A Day In Pondicherry, February 02

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Let me be clear on the matter of colonialism. It was and is a bad exercise in imperial domination; on the other hand, I have heard it said by fervent nationalists of my acquaintance, that, if one had no choice and was going to face that woeful state anyway; then, have it done by the French. Pondicherry is testimony to that dictum of my nationalist friends. Some 55 or so years after the French left these parts, voluntarily, I am told, there remains a pleasant and un-hurried, not so little community, with such comforting élan, whose people are completely at ease in their own skin.

I started my day in a gym that opens at 06:00 hrs and serves tea and bottled water, big issue, with a dark Adonis to show the ropes to strays like me. After an hour of stretches, abs and treadmill, I felt I had offset some of my weak dietary decisions of the past few weeks; and joined Penelope for breakfast of omelet, ham, and pineapple, accompanied by watermelon juice.

Contented and feeling light, we set out on a leisurely stroll through the downtown main street. There were no crushing, harried crowds, pressing their way to work, even though people all seemed to be going somewhere; no ram-crammed buses with people riding the steps; no hustling, too attentive, rickshaw drivers, though they were around, with questioning glances to which a silent wave of demurral from us sufficed. Still on the casually busy main street, we took a quick peek into an ashram, place of meditation, set up in the nineteen twenties by the spiritual soul mate of an Indian wiseman, who, as the first person to outright call for independance, found it prudent to repair to these, even then, more tranquil environs, out of the reach of the British authorities. In partnership with her, a gentle French woman, he proceeded to offer, and leave to posterity, a full range of spiritual and secular ventures that have survived both their passings; and are in vogue to this day, engaging pilgrims and passers through from the world over. That set up our next down stop, a paper factory cooperative, the first of their secular efforts that goes from pulp to paper of the finest quality, all processes conducted according to environmentally sound practices.

Then we turned off the main street onto Quai de Gingy, took a calculated left on to Rue Bellcombe; and we were into a laid back Ponde neighbourhood. On discreet display was a sign, urging that we all “give time a break”, just at the intersection of Rue Lally Tollendal et Avenue Saint Louis, where a riot of bougainvilleas in orange, pink, crimson, and scarlet, sprinkled with cream, hung delicately over a corrugated iron structure, growing a white painted fleur de lis atop. We no sooner looked up from this delightful sight, and the Bay of Bengal made its dazzling Pondicherry appearance, carrying on its beach front, for a kilometer, The Ashram At The Bay, one of the pearls for enhanced meditation, left by the Indian sage, Aurobindo Ghose, and his partner in spiritual endeavour, Mirra Alfassa.

This curve of the Bay arcs on for about another 2.5 kilometres, with a promenade for strolling, kindly provided by the Union Territory of Pondicherry, this is not a State. This promenade is home to the French Consulate, Tricoleur gently dipping to the breeze; the Secretariat of the Union Territiry; a Homeopathic Clinic and Research Centre; the Ponde branch of The Study Schools; a Specialty Cardiac Clinic, what a place for a heart on the mend; two small, low rise 5 star hotels; and a few other institutional buildings, including the office of the Additional Deputy Superintendent of Police, with guards wearing the distinctive, ceremonial, red cylindrical head gear of French constabulary.

A pausa is de rigueur in Ponde, between noon and three. Many people go to the park and take a nap. Getting partially into the mood, Penny and I took refuge in the bar of a 5 Star and had wine, cashew nuts and gazpacho. After people, with some reluctance, began moving again, we got some chores done. From our list, we struck off a pen knife to open wine and beer, the transferring of Penny’s pictures from memory stick to disc, replenishment of my stock of notepads. While engaged in all of this, I found what looked like a dead man in the deserted corridor, outside a washroom I was given permission to use, only to be told, when I reported, he was merely asleep. Not to be outdone, Penny stopped cold when, upon earnestly asking a young lady at a store how to say thanks in the Tamil language, she got the answer : “Thank-you”.

We ended our day long stroll at a Hindu temple in our neighbourhood, where, since this was a small one, not on the tourist route, we were kindly invited in by the adherents, doing their routine daily devotions, to join them on their way around from deity to deityand around each deity. Very poignant. The temple is dedicated to Vishnu, who plays the role of Preserver in the Trinity, complemented by Rhama, the Creator and Siva, the Destroyer. We were offered gifts of fruit at the altar for
Vishnu's wife Lakshmi, who bestows Prosperity to deserving supplicants.

Tomorrow is a day visiting the Township of Auroville, just outside Pondicherry in the State of Tamil Nadu, founded by Mirra Alfassa, sometime after the passing of Aurobindo Ghose.

Vernon

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