Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan's book

2010-12-03T02:46:00.005+05:30

I am Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan, a writer, photographer and filmmaker (archaeology and heritage documentaries). This book is a showcase of the work I am most proud of, work that delivered on everything asked of it, and me.

I have over 7 years of advertising experience, and strong theoretical and practical skills in archaeology, film-making and media. I am also a blogger and long-time Internet/New Media fan. My work, and my words, are informed by my many different interests.

If you like what you see and would like to hire me, email - chandrachoodan@gmail.com or cc.gopalakrishnan@gmail.com.

2007-12-18T23:02:00.002+05:30

Title: An Introduction to Contemporary Archaeology, with Dr. Brooklyn Hornswoggle-Smythe.

Genre: Documentary, Mock-Documentary, Parody

Writers: Ros Evans, Rhodri Davies & Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan
Directors: Ros Evans & Rhodri Davies
Camera & Sound: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan, Rhodri Davies & Ros Evans
Editors: Ros Evans & Rhodri Davies

Producers: Ros Evans, Rhodri Davies and Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan, for University of Bristol

© 2010, University of Bristol

2007-12-05T15:13:00.007+05:30

A beach lost. A paradise gained.

Chennai is, as anybody would tell you, blessed with lots of big, wide beaches. The most popular, of course, is the Marina. North to south, it's about 20 kilometres long. Least popular is my own Thalankuppam. And north to south, it measures a maximum of 2 kilometres.

It is a boring Monday afternoon. Itching for a little photography, a little solitude, I follow the coast to as far as it would take me away from the oft-seen. And this how I find the beach.

But first, let me begin at the beginning. Once upon a time, white men came searching for cloth and spices with which to build a company. The cloth, they found, was cheapest in a sandy strip of land on the south east coast of a country they called India. And so here they built factories and towns, and forts and palaces and country houses. Trade was good, as was the political climate (the atmospheric one not always so) and thus a company transformed into a kingdom and then to an empire. By then, the sandy strip of land had turned into the premier city. And as befits all premier cities, improvements were made.

All that culminated in a city with an urban area of approximately 2000 sq.kms. It's within this limit, just 17 kilometres north of the fort where the Madras story started, mine starts.
A not-too-wide, not-too-narrow beach. And fine sand, arranged layer upon layer – like some archaeological dig – forming cozy little alcoves and windy dunes in which to sit and wonder at the sight in front of my eyes.
Back to the past, briefly. Inside the fort, the Lords desired fish. Fresh fish that would remind them of home and bubbling brooks. One such bubbling brook existed not very far away. Called variously the Kourtaliyar, the Mugathwaaram and thalan, this rivulet meets the Bay of Bengal at Thalankuppam. And fish here was in plenty.

Let me correct that last statement. Fish here is in plenty.
Let me spend a moment describing the river. It begins its course in the west, some say just outside the Poondy reservoir that supplies the city of Chennai its water. Rivers, as is their wont, are restless creatures forever in search of a good beach to end a day in. This river is no different. It flows gently, merrily north and east and, still gently, meets the crashing waves of the Bay of Bengal at Thalankuppam.

At the mouth, a once bustling pier is gently rotting away. It's seen better days. Before we take a long walk on the long pier, how about a short walk down the beach? Just to my left, at the confluence, a rusted old machine hums away. The Dredger, it trawls the river's mouth, preventing a sand bar from forming and thus destroying this delicate ecosystem. For you see, sea water needs to meet fresh water for fish to live happily ever after. The dredger is now so much a part of life for the locals here, the beach has been named "Dujjer beach". I walk further down the beach. In a nestled cove, between two big mounds of sand, a fisherman smokes a beedi and lazes. He spots my camera and offers to be my guide for the evening. We talk a little. He doing all the talking and I doing all the nodding my head in agreement.
Fishing, he tells me, is the main vocation. Standing tall, on flimsy catamarans; or squatting by the waterline, rudimentary fishing pole and line swaying in the breeze, these people wait for the bite. And it usually comes. Big and small, colourful and grey, fish do bite and their patience does get an answer. From the sea, the fish is taken to the market - a short stretch of bad road, and here is where this hamlet truly comes alive. Thalankuppam then and Thalankuppan now is Chennai's best known market for fresh fish. Locals and aliens, far and wide, come here (as did the British chefs, once upon a city) to buy their daily meat. One can either buy in small quantities or bid for the entire lot. Yes, fish auctions.

My guide, the fisherman, continues his speech. He tells me of days past, when the locals of Thalankuppam were in demand - as stevedores and grunts in the ports that flank the area. Ennore to the north and Chennai to the south both popular and busy ports gave many a men from Thalankuppam employment and food. The few who didn't work in the port, did so in the many factories and foundries that abound here. By now, we've walked right to the southern edge of the beach and, turning around, head to the pier. A faraway look in his eyes takes me too to what is now a familiar territory for me. The British past. I imagine large boats, the Union Jack fluttering merrily, and white men in wigs and elaborate costumes on board. I imagine a sunset, as glorious as the one now on show. The imagined scene from the past merges with the seen now - a boat not far away, course set for the Ennore port, and a sunset. Now, as it must have been then, fishermen on board catamarans throw lines and simple, home-made nets and wait patiently for a bite. Now, as it must have then, the sun sets. Setting this place on fire, a golden glow permeating every visible surface, and some invisible ones as well.

We are now on the pier itself. If there's beauty in decay, this would qualify for the Miss World crown. Now brilliantly lit, resembling bars of gold growing out of the sand, the pier invites you to take a walk down its length. And promises a photographer's delight as reward. Just as I go trigger happy, he walks away, answering a woman's call. Blue water turns yellow, then red and then black. Two little boys on cycles twice their age and height approach me. They want to be photographed. I oblige, and their smiles are the only things brighter than the sun. Their cycles, silhouetted tell me it's time I too head home. But not before one last look at a beach the rest of the city has forgotten.

--
Originally published in BTW Magazine, February 2008

2007-12-05T14:56:00.001+05:30

In search of the sun.

A thousand and twenty three years ago (very precise calculation that. Take note.) Raja Raja Cholan ascended the throne and set rolling a series of incidents that ended in this writer getting soaked last week, in perhaps one of the most beautiful locations in India. It all starts with an over-whelming urge to shoot something more than just flower macros. (This story, not Raja Raja’s.) This was accompanied (not on the piano) by an urge to travel again. See places new, places different.

It was, therefore, to a long-pending travel idea one turned to - to retrace the route Vanthiyathevar, a historical character and the hero of Ponniyin Selvan - a Tamil historical-romance, took on a mission to bring Raja Raja Cholan back to Tanjavur and put him on the throne. Rajaraja was in Sri Lanka then, busy shopping for new kingdoms, unaware that political conspiracies and such were ripping apart the homeland. So, Vanthiyathevar travels to Tanjavur and from there, to Sri Lanka, via Kodiyakarai. It is about Kodiyakarai I was talking of, in that first paragraph.

Indulge me a bit now. Take out a nice big map of India, or better yet, a map of Tamil Nadu, and spread it out on the desk. (If you are reading this online, why not fire up the old Google Earth thingamajig?) Good. As you can notice, the coast of Tamil Nadu looks much like a human face, with a triangular piece of land jutting out - nose like - just a little to the North of Sri Lanka. The tip, which the British called Point Calimere, is Kodiyakarai. At this point, The Bay of Bengal bumps into the Palk Strait, surrounding the tip-of-the nose in water. Which means, when one places oneself just so, one can see the sun rising up in the water, and 12 hours later and 180 degrees afterwards, setting in it as well.

And thus, a wet Tuesday evening saw a young man, backpack stuffed with supplies for a three day haul and camera batteries likewise, in search of just such a phenomenon. The journey was unplanned, in the hope (not without justification) that the rather dependable buses run by the many state transport corporations would ferry me, and all willing folks, Point A through points B, C and D to Point Calimere.

Leg 1 - Chennai’s bus terminal to Tanjavur’s - was accomplished in a space of 8 hours. Memories of waking up in the night to see and hear the rivers Kollidam and Cauveri swollen with rain, and trees on the road, did not prepare me for the deluge at Tanjavur’s chaotic old-bus stands. Wet through and through, I persisted. First task (and if you plan such a trip, yours would be, too) was to haggle with an auto-rickshaw driver a daily-rate. For a sum of 400 rupees and odd (including the cost of fuel) auto drivers turn hosts and tour guides in Tanjavur. Put-putting you from temple to temple and fort to fort, touching every high-point in the tourist agenda.

That’s how you arrive at the palace of the Nayaks, and subsequently the Marathis.

After buying the right of admission and the right to photograph (rights that cost Rs. 5 and Rs. 30 respectively), one is bade to enter. And permitted to gasp at the treasures within. For, at this palace, between the wall to wall display of stone and bronze sculptures, Raja Serfoji and his clan beam from every tapestry in every room. As do two of the most beautiful women you’ll ever see – Parvati and Sivakami. Exquisite chola bronzes, dating to the 10^th and 11^th centuries, with every feature and every curve designed and sculpted for maximum impact. If the hourglass-like Sivakami is not draw enough, the palace-turned museum has within its fold the skeleton of a 93 feet long whale. And if that still isn’t enough to entice, it promises brilliant views over the surrounding countryside. All three were, singly and combined, strong enough to pull my jaw down and keep it there for two hours.

By which time, the rains had let up, and the sky was acquiring a tinge of blue.

Cue: photography. Temple. The oldest granite temple in the world, definitely in India. And during its time, one of the tallest structures in the world. Here, I did what every tourist was vainly trying to do – capture the entire splendour in a measly 5 inch LCD screen. As well as murmuring in awe in all the right places. The temple is built rather like a fort, with an outer wall, a moat, an inner wall and the actual temple. And all along the sides, granite – aged and reddened and still bearing the 11^th century Tamil inscriptions. Every visitor here likes to think he or she knows more about the temple than others. And this manifests in strange tales and half-truths – prophecies of Marco Polo’s visits and British rule, statues looking remarkably like Buddha and Jesus – and much more. Much, much more.

End of the day, and end of all available space in the camera’s memory card.

Exhausted and wet, I trudged to the bus stand, (the auto driver dispensed with after fulfilling his end of the bargain) to hunt for a bus that would take me to Kodiyakarai. While there were buses to every place, near and far, from Tanjavur, there wasn’t one that would directly take me to Kodiyakarai. Instead: bus to Kumbakkonam, from thither to Mannargudi from whence to Vedaranyam, where, finally, a bus would go to Kodiyakarai.

This only meant one thing. A wallet stuffed, not with cash, but with bus tickets.

The wild-run also meant one other thing - I’d have to sit at the far end of the bus, as it traversed rutted, barely-there roads.

If you haven’t yet experienced the back-seat, let me illustrate. Take a few roast peanuts, drop them into a steel tumbler, cover it so the peanuts don’t fall out, and shake violently. The sound they make is eerily similar to the sound your skull makes when it meets the roof of the bus.

But, there’s company on my journey eastwards. No, not the many people in the bus. While interesting people, they do have a tendency to get off (their stops reached) just when conversation heats up. No. Company is in the form of rivers – frothing at the mouth. Along they came, indifferent to the village boys’ fishing rods and the village girls’ pots and pans. East, the two of us went, both our destinations the same – a sea, a place to end the journey.

Vedaranyam once lived up to its name – a primeval forest. (Aranyam means forest, veda+aranyam therefore meant a forest dating to vedic times) In Ponniyin Selvan, it is described that way, with wild horses and quicksands and methane fuelled balls of fire. Sadly, 1000 years and growing population has turned forests into towns and horses into rattling auto-rickshaws.

But, as is always the case, some of that forest is still preserved, in the form of the Point Calimere sanctuary. Here, wild horses do roam the land, as do deer, foxes and rabbits. Here, one can stay at the Forest lodge, (with the permission of the forest officer at Nagapattinam) and employ the services of a guide who will point out hoof marks and suchlike. The sanctuary also preserves, as much as possible, a very old lighthouse – built by the Cholas. Entry and photography at the park again comes at a price – Rs. 5 and Rs. 30.

Walking in the rain, on slush that was once a track, I almost reached the Chola lighthouse – water had inundated the sanctuary and made further progress impossible. But deer and monkeys – the latter surely cousins of the ones that attacked a politician recently – were spotted.

Flanking the sanctuary are two incredible tourist attractions. The first one is a small shrine on top of the hill. Legend has it that Rama once stood here, before setting out to Sri Lanka, in contemplation of the task he had on hand. If the legend is true, Rama must have had really, really tiny feet. The shrine is set at the highest point in the sanctuary and does command a brilliant view – and one wants to believe that one can see the tip of the Emerald Island from here.

The other, the beach, and the end of land. Point reached. A long, narrow strip of sand that slowly descends into marsh, this beach is now monopolised by fisherfolk. And, this morning, they were returning from what appeared to me a rich haul. Boats and nets, teeming with fish. Of all kinds and shapes and sizes. And fishermen, wondering what fool would come to a desolate harbour on a wet morning. The fool was waiting for the sunrise promised.

It was a glorious sunrise. The kind of sunrise that sets writers scrambling for an adequate cliché.

The kind of sunrise that makes an unplanned journey over 3 days of bad roads and wet weather worthwhile. Silver tipped clouds shredding the sun into a thousand fingers of gold. Fingers that turn grey skies pink and blue waters gold. It was the kind of sunrise one always assumes happens only in a painter’s dream, or under carefully controlled settings in a photographer’s studio. And here it was – live and on the ground. The kind of sunrise, I now find, very difficult to describe. You truly had to be there.

At Point Calimere, you’ll learn, there is a point in nature-worship, after all.

Originally published (with minor edits) in BTW Mag, December 2007

2007-12-05T14:35:00.002+05:30

Kanchipuram: Telling it like it is.

Let me tell you a story – it has no beginning, no end but a lot of middles.

The hero awakes long before daybreak, and itching for a ride, for some photography, sets out on a motorcycle. The hero is at heart a historian. He likes nothing more than holding forth, to those who care to listen, on the magnificence of the Chola and Pallava dynasties. On the antiquity of the Tamil nation, its culture.

Rather predictably therefore, he journeys to arguably one of the most important historical centres in India. Kanchipuram.

In an ancient land that’s seen many kings and dynasties, a new one is born. This clan calls itself the Pallavas. No one is sure where they come from – some say they are of Parthian/Persian descent while some others say they are a lost arm of an earlier Chola dynasty. Shrouded in mystery their past may be, their future is clear – they build one of the strongest empires in the south and in the process some of the most beautiful temples.

Palar (milky river in Tamil) is a young, frisky brother to the older Kaveri. It flows east and south, across the near arid plains of north Tamil Nadu. A tiny trickle at first, it meets with the river Cheyyar, and fortified, feeds the city of Kanchipuram and empties into the Bay of Bengal just to the south of Mamallapuram.

It is to the former city that our hero is headed.

There is not one, but two Kanchipurams. Physically, not figure-of-speech wise, there are two cities. One is called Periya Kanchi – the bigger city. And the other is Chinna Kanchi, the smaller city. These two cities have within them more stories to tell. But we shall follow our hero.

He first heads straight to a 1400 year old temple called Kailasa Nathar koil. Built by the Pallava King Rajasimha Varman, this temple is a classic in Dravidian architecture. Sandstone sculptures and pillars sitting on granite base look like a million chariots rushing to a distant war-field. Each chariot comes with a small room, enough for a monk to sit and meditate. And to assist are sculptures and paintings of different gods and goddesses. Now sadly plastered over in an attempt to preserve.

He goes round this temple that inspired Raja Raja Cholan’s own masterpiece in Tanjavur, in awe and a quiet sense of pride. Which sentiment was soon shattered by a bunch of noisy kids, and later, 8 good looking white women and an equal number of men from Columbia.

In a different era, the Pallavas are building another masterpiece of a temple. Ekambaranathar temple is perhaps the biggest of the temples in Kanchipuram, and houses Shiva in his form as Ek Aam baram – to be clothed with one mango leaf.

Originally a Pallava creation, this temple has subsequently been modified by the Cholas and later Vijayanagaras. And like a bastard child, bears the markings of all its fathers. Chola style pillars and supports rub shoulders, architecturally speaking, with Pallava plinths and Vijayanagara sculptures.

It’s 12:30, and the sun’s beating down. The granite floor of the temple is burning through socked feet and the lust for a cold drink gets out of hand. Luckily in Tamil Nadu, commerce is as commonplace as history. At store right outside the temple, the hero quenches thirst, little knowing that his hunger, for history, will be whet in a moment.

Another visitor, as passionate about history speaks of a place called Pallavar Medu which might be, if one believed local legend, the ruins of the Pallava palace and fort.

The hero promises to dig into the archaeological gem (pun intended) and heads back to the Kailasanathar temple. A helpful and smiling ASI guide points out little pieces of art that are easily missed. The calligraphic writing on the walls of the temple inspired some of China’s own alphabets, Buddhist monks being responsible for its spread. Bodhidharma is name mentioned – a pallava scion, he renounces the world, travelling east and north to China to set up the school of Zen Buddhism – Zen being a corruption of the Chinese word for the Sanskrit Dhyan.

There’s the story of the silk worm. And the story of the weavers of Kanchi. Nobody knows for sure how silk weaving came to Kanchipuram, or how the city came to reperesent (along with Benares) India in the world of silk. But it has. The basic facts, everybody knows. Silk worms grow on mulberry trees. These worms spin a yarn when in their larval stage. This yarn we collect, boil, wash and weave into the sarees our women dazzle weddings with.

And then there are the facts we don’t know completely. For instance, it takes upwards of 10 kilos of silk worm cocoons to yield 1 kilo of raw yarn. The cocoons are boiled first, the threads separated and spun. Which is then twisted to add strength, or double-plied for extra endurance, and boiled once more.

This double-boiled, double-plied yarn is then bleached and dyed to be sent to the weavers. And that’s where the magic happens.

Weaving in Kanchipuram is done the old fashioned way – with people cranking handlooms – a weft and a warp and a weft again – to create intricate patterns and designs with silk. A punch-card fed machine creates the zari – the golden border and is the only thing that is mechanised here. A proper Kanjeevaram saree takes 10 days to weave, longer if the design is complex. At the end of which, the weavers go right back to the drawing board to create the next one. And for their labour, they take home Rs. 5000 a month.

The year is 1053. In the city that boasts over a 100 temples, a new temple is being built. It will, when completed, house Vishnu – one of the Indian trinity – in his role as the giver of boons. Varadaraja Perumal temple or Devaraja Swamy temple is huge. Spread over 23 acres, and very, very capable of repelling even the most violent of sieges. This temple, also called Attiyuran, is one of the 108 Divya desams of the Vaishnavaites.

The year is 1078 and Kulothunga Cholan takes over the Chola empire. Born Rajendra Chalukya, his ascension to the Chola throne is contentious. But he soon puts to rest the doubts, partly aided by the fact that his maternal ancestors were all princesses of the Chola dynasty, and proceeds to consolidate a disintegrating empire. He also rebuilds and expands the Varadaraja Perumal temple in Kanchipuram.

It is here that we next find our hero. From shrine to shrine, stone sculpture to sculpture, there are many things here that pleases his eyes. Including a large temple tank, brimming with water. Though green with moss and fish aplenty, the priests who live and work in the temple bathe, wash their meagre clothing and socialise here. So do visitors in search of Tamil lore.

One such is that the temple is built on a hill – now called Hasta giri – where Vishnu rescued the elephant Gajendra from the jaws of the crocodile. And one more – Brahma worshipping Vishnu according to one source, and Brahma creating Vishnu out of the sacred fire according to another.

Our hero realises then that stories will be plenty, and myths always twined to facts in this city that the Pallava emperor Mahendra Varma describes as the city of cities, equating it to the flower jasmine and the dancer Ramba.

In Chinna Kanchipuram are two temples – one, we’ve just seen, the famous Varadaraja Perumal temple. The other is the less famous but more stunning Vaikunta Perumal temple. Vaikuntaperumal Swamy tirukoil, though a mouthful to pronounce, is what one could call a petite beauty. Shapes and sculptures and little delights of architectural miracles. Sandstone pillars on red brick and granite floors, this temple wows even the most history proof cynic.

Every wall, every surface is littered with bas-relief depictions of different gods and god men and saints and sinners. Jain Thirthankaras coexist with Chinese travellers on panel after panel of sculptures. And to top it all, sunlight filtering in through coconut trees and cobwebs to paint a scene out of Salvador Dali’s brain.

One bas-relief panel depicts the visit of a Chinese visitor – some say Heun Tsang – to the court of the Pallavas. The Chinese visitor is etched in glorious detail – long oval face, thin moustache and carrying a staff.

Prosaic matters – such as lunch – press upon the hero. Big town Tamil Nadu has all that a hungry tourist wants. Vegetarian chain-restaurants that serve with a quiet efficiency bordering on assembly-line indifference and small mom-and-pop stores, more holes in the wall, that take you into the fold and treat you with a deference kings once monopolised.

Dispensed with lunch, the hero hunts for the Pallavar Medu. In the town main around the area alleged to be the Pallava palace, are just bunches of huts and an old crumbling wall caked with cow-dung. Locals call it Pali Modu. It is nothing like the palace one imagines, but the locals tell you that Pali Modu is but a corruption of Pallavar Medu.

A boy playing marbles offers to show other parts of the palace. The two walk over thorn bushes and open drains to reach the palace, or what is left of its third storey. Crawling through garbage and dead rats and human excrement to reach a small hole that used to be a room at some time in the past. Arched entrance buried in dirt but conjuring visions of what this palace once must have been and what it can be if only the layers of dirt and thicker, deeper layers of time are peeled away.

The hero tries to crawl through a tunnel, but realises that the hole is no bigger than his head, which is smaller than the rest of his body. A derelict ruin is no fate for the palace that housed one of the strongest dynasties. But that is the way the cookie, and this particular wall, crumbles.
--

Originally published (with minor edits) in Windows & Aisles, July 2008

2007-12-04T16:45:00.001+05:30

Model: Devika Raman

2007-12-04T16:41:00.001+05:30

Model: Katie Lynn Malone

2007-12-04T16:38:00.000+05:30

Model: Rachel

2007-12-04T16:34:00.000+05:30

Model: Sharanya Manivannan

2007-12-04T16:32:00.002+05:30

Model: Sajith C.P

2007-12-04T16:23:00.001+05:30

Model: Katie Lynn Malone

2007-12-04T16:21:00.001+05:30

2007-12-04T16:19:00.000+05:30

2007-12-04T16:14:00.000+05:30

2007-12-04T16:06:00.001+05:30

2007-12-04T16:01:00.010+05:30

2007-12-03T13:59:00.002+05:30

Title: Ancient Light

Genre: Documentary, short (for upload to web)

Writer: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Director: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Camera & Sound: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Editor: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Producer: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan, for Ancient Light/Univerisity of Bristol

For more information on the Ancient Light project, visit Ancient Light on Facebook

2007-12-03T13:53:00.002+05:30

Title: The First Thousand Yards

Genre: Documentary, short (3 mins)

Writer: Leanne Bayliss

Director: Ros Evans

Camera: Devika Raman

Sound: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Editors: Leanne Bayliss & Ros Evans

Producer: Leanne Bayliss, for University of Bristol

2007-12-03T13:43:00.002+05:30

Title: A River runs under it

Genre: Documentary, short (~9 mins)

Writer: Eleanor Ware

Director: Eleanor Ware

Camera & Sound: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan, Philip Perrin, Rhodri Davies & Ros Evans

Editor: Eleanor Ware

Producer: Eleanor Ware, for University of Bristol

2007-12-03T13:35:00.003+05:30

Title: In Search of the Saxons

Genre: Documentary, short (12 mins)

Writer: Rhodri Davies

Director: Rhodri Davies

Camera: Rhodri Davies and Ros Evans

Additional Camera: Leanne Bayliss, Liam Powell

Sound: Ros Evans and Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Editors: Rhodri Davies and Karen Wood

Producer: Rhodri Davies, for University of Bristol

2007-12-03T13:21:00.005+05:30

Title: Building in Conflict

Genre: Documentary, short (13 mins)

Writer: Devika Raman

Director: Devika Raman

Main Camera: Eleanor Ware, Katie Lynn Malone, Ros Evans

Additional Camera: Devika Raman and Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Sound: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan (assisted by Dale Clawson)

Editor: Devika Raman

Producer: Devika Raman, for University of Bristol

2007-12-03T13:10:00.006+05:30

Title: Viking Venture

Genre: Documentary, short (13 mins)

Writer: Katie Lynn Malone

Director: Katie Lynn Malone

Camera: Devika Raman & Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Sound: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan (assisted by Dale Clawson)

Editor: Katie Lynn Malone

Producer: Katie Lynn Malone, for University of Bristol

2007-03-25T01:44:00.000+05:30

Agency: FCb Ulka/Interface
Art Direction: Pratheeb Ravi
Copy: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

A note: VLCC is a slimming/beauty clinic

2007-03-25T01:39:00.000+05:30

Agency: Euro RSCG, Chennai
Creative Director: Sanjoy Datta
Art Director: KN Balakrishnan
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: HDFC Bank

2007-03-24T04:52:00.000+05:30

Agency: Interface/FCB Ulka
Creative Director: Suresh Kailaash
Art Director: Jairam D
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: Club Mahindra Holidays

2007-03-24T04:00:00.000+05:30

Agency: Interface/FCB Ulka
Creative Director: Suresh Kailaash
Art Director: Pratheeb Ravi
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: Frizz Da Salon

(Featured on Ads of the World.com, from where it made the rounds as an email forward.)

2007-03-24T03:54:00.000+05:30

Agency: FCB Ulka/Interface
Art Direction: Pratheeb Ravi
Copy: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

2007-03-24T03:19:00.000+05:30

A note: The government of India, in 2002, mandated that all edible products manufacturers classify their products as Vegetarian or Non-vegetarian. This was to be done using, respectively, a green circle inside a green square, and red circle inside a red square. This poster was made at around the same time the rule came into effect.

2007-03-24T03:07:00.000+05:30

Agency: Interface/FCB Ulka
Creative Director: Suresh Kailaash
Art Directors: Pratheeb Ravi
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: Citizen's Action Group

2007-03-24T03:00:00.000+05:30

Agency: Interface/FCB Ulka
Creative Director: Suresh Kailaash
Art Directors: Pratheeb Ravi
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: Citizen's Action Group

2007-03-24T02:48:00.001+05:30

Agency: Interface/FCB Ulka
Creative Director: Suresh Kailaash
Art Director: Jairam D
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: Mahindra & Mahindra - Bolero

2007-03-24T02:44:00.001+05:30

Agency: Interface/FCB Ulka
Creative Director: Suresh Kailaash
Art Director: Jairam D
Copywriter: Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan

Client: Mahindra & Mahindra - Bolero

2007-03-24T02:01:00.000+05:30