Over much of last year, I managed to complete reading Isaac Tyrrell’s From England to the Antipodes & India, 1846 to 1902, with startling revelations, or 56 years of my life in the Indian Mutiny, Police & jails, printed at the ALV Press, Madras, in 1904. There is an excellent online edition of the same, available at archive.org. The book was heavy going, and the racism inherent in the text can set your teeth on edge. What made it an unusual work was that it focused, especially in its second half, on life in the Central Prison, Madras.
Tyrrell was from Suffolk and enlisted in the army in 1846, joining the 46th Regiment of Foot. He travelled to India, was posted at many places and saw action, including during the first war of Indian independence, 1857. When his regiment was transferred to New Zealand, he opted to resign and joined the police force in Madras. His first assignment was as a Police Inspector, Chintadripet division. The majority of his service, however, was in prisons and penitentiaries. And among the early assignments, he was Jailor Madras Penitentiary. From 1869 till the mid 1870s, he was in charge of what was till a few years ago, the Central Jail, opposite Central Station. From here, he moved to jails in Cannanore, Palayamkottai and retired in 1895 as the superintendent of the Rajahmundry prison.
For those who imagine that the British Raj was something of a halcyon period, with the Cooum flowing fragrantly, streets being clean, and law and order valued above all else, this book will come as something of a shock, for Tyrrel describes what can at best be considered the underbelly of the city. Murderers, pickpockets, cheats, and felons of various kinds appear (and disappear too), especially in a few chapters titled Prisoners I Have Known. And their treatment within prison does not make for edifying reading either. The most common punishment, always meted out on Monday, when Police Commissioner Drever, no doubt nursing a hangover, came on visits, was lashes doled out by means of a cat of nine tails, in other words, a vicious whip.
Prison life today is often spoken of in hushed terms, where those inside manage to get what they want, from narcotics to deadly weapons. Interestingly, it was no different in the 1860s. Supplies were kept up by prison staff and visitors, who met the inmates without even the customary barred window in between. And if these methods failed, packets could always be tossed over the wall from the Chintadripetside. Tyrrel has it that those outside knew to pinpoint precision as to where a particular prisoner’s cell was, and their aim was unerring. And the items that were thrown over? He gives us a list – tobacco, snuff, betel and ganja! On one occasion, such a packet landed at Tyrrel’s feet as he was going around on inspection.
Now for the Cooum. Tyrrel has it that the sewers from Chintadripet emptied themselves into the river just by the prison walls, and the stench there was unbearable. The space was also used as a public latrine by the residents, he adds. The atmosphere, he writes, was so thick that a stick held up would stick! Things have not changed all that much in the 150 years since – that particular area, which I had to walk around, in a futile search for the first public latrine of the city, installed there in the 1860s, was just as bad, Swacch or any other Bharath notwithstanding.
It comes as a shock to read that the public of Madras, rather in the manner of those in medieval London, enjoyed witnessing the hanging of those sentenced. The public gallows were apparently on the northern side of the prison, facing the Central Station, and large crowds would gather on the appointed day. Later, Tyrrel had the gibbet shifted into the prison, but this too could be seen from Chintadripet, and according to him some people would swim into the river to get a closer view!
Much of the book is dark, but there is progress– segregation of women and juveniles from the men is a good start. A workshop run by prisoners creates products for sale. A vegetable garden is begun, which, after internal consumption, has enough surplus for sale. When the returns touch ₹600 in one year, there is jubilation. The Government allows 10% to be retained by the jailor as his incentive. A printing press, which existed even before, is shifted to outside the prison walls so that the inmates can see something of the outside world, while under surveillance.
The book gives us a Madras that we don’t easily see in other and more conventional accounts.
(Sriram V. is a writer and historian)
Published – January 21, 2026 07:00 am IST
