I was a boy of about eight or nine years old when one day my father came home early, took a bath and dressed casually, helped me dress like a dude (he always ensured that I was dressed like a dude – a habit that stayed with me, when I want to). Immediately I knew that he was planning to take me for an outing. Those days I was quite timid and preferred not to go out much. But then I realised much later that a day out with my father was always an education.
So, this time he said “come, let’s take
a walk”. My father was tall and his stride was large. I was short, small and so
my stride was very much shorter and I had to sprint a bit to catch up with my
dad or he had to catch up with me by slowing up, which he used to do mostly. I
am not reputed to be a great walker (except while schooling and on route
marches).
After about 10 minutes of walk we
reached the ‘Congress Grounds’ in Teynampet, Madras which was just three
streets away from our home then. There, at the entrance, I saw the huge cut
outs and wall posters announcing a wrestling match among the legends Dara
Singh, King Kong, Ajit Singh and some lesser known wrestlers of the day. My
father got the tickets (it should be rather just a ticket, in singular, as I
was let in free, as I was just a boy). If my memory serves me right, the cost
of the ticket per head was something like Rs.10 for a ringside view in
cane/rattan sofas, Rs.5 for sitting in foldable chairs, Rs.2 for a gallery seat
(made up of casuarina poles and wooden planks) and Rs.1 for standing and
viewing. We found a vantage place in the makeshift gallery, where the view was
reasonably clear for me.
When the bell rang and the game started
first among lesser known wrestlers and then the renowned wrestlers, my father
got involved rather animatedly like the frenzied mob all around us. I was
scared each time there was a wrangle but slowly I too got drawn into the game.
Trust any father taking his small son to wrestling and boxing matches like my
dad did. But it gave me a closer look at the game – rather a ring side look at
that! And that day onwards I had a deep respect for Dara Singh.
I don’t remember much of the boxing
games as those used to take place mostly at the Nehru Stadium and/or at Kannappar Thidal (Kannappar Ground) near
Madras Central Railway Station from where one may safely call Madras as North
Madras. I think I remember watching
the game of one of the renowned boxers of the day; one Mr. Bhakthavatsalam. Here also the initial bouts were between upcoming
boxers first and then among the real pugilists of the time.
Both Nehru Stadium and Kannappar Thidal are landmarks of Madras
that are still around. Only that the Kannappar
Thidal has been handed over to Chennai Metro for dumping excavated material
etc., while laying the Metro Rail transport in the city. While Nehru Stadium
was mostly used for sports purposes, Kannappar Thidal was a multi-purpose
ground that was being used for foot-ball games, boxing bouts and also circuses.
Congress Grounds were also used for boxing bouts but very rarely though.
The Madras Boxing history should, perhaps,
be at least a century old. It has thrived well mostly in the Tiruvottriyur and
Choolai areas of Madras. The players were mostly fishermen or workers working
as loaders, on odd jobs or in the Madras Port and thus not economically a well-to-do
people.
The indigenous sport restricted the
boxers to hit only on the face and nowhere else on the body. However, the
British who had influence on their workers slowly taught them the British mode of
boxing which allowed the pugilists to hit not only on the face but on the body
too but only above the midriff. So the boxing matches used to announce the
bouts as “Rosamaana Aangila Kuththu
Sandai” (Ferocious English Boxing).
The boys and men used to continuously
train under some renowned teachers and each teacher is a legend in his time. So
between 1960s and the 1970s there appear to be at least four well known ‘Parambarais’ or clans (I prefer to use
the word legacies) in North Madras area. First ones, apparently, were the ‘Idi Appa Naicker Parambarai’ and ‘Ellaiappa Chettiar Parambarai’. Idi
Appa is a moniker as his punch used to be like a thunderbolt (Idi). Soon the name became Idiappa Parambarai.
Over a period, there came into being
another couple of legacies called ‘Saar
Patta Parambarai’ and ‘Chunnaambu
Kulam Parambarai’. Saar Patta is the Moniker and the root is four knives (Chaar Pattaa Katthi) as the punch of the
pugilists belonging to this legacy equalled the pain caused by four knives.
This finally came to be known as Saarpattaa
Parambarai. The Tamil Chunnaambu
Kulam means Lime Pond or Lime pit. Historically it appears that, over a
period, the Ellaiappa Parambarai and Chunnaambu Kulam Parambarai merged with
the existing legacies and Saarpattaa Parambarai and Idiappa Parambarai became
renowned as rivals and vied with each other for the honours to be the numero uno.
It appears that as political
connections grew and the bouts fetched money to the organisers and some winners
only, many boxers found no significant wherewithal for themselves and began to
stray waywardly. Some became the henchmen for moneylenders and a few of them
even rowdy elements. It is sad when you come to know that a few boxers who had
their sunshine days are reduced to sell vegetables in Choolai market these
days.
Thus the recently released Tamil film ‘Sarpatta Parambarai’ piqued my intrigue
and I wanted to see if I can relive my memories associated with these manly
sports. I have to say with much satisfaction that the film did not disappoint
me.
Though quite lengthy at 173 minutes
(for, any film that is more than eight minutes it becomes difficult to hold my
attention these days) and made as a period film (the 1970s) the picture is,
indeed, a treat. One doesn’t get bored even for a minute. It is like a book
that you do not feel like putting down. The screenplay is quite tight and I
could easily relate with the context and the language of the conversation and
dialogues.
Something interesting I found from the
film was the use of some Telugu words by the members of the legacies; words
like “Gelichiduven” (‘geluchu’ means to win, in Telugu), “pilaka” (in this context short form of Pilla kaaya, a word for a kid that is
used in the bordering districts of Andhra Pradesh) and “Thotha” (to be pronounced as ‘thodha’
again a corruption for ‘Thodu’ in
Telugu which means a companion).
When I tried to do some quick research
I came to understand that as over a period of time these legacies were
supported or patronised by political parties several hues were applied to the
sport and there even has been an un-proclaimed ban on the sport. It was in
those times that the interested kids were sent to Boxing trainers in Andhra
Pradesh for training. This, in itself, was news to me as I never heard any news
of boxing in Andhra Pradesh excepting in Hyderabad (now a part of Telangana)
and Visakhapatnam. It was a surprise for me to note that there are several
boxing coaching centres in Chittoor district of Andhra Pradesh bordering with
Tamil Nadu.
Coming back to the film, one has a satisfaction of watching a good film at the end and that everyone in
the project did their best to excel. The picture also depicted the effect of
emergency on boxing in Madras with many of them treated as political persons
and jailed.
As far as I am concerned, the
characters of ‘Dancing Rose’ and ‘Daddy’ would linger for a long time in my
memory. Apparently there was no Dancing Rose in the history of Madras Boxing
and it was adapted on the basis of Prince Naseem Hamed, a boxer of repute from
UK. This was played by Mr. Shabeer Kallarackal who has performed with élan and it
was a joy watching him don the ‘Dancing Rose’ role. It is said that Shabeer though had taken a reference of Prince Naseem Hamed, he introduced his own style of dancing in the ring which was quite pleasant to watch. So did Mr. John Vijay as the
Anglo Indian ‘Daddy’. His way of speaking was just like the Anglo Indians,
quite a few of whom I knew well.
I couldn't help noticing a couple of
inconsistencies though. One is that the clock at the boxing ring lost its
continuity during the bout between ‘Kabilan’ the protagonist and the ‘Dancing
Rose’. At one point, the clock shows 5.04 minutes (at 1:15:19),
next it shows 5.15 (at 1:16:04) and again after a few frames the clock goes
back to near 5.05 (at 1:16:24). Apparently the clock has been inspired by ‘Dancing
Rose’ that it also waltzes back and forth. Surely, when it is mentioned that there
were only 30 seconds for the round to close, 10 minutes could not have elapsed.
Apparently someone in the charge of continuity goofed on this. If possible the
shot showing the clock at 5.15 could be removed. Similarly, on the one old red bus
that was shown a few times, there also should have been the Tamil words “Pallavan Pokkuvaraththu Kazhagam”
{Pallavan Transport Corporation (PTC as it was dearly referred to)}.
While these are but two tiny
inconsistencies, the film overall was excellent. Not once would one feel that
they are watching a movie but the actual boxing scenes and the background
realities. Each and every member of the team toiled to that extent and
succeeded well. That the film was made during the pandemic of COVID-19 and
still withstood the impediments is a point to be lauded.
A good film well made. Congratulations
to the entire team!
My only regret is that it came at least
five years late for me. Though it did help me to relive my memories (the
transportation to the 1970s was complete), it deprived me of the pleasure to
watch this film along with my dad. Had it been released in 2016, both of us
could have reminisced together with my father’s memories put in for a good
measure. And I have no doubt that he would have been regaled in watching the
film.
So, until the next,
Krutagjnatalu
(Telugu), Nanri (Tamil), Dhanyavaadagalu (Kannada), Nanni (Malayalam),
Dhanyavaad (Hindi), Dhanyosmi (Sanskrit), Thanks (English), Dhonyavaad
(Bangla), Dhanyabad (Oriya and Nepalese), Gracias (Spanish), Grazie (Italian),
Danke Schon (Deutsche), Merci (French), Obrigado (Portuguese), Shukraan (Arabic
and Sudanese), Shukriya (Urdu), Sthoothiy (Sinhalese) Aw-koon (Khmer), Kawp Jai
Lhai Lhai (Laotian), Kob Kun Krab (Thai), Asante (Kiswahili), Maraming Salamat
sa Lahat (Pinoy-Tagalog-Filipino), Tack (Swedish), Fa'afetai (Samoan), Terima
Kasih (Bahasa Indonesian) and Tenkyu (Tok Pisin of Papua New Guinea), Malo
(Tongan), Vinaka Vaka Levu (Fijian)
Hemantha Kumar Pamarthy
Chennai, India
