Armenian Church at Parry's Corner

The caretaker watched the two women from his dusty office.

American, he thought after studying them for a moment. And they meant to be there, judging from the large cameras they were now raising to their faces. That first look of bewilderment was common to most of his visitors, probably due to the relatively hidden entrance to the church grounds and to the sudden shock of calm that came when one stepped through the gate and out of the riot of sound, color and smell that was Parry’s Corner.

The old Armenian Church was bright white, and its interior was of dark wood and rattan. It was a somber place, and quiet, the silent sister to bright yellow St. Anthony’s next door.

And empty. Always empty, which is why the caretaker allowed the women to wander a bit before he approached them. No need to hurry these too infrequent interruptions.

He watched them walk along the outer buildings, peering at the faded drawings and photos of busier years. They took pictures of the crumbling staircase and of the arches and of the parakeets in their stacked cages.

As they walked toward the bell tower and church he finally revealed himself.

“Hello. I’m Mr. Alexander, the caretaker. Would you like to see the church?”

They nodded and smiled and followed him into the simple, tidy nave.

“Why do the Armenians need their own church?”

Oh yes. Definitely Americans.

“Well, they’re not Roman Catholic, you see. They’re Orthodox. But there are no more Armenians here now. They employ me as caretaker, but I am an Anglo-Indian. Do you know what that is?”

He saw them smile at his pride, but why should he not be proud? Being Anglo-Indian made him different in this nation that so often seemed nothing but differences.

“It means that I have British ancestry, and Engish is my mother tongue.”

“But did you grow up here in Chennai?”

“Oh, yes.”

He showed them the altar and the tombstones. He told them about the group of Armenians who had traveled to the church to check up on things and who had held a service there, oh, several years ago now. And he pointed out the large marker honoring Kojah Petrus Woskan, who built a bridge near Little Mount and also arranged for the stairs to be constructed leading up to St. Thomas Mount.

“Sometimes Armenians come and ask to see those places, so I take them there, too.”

Then he stood quietly in the center aisle while the women took pictures of the ceiling and the floor and of the pews and altar and window screens.

They finally left the church and walked around the bell tower.

“There are six bells, brought from London, you know.”

After making sure they saw the grave of the Rev. Shmavonian and that they understood his importance as editor of the first Armenian journal in the world, he left the women to their wandering and spoke quietly with the gardener about that fallen tree.

He continued to watch, though, as the women inspected tombstones and cherubs and wondered over old family crests and symbols. They even took pictures of the chickens in the yard, though he couldn’t think why, before taking a last look around and stepping back out into bustling Chennai.

 

The caretaker gazed after them for a moment and then returned to his office to let silence descend on him once more.