and tenacity for Raju to make a breakthrough in the investigations. While one part of him is a daring investigator, the other part is a loving husband and father, a hard working employee and a caring friend to his other childhood friends, the communist-minded Sekar and the fickle Ganesan.

The main storyline has two parallel narratives. The first is related to the growth of Madras and the other with the behind-the-scenes twists and turns in Tamilnadu

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9789356676152

Raghavan Srinivasan

Raghavan Srinivasan is a graduate in Chemical Engineering from Madras University and a post-graduate in MBA from McMaster University, Canada. After working as a systems analyst in Tata Consultancy Services and Keltron for a few years, he worked as a freelance IT professional before deciding to become an entrepreneur and social activist. He is a founder-director of New Concept Information Systems Pvt. Ltd. and a professional consultant in the social development area. He lives in New Delhi. He has authored a number of articles in international journals. He has also been co-editing an online magazine called Ghadar Jari Hai (https://ghadar.org.in/ ). He has written several cover stories, articles and travelogues for print and online newspapers.Raghavan is passionately interested in Indian literature, philosophy and history. He believes that the past of our sub-continent has many clues to help us find our way in these confusing times. He is the author of Yugantar: The Dream of Bharatavarsha Takes Shape 2300 Years Ago and Rajaraja Chola: Interplay Between an Imperial Regime and Productive Forces of Society.His second book, a historical non-fiction, Rajaraja Chola: Interplay between an Imperial Regime and Productive Forces of Society has been acclaimed as one of the well-researched books on the subject.

Book preview

Praise for Author’s Books

‘He presents a critique of history to acknowledge that the rise and fall of kingdoms are not the result of strengths and weaknesses of kings and queens alone but an inevitable outcome of the greater rhythm of world events.’ The Hindu.

‘While author Raghavan Srinivasan’s tryst with words dates back to a long time ago, the stimulus behind the offering Rajaraja Chola was the fact that the Chola reign is sparsely covered in our history books.’ Deccan Herald.

‘A rousing attempt at piecing together the lives and times of the Tamil country’s most remarkable medieval personality, Rajaraja Chola, who despite the rich artistic legacy, plethora of inscriptions and maritime ambitions has remained an enigmatic figure.’ Sharada Srinivasan, Professor, School of Humanities, National Institute of Advanced Studies.

‘The author has recorded the magnificent rule of Rajaraja I, the Imperial Chola, who brought the entire southern Peninsula under his regime. The book is divided into nine chapters with unique and different captions … This book is designed for the lay reader, not necessarily in chronological order … with interesting facts arranged in appropriate places. The book provides an excellent comparative study of Chola sculpture, painting and literature.’ Prof. S.S. Sundaram, Professor & Head, Department of Indian History, University of Madras.

‘Raghavan Srinivasan’s book is a riveting scholarly work on how the glory of the Chola Empire was crafted brick by brick by the ruler as well as the ruled. It’s an overwhelming story of exemplary kingly attributes nurturing people so that they bloom as a multi-hued, many-splendored civilization 1000 years ago. Srinivasan’s book informs and delights in equal measure. It’s a must have for history buffs.’ Ashwini Bhatnagar, author, nominated for Best Non-Fiction Book, 2020, at Tata LitLive awards for The Lotus Years, Political Life in India During the Time of Rajiv Gandhi.

‘A fascinating introduction to Rajaraja Chola, as impeccably balanced in terms of content, insight, interpretation and style as a Chola Nataraja itself!’ Shyam Banerji, author of Pandit Ajoy Charabarty: Seeker of the Music Within and Hindu Gods and Temples: Symbolism, Sanctity, Sites. He is also Curator, heritage studies and spaces.

‘The era of Raja Raja Chola, consolidator and emperor, has been brought to life in this racy novel style book by Raghavan, written for the layman and non-specialist like myself, without being an agglomeration of names and dates, against the background of economic and political forces. It lives on in myriad edicts, copper plates, temples and inscriptions therein and is a huge amount of other information from which this is reconstructed.’ Prof. B. Anathanarayan, Indian Institute of Science.

List of Key Actors

Raju alias Srinivasan: The protagonist, has a troubled childhood. He first serves as a Temple Inspector and then joins a multinational tea & coffee company in Madras. He is a conscientious worker, a devoted husband, loving father and above all, a proud man with a strong sense of duty.

Kamala: Raju’s wife. She comes from a sheltered family, but that doesn’t prevent her from being an able support to Raju as he struggles to bring up his children, manage his demanding job and at the same time indulge in risky investigations for the department.

Raghu: Eldest son of Raju and Kamala.

Indra: Daughter of Raju and Kamala and Raghu’s younger sister.

Kumar: The youngest son of Raju and Kamala, younger brother of Raghu and Indra.

Singham: Raju’s father, a devotee of Durga.

Rajam: Raju’s mother. She is a woman of exemplary courage and practicality. Though widowed early and oppressed by backward customs of her community towards young widows, she is the force behind Raju’s resolve to lead an honest life and fight for justice, even at great risk to his life.

Venkatraman: Rajam’s father and Raju’s maternal grandfather. He loves to discuss politics and current affairs with his Thinnai friends.

Ramaswamy: Singham’s elder brother and Raju’s paternal uncle. He teaches English at a reputed school and supports Raju for a while.

Rajagopalan: Rajam’s younger brother and Raju’s maternal uncle. After his sister’s death, he takes Raju to Tirupati and ensures that he completes schooling.

Kanaka: Kamala’s elder sister. Because of the large age difference, she treats Kamala as her daughter and guides her in her life. Having lost her family fortune, she is prudent and practical.

Seshan: The landlord in the town of Anbil and the munsif. Greed for money drives him into the hands of the Madras underworld. He also inducts his son into criminal activities.

Sankar: He is Seshan’s son and the main antagonist in the novel. His ambitiousness leads him to criminal activities. He is cunning and ruthless.

Natarajan: He is one of those rare upright officers in the Revenue Department. He is kind-hearted but a suave operator in the department. He is Raju’s godfather.

Sekar: He is a school teacher at Anbil and later at Trichy. He is a communist party member and influences Raju’s thinking positively. He is a political activist with sharp acumen and high principles.

Ganesan: Raju’s childhood friend from Anbil. He is an opportunist, unreliable and gets enmeshed in Sankar’s illegal activities.

Jagannathan (Jagan): He is the company van driver for Raju. He is sharp-witted, moody and extremely resentful of his life in a Madras slum.

Vatsala: Sankar’s wife and Ganesan’s sister, is overtly resentful of her husband’s criminal activities but continues to have links with him.

Kala: Vatsala’s daughter.

Karunakaran, Kumaresan, Suresh and Manickam: Venkatraman’s friends in Lakshmipuram village, members of the Thinnai gang.

Muthiah: The bullock cart driver for Seshan. Though from a lower caste, he is politically well-informed. He is a good friend of Rajam.

Ramachandran: A senior police officer who is Ramaswamy’s friend.

Arumugam: Driver in the Revenue Department.

Munusamy: He joins as a trainee under Raju. He is arrogant and pompous.

Dhandapani: Union leader of the tea & coffee multinational who fights for the rights of employees.

Raman: Prosecution Lawyer for the Department.

Madhavan: Defence Lawyer for Sankar.

Sivan: The new van driver in Raju’s depot.

Sundar: Srinivasan’s sales assistant.

Lalitha: Kamala’s neighbour.

Ruby: Sankar’s girlfriend in Singapore.

Ramesh: The tea taster at the tea factory in Assam.

Murali: Raju’s new Manager.

Sundaram: Raju’s colleague who accompanies him to the Assam Tea Gardens.

Doctor Janardhanan: Raju’s family doctor.

Chinnikrishnan (Chinni): Madras Corporation Engineer and Raju’s friend.

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Tragedy at the Festival: 1928

New York Times, 18 November 1928

LALA LAJPAT RAI, ‘LION OF PUNJAB’, DIES

It was the Tamil month of Aadi in the year 1928. The bullock cart trundled on the uneven road full of pebbles and potholes. The sun had lowered itself from its high perch and wondered whether it was time to dip behind the grim and rugged hills rising in the far west. But the day was still grimy and hot. Muthiah raised his whip and swore at his bull to little effect. The latter had seen better days, but of late, Ranga—the loving name that Muthiah had given the beast—had decided that he had done more than one lifetime’s work for his master and had earned enough credits to be reborn as a higher being in his next birth. In recent days, he had started studying the potholes and pebbles with greater earnestness, navigating around them in a leisurely way. He also took more interest in the tall grass sticking out on the roadsides, stopping to nibble at it now and then.

The road from Lakshmipuram to Anbil was neither known for its smoothness nor its traffic. But when the ten-day Mariamman festival commenced, which it did three days prior, the road made up for all the lost traffic of the rest of the year. It came alive with strange sights. Pedestrians clutched roosters by their feet and led goats by their halters for the great sacrifice. Some devotees, with shaved heads and bright yellow clothes, danced their way through the throng. Women carried pots decorated with the goddess’s favourite neem leaves. It was chaos all around. The sudden clangour of drums and cymbals made Ranga swerve suddenly, drawing out a startled cry from Rajam, the lone passenger in the cart.

‘Anney!’ she called Muthiah urgently, but respectfully. ‘I hope we can make it before the sun goes down. I had promised my husband that I will reach the temple in time for the Pongal. That is why we started early from my father’s village.’

‘Don’t worry, Amma,’ Muthiah reassured, ‘I never imagined this wretched road will have so many clowns today, though I should have foreseen this. We should reach in time still.’ With that, he yelled ‘hai, hai!’ and gave Ranga a whack on his back and a quick twist of his tail. This time, the bull decided not to ignore his master’s urgency and increased his pace by an epsilon amount. He was not used to the sight of people carrying tridents or of those whose cheeks and tongues were pierced with spears. The journey annoyed him today. He was more comfortable with the peaceful hum of the bees, the gentle rustle of leaves and the cool river breeze from the effusive Kollidam, typical on normal days, but today was not one of them.

Rajam brushed her palm over her baby bump. The past six months had been very difficult for her. She was constantly worried about her husband who had appeared to be out of sorts when she had left him for her hometown. Bouts of racking cough shook his frail frame like a storm shaking a tree out of its leaves. It was some consolation that her neighbour had promised to keep an eye on him. The bumpy road and the rough cart ride was not good for her, she knew. She had gone to her parents’ place for her delivery, as was the custom in those parts, but her husband was quite adamant that she should not miss the festival. Muthiah, who worked the cart for Seshan—the big landlord in Anbil—was kind enough to agree to transport Rajam to the festival and had even promised to take her back the next day.

Mango and peepal trees lined on both sides of the road provided her with some shade, their leaves drooping down in wonder at the spectacle below. The sun had vanished behind the fluffy black clouds that rested on the dark hills, as if testing whether the ancient rocks could bear their weight. Showered by the sun’s red-gold rays, blades of grass shone like gemstones overflowing from treasure chests. To the east were rice fields, the ground flattening to a rolling plain beyond. Here and there were strewn shanties walled in brick and lime with thatched roofs.

A few more months and Rajam would be rewarded with the most wonderful gift a woman could dream of. She was sure she would have a baby boy. That was what her parents wanted and that was what would give her respect among her in-laws and in the town as well. She sighed. If it was a baby girl would she be unhappy? No. She would love the child just as much as if it had been a boy. She would not let her in-laws and her town decide what was best for her. But then, who was she to decide? Her husband was a pujari of a small temple. The few trinkets that fell on the aarati plate were not enough to keep the household running. Rajam did odd jobs around the town. Her husband earned some money teaching a few children and performing rituals. That is all he knew. Her in-laws did nothing much, except now and then taunting her for bringing too little dowry. The temple was ancestral property and there was no question of giving it up and moving to a city in search of better fortunes. How were they going to feed this extra mouth?

‘Amma, should we go straight to the temple or to your house first?’ enquired Muthiah, pulling her away from her uncomfortable thoughts. The cart had just navigated a stone culvert over a canal, rattling the timber boards which held it together.

‘Let’s go to the temple. That is where he would be waiting with all the pooja stuff,’ she replied firmly.

‘I will have to leave you there, Amma. My master has asked me to come and see him as soon as I am free. Before I start on the return trip tomorrow, I have to get some things done for him.’ Muthiah knew that Seshan would be very upset if he disappeared again without fixing the backyard door.

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Rajam was a woman of slender build with a shock of curly black hair that cascaded down to her hips. This morning, her aunt had braided her curls with care, letting two strands of fragrant jasmine and kanakambaram dangle over the braid to accentuate its shine. ‘Ennadi, you are visiting your in-laws after many months. You better get dressed appropriately,’ her aunt had chided. For a daughter-in-law was not supposed to return to the in-laws unaccompanied and empty handed. But her father, Venkatraman, had some urgent business, which he guiltily admitted to.

‘That’s fine, Appa. You cannot be expected to come every time. Muthiah is with me anyway,’ Rajam had consoled him.

Venkatraman was not happy with the arrangement, but he could do nothing to help. The in-laws would at least expect a basket of fruits and a pristine white dhoti with an angavastram for the son-in-law. This time they would surely be disappointed.

Rajam couldn’t care less about what her in-laws would be expecting. She was hardly twenty and vivacious. But today, there was a shadow of unexplained gloom over her face. She darted her eyes around without really absorbing the milling crowd walking ahead of the cart The vague outline of the temple was visible above the heads of the devotees. She was not sure whether it was girlish excitement or a vague sense of premonition that caused her to quiver.

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Muthiah stirred up some conversation. ‘Amma, do you remember there was a police firing some months back in Madras on a demonstration? Protests are spreading all over after that. It seems tomorrow there’s going to be a big protest in Trichy. If you are intent on going back tomorrow, we have to leave early.’

He looked back to make sure Rajam was listening. Today, she was acting strange, lost in thought.

‘Some Simon Commission it seems,’ he continued, giving Ranga an encouraging pat. ‘The papers are all agog with news about them. They have come from London and seem to be a terrible set of fellows. What is it about, Amma?’ he inquired while carefully navigating around a troupe of performers, whose members were creating a big racket prancing around on wooden stilts with a horse’s dummy attached to their torsos.

Rajam had finished 8th grade in an elementary school, after which she had to quit her education. The nearest high school was fifteen miles away. She was confident she could cycle her way there but her father wouldn’t hear of it: ‘You have studied enough. If you study more, we cannot afford an educated groom for you.’ But she had had enough education to understand what was going on in the country. She did remember the Simon Commission had come to India earlier that year and had forced all patriots to come out in protest.

‘Yes, I overheard Appa talking about this yesterday.’ While Venkatraman had cut off Rajam’s higher education, he did not keep her away from political discussions. The growing protests against the Simon Commission were being debated everywhere. The Communist Party was underground, but its unions had organised a huge strike in Bombay when the Simon Commission landed at its port.

‘But, Amma, I don’t understand one thing. Nehru and Subhas Chandra Bose are talking against the Commission but our Periyar and Ambedkar are supporting it. Why should they support a kumbini conspiracy?’ he asked. Kumbini was a Tamil distortion of the East India Company, which was the hated front of the British colonialists.

Rajam had asked herself the same question. Why would anyone in his right mind support the Commission? Her father had explained it patiently. The Commission was set up to review the 1919 Government of India Act, but what agitated Indians was that it did not include a single Indian member. Right from the beginning, it started playing on communal and caste divisions. The Justice Party, the Muslim League, the Hindu Mahasabha and the Central Sikh League, all supported the recommendations of the Commission.

Muthiah nodded. ‘You know I cannot read newspapers. But in my cheri, a teacher used to read the Kudiarasu paper regularly. Periyar says he is against Brahmin domination and wants job reservation for castes.’

Rajam pondered over what Muthiah had said. Her own village, Lakshmipuram, was named after the goddess of wealth, but had little to show for it. There were some big landowners in the Brahmin quarters but they were far outnumbered by the poor Brahmin families. Things were no different in the non-Brahmin part of the village. A few landlords leased their farms to tenant farmers, whose families worked on the farms. They employed labourers from the sudra cheris to do their harvesting, when required. The untouchables occupying the edge of the village also lived precariously on the edge of life. Her own family barely kept its head above water with her father’s meagre salary as the village karnam and some occasional income from the farm.

And yet, the Brahmins, who were hardly two per cent of the population in the province, were perceived as dominating politics in the Madras Presidency. A non-Brahmin Manifesto produced in 1916 argued that if the British granted self-rule to Indians, it would result in the tyranny of Brahmins over others. Improbable as it sounded, the fear was not misplaced. Their presence in the colonial administration, in modern professions and in the leadership of the Congress was highly visible. The Congress scoffed at this effort as falling into the ‘divide and rule’ trap of the British. Questions were also raised whether there existed an entity called the ‘non-Brahmin’. The Manifesto had named some castes as part of this entity—the Chetty, Komati, Mudaliar, Naidu, Nair, and others. But the Times of India dismissed this as a concoction of Pitti Thegaraya Chettiar, one of the architects of the Manifesto. The Hindu newspaper, from its citadel in Mount Road, swore that it would not sully its columns by allowing discussion on this issue.

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The day before, the chatter club at Lakshmipuram had gathered on the raised pyol just outside the main door of Rajam’s house. The discussion was very hot, as was the coffee offered. The topic was the Simon Commission and how it was being viewed amongst different sections of the society.

Venkatraman himself trusted Gandhi and Nehru and thought they could never go wrong.

‘In the Madras National Congress last year, the party has emphatically said it will boycott the Simon Commission. It has questioned how a committee of foreigners can assess what kind of responsible government they would allow Indians to have. From the time the Commission has landed on Indian shores, from February 3 to be precise, the whole of India has been up in arms,’ he observed.

But Karunakaran, the textile shop owner, trusted the Congress as much as a fish would trust a cat. He snorted.

‘These Congress nitwits want to make a deal with the Commission. That is why they are putting up some acts of resistance here and there. Justice Party says that if the British leave, the Congress will establish Brahmin hegemony. Look at Annie Besant and Gandhi who are supporting the varanashrama system. Better to stay as British slaves than become slaves of those wily Brahmins who are not happy that they have lorded over us for thousands of years!’ He was so agitated that his coffee tumbler shook, spilling a few drops of the caramel liquid on his white shirt.

Venkatraman was ready with a retort. ‘For you, everything is black and white! I agree that we must bury this caste system a thousand feet below the ground. But do you think the British are going to do it? They are playing Brahmins against non-Brahmins, Hindus versus Muslims. And look at your Justice Party! Are its leaders themselves not big landlords and educated in British institutions?’

The school teacher, Suresh, who happened to be a member of the Workers and Peasants Party, cleared his throat and interjected, ‘The British want to divide us into Brahmin and non-Brahmin, Hindu and Muslim, South Indian and North Indian. They have succeeded very well till now. That is why with a handful of British officers, they have been able to rule such a vast sub-continent. These leader fools have fallen into the trap. If you ask my opinion, both Congress and Justice Party are frauds!’

This brought a scowl to landlord Kumaresan’s face. ‘This guy who cannot teach mathematics properly to 5th grade students is talking about two big parties! How can you say that against such great leaders like Gandhi and Nehru? Don’t you know they are fighting for poorna swaraj?’

‘My foot!’ spat Suresh. ‘Look at them going to the Commission with a begging bowl. They say they are opposed to the Simon Commission. If you ask why, they say the Commission doesn’t have Indians on its board. What a stupid argument! If they are accommodated on the Board then they will pack up their white caps and spinning wheels and fall at the feet of their masters. With or without Indians on its Board, the Simon Commission wants to continue colonial rule. At most, it may offer some seats in the provincial assemblies to these idiots!’

The discussion was too complex for Rajam who was listening to it as she swept the dust from the front of the house. What are we going to achieve by discussing all this in one non-descript corner of the sub-continent? But she did not voice her opinion openly, not that the chatting club would have encouraged that.

Kumaresan took off his shoulder cloth and flapped it with great force. Listening to others had never been his speciality. He wanted to announce that one of these days, he was going to bind the school teacher by his feet and slap him on the washing stone until all the socialist dirt spilled out of his brains. But with great effort, he restrained himself. ‘So, without the Congress and Justice Party, you nitwits are going to drive away the British? Don’t you think that needs a big army? You don’t seem to be having even ten rupees in your pocket. Where are you going to get the funds for that?’ he boomed.

‘As long as our people have the vision, funds and army are no issues,’ Suresh voiced his conviction ignoring Kumaresan’s caustic comment. These bigwigs and landlords will never understand, he thought. ‘If you want my frank opinion, the Congress and Justice Party want a share in the spoils. So, they are threatening their white masters that if they are ignored they will start an agitation. Have you read the Panchatantra story about the two cats requesting the monkey to arbitrate? Look at what Lala Lajpat Rai said!’

Venkatraman and Karunakaran leaned closer to listen.

‘He said, Any talk of complete independence at the present moment by our own efforts is mere moonshine. But people don’t want anything less than complete independence from foreign rule. No begging the kumbinis for space in the Commission, no begging for reservation is provincial elections. We should demand election of a constituent assembly by universal suffrage. Not the way now where provincial assemblies are represented by a pathetic two per cent of the population.’

As always the meeting ended with all the participants banging their coffee tumblers on the pyol noisily, much to Rajam’s consternation. But none of them forgot to borrow some betel leaves from Venkatraman’s generous box as they left.

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Rajam sighed. How she missed those chatter club sessions her father regularly had with his friends when she got married and was whisked away to Anbil. It was almost a year ago, yet it seemed like yesterday. Rajam was not a lazy kid. She was hardly ten when a mysterious ailment took her mother away. Her widowed aunt came to stay with them, to help Venkatraman raise the motherless children. Every morning, Rajam got up with her aunt when the faint orange glow of the sun had barely lit the narrow path to the river. After a quick bath, they rinsed their clothes on the marble-like riverbed stone and returned to light up the mud stove in the corner of the kitchen. Venkatraman ate whatever was cooked and never made a fuss.

Six months earlier, he had taken Rajam and his sister to the Srirangam Talkies to watch a silent Tamil film called Machavadaram. Just recalling the visit brought a smile to her face. Since it was silent, it could have made sense to the Italians and the Germans too, except that it had Tamil actors and the plot revolved around the first avatar of Vishnu, in the form of a fish. For the first time in her life, she travelled in a jutka. Its wheels were painted shining black, rolling smoothly as two dark brown horses dragged the carriage.

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Everyone was moving towards the temple. The clanging of bells and the rhythmic chanting got louder. Wisps of smoke rose from the earthen pots cooking Mariamman’s offering and climbed above the not