Early Saturday morning on June 23 I fly to Chennai, where a white Ambassador cab is waiting to drive me the 3.5 hours south to the seaside town of Pondicherry. It's a very indulgent way to travel and though I cannot pat myself on the back for taking the bus, I compensate with the fact that the Ambassador, however much a symbol of leisure and class, is not outfitted with AC.
So with windows rolled down, trusty driver Ganesh (elephant god, remover of obstacles) weaves down the coast, dodging the autorickshaws and buses, the family-laden scooters and compact trucks, and by 11:30am I am safely at Patricia Guest House, whose architecture and languid tropical atmosphere whisper 'colonial' in my ears.
But inspite of this, more likely because of this, I love it.
I am tempted to spend the afternoon sitting on the balcony, drinking chai and reading my book, but Monday to Friday of non-engagement is sufficent; it is time to brave India. I don't know why I am so hesitant to walk around. When I am in the car, all I want is for the car to stop so I can get out and live - not drive past life in muted comfort.But I don't like being stared at. And I don't like that I want to stare. And most of all, I don't like that I don't let myself stare as much as I'd like to. I could never be a good photographer. Think of all those award-winning national geographic snaps of emaciated women in Nepal and child labourers in Cambodia. As much as I want to, I can't bring myself to document, to make spectacle or art of what I see. Not for ethical reasons, but rather because of the discomfort the act would cause me, i.e. my projection of what the subject/onlookers would think (of me) were I to take out my camera for a closeup of the baby, sitting naked (but for a little metal shield covering its loin) on a pile of sand beside a dumpster, sand which he is bringing to his mouth and licking from his fingers.
So I stick to the rather innocuous photography of monuments, paper (very cool paper factory in Pondicherry) and the occasional passerby.
It retrospect, it seems that the India I experience from the window of a car is somehow more real because it is unobstructed by my presence. When out and about I inevitably experience people's reaction to me, and to such an extent that I begin to feel like the tourist attraction. Right by the Ghandi statue (above), it is me a group of Indians (obviously visiting Pondicherry as well) ask to take a picture of! Of course, I oblige...
Other Pondicherry highlights:
-Indian milk sweets (yum)
-children tend to wave excitedly at me and smile broadly (the younger ones shyly) when I wave back
-French breakfast (croissant/baguette/jam) with fresh mango juice at the guest house (double yum...and none of it tasted like curry!)
-The market (a few pictures of the rotting produce and suddenly everyone wants in on the photo shoot! So I take loads of pics, delete the ones they don't like, take some more upon their insistence...wonder if this happens all the time?)
On Sunday, I go to Auroville on a colleague's suggestion; fascinating little town with a unique charter all about the unity of humanity and not belonging to any nation but rather to truth. Started by 'The Mother,' a Frenchwoman who settled in Pondicherry and ran the ashram with Sri Aurobindo. Auroville sustains itself in a very eco-friendly way, with residents producing clothes/edibles/pottery/candles, running schools, working to regenerate the local vegetation and repopulate the area with indigenous wildlife, and dining in a common hall called the Solar Kitchen. Sounds just like a kibbutz, except for the big gold epcot ball (Matrimandir) in the centre (also known as the town's soul). There's a massive crystal inside, light shines through the crystal and pulsates throughout the town, which was planned to resemble a galaxy. Sadly, visitors are not allowed inside the gold ball - probably because cynics like me would wreck the vibe. Anyhow, the grey urn to the front and right of the Matrimandir apparently contains soil from 124 countries - nice earthy touch.
Next stop: Mamapalluram, home to weather beaten shore temple and a great many 4000 yr old Hindu rock carvings, all buried under sand until they were uncovered by the British. The carvings are beautiful, but I like best the naturally balancing rock that even elephants have not been able to topple. They call it 'the butter ball' because Krishna (9th incarnation of Vishnu) LOVES a pat of butter.
Happy in Hyderabad Sunday night, though I can't say it feels like home sweet home just yet.
