Is it just my generation that puts Pondicherry in the pantheon of romantic Indian cities like Calcutta, Chittagong, Rawlpindi and Madras? Visions of steamy, crowded metropoli, plague and pestilence lurking in every puddle, steeped in colonialism with aromas with aromas and flavours of curry houses and teashops.
Maybe not.
Pondi is less familiar to us because it was one of the few slivers of India that was French. In fact, it had swapped ownership between Bulldog and Cockerel as oft as Burgundy, but at independence in 1947 it was French, and remained that way until ceded to India in 1954, albeit not ratified by the French Parliament until 1963. The year you will recall, that sexual intercourse was invented: ‘between the Chatterley Trial and the Beatles first LP’; recently enough for it to retains much of its Frenchness. You can get a half decent baguette and our driver Veejay insisted that it was still Macron not Modi who was in charge!
The historic city is divided by a canal, (which in Victorian etchings is an elegantly balustered waterway) but is now a stinky sewer, whose oily surface is only punctured by dead bicycles. To the east facing the Gulf of Bengal was White Town, to the west Black Town, self-explanatory inappropriate epithets, that surprisingly persist with no demographic underpinning. Not surprisingly the lustre of White Town is now somewhat faded – it is India after all – but the wide streets, French names and elegant colonial style buildings make the demarcation simple for the tourist. Surprisingly many French offices and institutions still cling on, behaving like the Brits in a Paul Scott novel. When last here there were still a surprising number of ex-Foreign Legionnaires who received their French military pensions via a special office in the city, a meagre soldier’s pension going much further in Tamil Nadu than in Lyon or Lille, but there can’t be many of them left now, even from the Algerian war. But the Francophone remnants perhaps explain it is so popular with French tourists. (Perhaps like a Brit visiting Gibraltar rather than Seville?)
Actually, there is not that much to see in touristic terms – no World Heritage temples or natural wonders. A l lot of what one does is what one might do in Antibes or Le Touquet; sit in a nice café, eat some authentic food and go shopping. But it is charming, with all the joys of southern Indian climate, delicious food and happy smiley people, along with a little bit of je ne sais quoi. Perhaps a remnant of French culture or self-belief, or maybe the people who end up here, but it is a fun destination, and the town was bulging with tourists and the hotels were full.
One of the reasons why people come (or certainly used to) is to visit the Ashram of Aurobindo. The phenomenon of this institution passed a lot of us by in the UK, especially if you are under seventy and were never a hemp smoking child of the sixties. While Brits were traipsing to Nepal and seeking Gurus and the Maharishi, the French were drawn to their patch and the cult of Sri Aurobindo and Mir Alfassa (The Mother). They were both charismatic and remarkable people, who attracted multitudes to their vision of peace and harmony, garnished with yoga, meditation and a humble lifestyle. The Ashram was successful and perversely became very rich. The foundation was able to buy up multiple properties across Pondi. The empire grew.
In 1968 The Mother founded Auroville which was to be a new city based on love and togetherness to be built on a patch of wasteland 10 miles north of Pondi. One hundred and twenty-four nations attended the opening ceremony each bringing a handful of soil, symbolic of multinational unity. Aurobondi himself died (sorry, ‘left his body’) in 1950 so it was very much The Mother who was the driving force for this vision of a city community that ‘belonged to nobody, bridged the past and future and was to be a place of unending education’ . . .
We visited a few years back and weren’t aware when we had entered it nor when we left. It is mostly scrubby bush with just a few houses. The one part that does have a presence is the Matrimandir, a kitsch golden dome that houses a tranquil space of white marble where visitors were supposed to ‘find their own consciousness’. Ahem, yes well.
But we have reason to remember the trip for another reason; the extraordinary tale of our guide for the day. He was a quietly spoken thirty something from Mumbai, good looking in a clean-living Hindu way; loafers, blue chinos, white shirt and small handbag purse as I recall. He was a helpful and informed guide for just the two of us, not overly didactic and ready to move at our pace not his. I think that Caro might have asked him a couple of questions about his life – she usually does to people she knows much less well than tour guides! – and I guess he answered, but I don’t think it was in response to a question that started him talking more openly, and what he told us was frankly terrible.
He came from a perfectly ordinary middle-class family – you know the Indian way hard work and any kind of status you can grab, along with never turning down an opportunity to make even a single rupee. Can’t remember the details. He had gone off to college and had fallen in love with a nice girl in his class. They did well, got decent jobs and decided to marry, but you guessed it, she was Muslim and for both their families that mattered. Both lovers got their ultimatums: call it off or we disown you. They went ahead in secret. His family found out and cut him off completely. Her family didn’t find out for a bit but then they did. It was big trouble. He got a phone call from one of her girlfriends warning him that honour was at stake. When he got home, she had gone. Further calls warned him to leave town as his life was at risk. He fled, balancing his own safety with trying to find his wife. He found small jobs here and there, ending up as a guide at Auroville – the wannabee epicentre of peace and love.
He had told the story in a very factual manner not embellishing or emoting. He was now sure his wife was dead. He was a nobody. To return home to try to reconnect with the family would bring him back on a radar screen he feared greatly. He wandered in a tragic Greek limbo. Then he said something rather strange; that he had never told his story to anyone else. We didn’t know how to respond or what he wanted. I think we muttered sympathies and gave him a hefty tip but there was little else we could do, nor it seemed that he wanted us to do. Throughout he had been sincere and objective. We felt terrible.
And that was that.
The next day a trip somewhere else – another temple, another perfect masala dosai. Then two days later we were in a hotel in Tanjavur, chatting to a nice couple comparing notes on our itineraries. Pondicherry? Tick. Auroville? Tick. ‘
Tell you what though’ the woman said, ‘we had this extraordinary guide in Auroville. He told us this terrible story …..’
‘Did he say he hadn’t told anyone else?’ I asked.
‘Yup.’
So, what did it all mean? Probably the whole saga was make-believe. Or not. Just the bit about not telling anyone else.
So that’s Auroville for you. A throwback to that naïve but tantalising world where an intellectual yogi and his devoted acolyte could change the world by building Arcadia on a piece of wasteland in Tamil Nadu. . . The city was going to be home to 50,000 folk. At last count sixty years on, the population was 2,800.
But Pondicherry is worth the trouble, a buzzing city, with memorable architecture, hip culture and a French accent.
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