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Lakshmi Bayi
EW STATUES of VO Chidambaram Pillai grace public squares and it is just as
well. The dull gold one at the old municipal office in Tuticorin, the crucible of
his remarkable vision and valour, stands defiant over a base inscribed with the
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definitive sobriquet his whole life has been reduced to. ‘Kappalottiya Thamizhan.’ The
Tamil helmsman immortalised on screen by Sivaji Ganesan in Kappalottiya Thamizhan Why Did Indira Gandhi Call for
Elections in January 1977?
(1961). A pioneering Swadeshi nationalist of 19th century fin-de-siècle political ferment,
Ravi Visvesvaraya Sharada Prasad
Pillai is best remembered for floating a steam shipping company in 1906 to challenge the
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monopoly of the British-India Steam Navigation Company. At a time when the first
unscientific’
wave of Swadeshi enterprises, birthed in the wake of the Partition of Bengal, were Ullekh NP
making soap and matches, Pillai’s endeavour was the equivalent of Elon Musk’s plan to
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colonise Mars. Fundraising for the first voyage to Colombo of the short-lived Swadeshi National Capital Region
Steam Navigation Company took him all over India, and he did not call off the journey Open
despite the premature death of one of his sons back home. A freighter was leased before
two ships, SS Gallia and SS Lavo, could be acquired. Ticket prices were slashed; a trade
war ensued that included an offer by the British company to provide free umbrellas. For
Tamils, the venture was the drop that filled the entire ravine with nationalistic lifeblood.
To Pillai, neither a sailor nor a businessman by temperament, it was the hurdle event in
his interminable decathlon race against foreign forces as well as entrenched psychosocial
bigotry. It had, however, already set off a domino effect that would end in his
incarceration and bankruptcy, the dissolution of the Swadeshi Steam Navigation
Company and on June 17th, 1911, the first and only assassination of a British government
official in south India, Robert William d’Escourt Ashe, the acting Collector and District
Magistrate who was shot dead by R Vanchi Aiyar, an extremist. Ashe’s murder, which put
the British in a state of high anxiety, was considered by the judges of the Madras High
Court a direct consequence of the bitter hostility between British officers and Swadeshi
activists, including Subramania Siva and Chidambaram Pillai, writes AR
Venkatachalapathy, a historian and writer for whom Pillai has been a subject of lifelong
academic interest, in an article in the Economic and Political Weekly.
One of the most transformative yet rarely frontlit figures in the history of the freedom
movement in the state of Madras, Pillai was a great straddler of his times, the geography
of his thought bridging Tamil pride, literature, religion, social ills, labour unionism and
legal activism. Ironically, some of the harshest reprisals he would face in posterity would
come from his own countrymen, who have not just consigned him to the abyss of
historical insignificance and, worse, appropriated him as a Vellalar community icon, but
have also raked him over the coals for failing at entrepreneurship. Potted biographies of
Pillai don’t tell us that his name carried the taint of doom for decades after his death.
“When a 100-acre parcel of land in the shadow of the corporation crematorium was
allotted for our college and for a residential society named in his memory, everyone
thought this was a bad idea,” says APCV Chockalingam, Honorary Secretary, VOC
Educational Society, Tuticorin. His father APC Veerabahu, a distant relative and an
admirer of Pillai’s, founded the VO Chidambaram College, an aided institution that
prioritises disadvantaged students, in Tuticorin in 1951. A conference room across the
hall is full of rare photographs of Pillai with his bejewelled wives—he married twice and
fathered eight children—and friends. “Few acknowledge the impact VO Chidambaram
Pillai has had on Tamil society as a revolutionary, writer-translator and activist. C
Rajagopalachari is supposed to have said that if Gandhi was Rama, Pillai was
Parasurama,” says Chockalingam. Inspired by Pillai’s Tamil nationalism, his uncle, MC
Veerabahu, a member of the Constituent Assembly, had signed his name in Tamil on the
Constitution—the only one to do so. Even K Kamaraj, who became Chief Minister of
Tamil Nadu in 1954, had signed in English. “My uncle’s life, in a sense, mirrors Pillai’s. He
gave up a career in law to join the freedom movement. He died with nothing to his
name. He fought to get freedom fighters’ pension but he himself refused it,” says
Chockalingam. MC Veerabahu, too, launched a shipping venture in independent India
with a vessel named SS VO Chidambaram Pillai, but the company soon folded up due to
mismanagement.
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It was in this charged atmosphere that Pillai and Siva began to make arrangements for
public celebrations in Tirunelveli on March 9th, and in Tuticorin the following day, to
mark the impending release of Bipin Chandra Pal. Sensing both a threat and an
opportunity, British officials promptly arrested them on allegations of fomenting unrest
and later charged them under Sections 124(A), 153(A), 109 and 114 of the Indian Penal
Code allegedly on account of their most recent incendiary speeches. With their arrest, it
was as if a switch had been flipped. Mass outrage broke out in Tirunelveli and the streets
swelled with crowds prepared to avenge the cowardly act. Shops remained shuttered, the
police station was attacked, a kerosene tank torched. Four died in police firings and
reserve forces were brought in to quell what came to labelled the Tinnevelly Riots, a
concussive episode in the history of the Madras Presidency.
Chidambaram Pillai and Subramania Siva entered the annals of history as the first
Tamils to be charged with sedition and were handed unusually severe judgments: a 20-
year ‘double transportation’ sentence for Pillai and a 10-year transportation sentence for
Siva. Tilak, who had been tried for sedition in 1897, had only been sentenced to 18
months’ rigorous imprisonment. In a petition to the Governor of Madras dated January
29th, 1909, where he requests that his sentence be remitted on account of not being
transported overseas as directed by the court, Pillai distances himself from the riots and
says he should not be held responsible for ‘the misguided rowdies of Tinnevelly taking
advantage of the excited condition of the people in consequence of the unexpected
remand’ of their leaders. Four years would pass however before he would be a free man.
By way of explanation, this is what Judge AF Pinhey had to say about the sentence meted
out to Pillai: ‘The first object of a sentence is that it shall be deterrent not to the criminal
alone but to others who feel any inclination to follow his example.’
“Were we inspired by Chidambaram Pillai? No, we didn’t make the connection when we
started to rise up for our rights as workers at Sterlite. It was much later I realised that
here was a workers’ movement not too different from the one from a century ago,” says
35-year-old Amal Raj, at his engineering workshop in Tuticorin. “Ideas that are
seemingly buried are never quite dead. They will be dug out some day, sometimes
unintentionally.” Raj worked as a welder at the Sterlite plant from 1998 to 2015, earning
Rs 12,000-15,000 a month, and led a series of protests demanding better and safer
working conditions, access to medical care and commensurate compensation for
accidental deaths. “Sterlite did not allow for a union to be formed. When I started work
there, they would pay very well but they didn’t care a bit for workers’ welfare. There was
no dining shed or clean drinking water. Tea was served in plastic bottles with the upper
halves chopped off. Accidents inside were hushed up and treated internally and the
deaths were often reported as suicides. When I began agitating against all this and some
of our demands were met, I became the de facto union leader,” says Raj. The Bharatiya
Mazdoor Sangam eventually backed him, but Raj could not fight off a move to post him
to Ballari in Karnataka. He quit to start his own business instead. “At least 20-25 small
workshops have come up in Tuticorin since Sterlite shut shop. Of the 4,000-plus
workers who were employed at the plant, a large number are skilled enough to run their
own shops. Yes, there is unemployment, but those without technical skills are the most
affected,” says Raj. The spirit of enterprise, embodied in Pillai, is innate to these coastal
lands, he says.
At the Tuticorin Port Trust, renamed VO Chidambaranar Port Trust when Tamil Maanila
Congress leader GK Vasan was Union Minister for Shipping, Pillai’s search for self-
reliance seems to have long since drowned in the blue-green waters. The port is the
second one in a region that has a long maritime history dating back to the early Pandya
kingdom. It was an idea mooted by Kamaraj to Jawaharlal Nehru and executed in the
’60s and ’70s by then Tamil Nadu Chief Minister CN Annadurai. Operations started in
the mid-1970s, mainly with export of salt and import of coal to power the hydrothermal
plants in Tuticorin. Despite much expansion—it expects to handle a million twenty-foot
equivalent units, the common measure used to denote a ship’s capacity, this year—the
port essentially feeds Colombo, which has meanwhile emerged as South Asia’s
transhipment hub. Despite our promixity to the international east-west trade route, the
lack of a vision to deepen south India’s terminals to accommodate large mainland
container carriers has remained a squandered opportunity, forcing Indian exim
businesses to incur the additional cost of extra port handling in Colombo. Ironically,
imports now constitute over 70 per cent of the business at the VO Chidambaranar Port.
With Sterlite shut, port traffic is down by 17 per cent, says T Velsankar of PSTS Shipping
Services, a major shipping company in Tuticorin, and president of the Tuticorin
Stevedores Association.
Shimmering in the undulating heat of the morning, the rundown old port, known as
‘Zone B’, which once launched the Swadeshi Steam Navigation Company, is an empty
shell of itself. At a privately run dry dock on the port, a couple of wood sailboats hunker
like ghosts waiting for someone to breathe life back into them. A dozen or so men
hammer away at loose planks jutting out of the body of a boat numbered 171. They fill
the leaky gaps in between with a mixture of fibre and natural resin, a process known as
chalking. It costs Rs 35-40 lakh to repair a 15-year-old boat after a long voyage, and even
after that, it doesn’t inspire much confidence. “A sailboat of this size can carry about 350
tonnes of cargo and runs on a 350-500 HP motor,” says S Lasington Fernando, Secretary,
Coastal Mechanised Sail Vessel Owners Association. I nod vigorously to cover up my
disbelief when he says it charters for Rs 4.5-5 lakh a month and can make it to the
Maldives in three days. “We operate during fair-weather—September 15th to May 15th—
and ply to Colombo, Mangaluru, Lakshadweep and the Maldives. There were over 50
such vessels. Now there are 20. Business is not very lucrative considering the upkeep
these boats need and the time it takes to get them ready for the sea again. But that is not
the reason we are languishing. Cargo containers control most of the trade now,” he says.
The Swadeshi boats must have set sail near about here to the pleasant nattering of
patriots. Zone B today, like Chidambaram Pillai after his release from prison, is a
forsaken artefact left to weather the frightful ravages of the wind and the sea. Penniless
and resigned to doing small jobs—as a rice trader in Chennai, a bank clerk in
Coimbatore and finally as a pleader in Kovilpatti upon getting his sanad back—to fend
for his family, Pillai’s disapproval of casteist arrogance and Gandhi’s non-violence made
him immiscible in the cocktail of voices shaping the freedom movement of the 1920s
and the 1930s. He turned to labour union issues and wrote a memoir in verse, among
other works. He died in Tuticorin in 1936, a forlorn outcast of the mainstream struggle
for freedom, perhaps vaguely appalled at the punt he had taken on his life and his
money. But that ship had sailed long ago.
VO Chidambaram
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