In the darkness, a street that runs between two French style
buildings, I see stars shining. For a moment I confuse it with the sky over the
sea, studded with stars that I have just seen before entering into this street.
But these stars have a voice. They talk in Tamil. As the glitters of these
earthly stars come closer to me I realize that they are women from the locality
going to the Promenade for an evening stroll. As they cross us, they speak in
musical tones pepped up with giggles. Their dark complexion merges with the
darkness in the street. The main street famously lit by neon lights. They have
pushed all the darkness into these by-lanes. I remember the women in the works
of Laxma Goud, Totta Vaikuntham and Ravinder Reddy. They too are like these
women with dark complexion and jasmine flowers on their hairs. Reddy has
improvised the dark complexion into gold. Gold can reflect darkness in a deeper
sheen. I feel Pondicherry in this darkness, the dark complexion of these women
and their clothes with glittering sequins stitched on to them.
We come to Pondicherry by a Pondicherry Road Transport
Corporation bus. Madan, our beloved driver takes us to the bus stop, waits till
the bus comes and puts us into the bus. The bus is more or less empty but the
design of the bus is poor. The luggage carrier inside the bus cannot take
suitcases and big bags. So I push the bags in between the seats. The conductor
gives me tickets and charges extra for the luggage but that amount is not
mentioned in the electronically produced ticket. I understand the kind of extra
bucks that the conductor and driver make in these trips. That’s an extra
income. They must be justifying their act by citing the inflation of prices in
the market. They too have families to run and their salaries are not enough.
Corruption is justified by a humanitarian plea. We keep speaking about it.
Corruption is everywhere, right from the top to the bottom. A policeman pays a
few lakhs of rupees to get a posting. And he extorts the money from the poor
bike riders. A doctor spends so much money to get his degree. So he does not
feel the pinch to pilfer patients. Every form of corruption has a karmic
justice in our country. So I don’t feel bad when the auto driver at the
Pondicherry bus stand asks me for hundred rupees to drop us at the hotel which
is hardly five minutes ride from there.
(Interior of the bus)
Tourism industry thrives in corruption and looting.
Pondicherry is no different, I realise. Tourists are the kind of people who are
in a mood to reach a destination. They are like addicts who look for some
drugs. They need to get to the destination and that is where the high lies. So
they are ready to pay for the amounts of money. Besides, tourism happens on the
basis of ignorance. Even if you do your adequate homework before you set out,
the ground realities must be different. Tourism guides and researched books give
you a good picture; a picture perfect scenario, where people behave well and
charge exactly what is shown in the meter. But the moment you get down at a new
place you understand that you and your service provider speak two different languages.
It is not about the language that we speak. It is about the meaning that we
communicate. Business has only one language that is the language of profit. So
they speak to you to make profit and you understand the need of the situation
and you pay up.
You may recognize a place where tourism is flourishing not
because of the attractions that the place provides. May be a few years back
things were not like this, you think. Tourism makes all the differences to a
people. Tourism brings people for shorter stays. So there springs up hotels.
Hotels are the places where you stay and call your home for a few days. You
tend to look for good eateries around because you want to enjoy local food. You
walk along streets after streets and find no food joints except the generic
ones with brands. They provide you with Indian, continental, Chinese, Taiwanese
and so on. But you are looking for a local hotel where you could have some food
with the local ambience. And the moment you find none, you understand that this
place has advanced much ahead in tourism because when tourism flourishes they
kill the local shops. They convert the local shops into ethnic stalls and push
them into the certified zones of big hotels. You need to pay through your nose
to eat local food. I realize Pondicherry despite the presence of the spirits of
Aurobindo and Mother, has become just another tourist centre.
( A Nehru Statue at Pondy Beach)
I look at the menu of the eateries that we have visited.
They all have exotic names for the food items. Mostly they are local names so
that they sound French and Latin to the people who are unfamiliar with the
language. They give English translation in the bracket so that you get an idea
of what you are ordering. Pondicherry is at the shore of Bay of Bengal. There
is a thriving fishing industry. And you don’t find proper fish dish here
despite the fact that I have seen several local fish market here. The stewards
explain the menu. These fish preparations are available in Delhi or Mumbai or
anywhere. When they prepare it and bring, they don’t look like fish. They look
like French fries or baked bread pieces. I wonder why can’t they cook fish the
fish is cooked. Why do they disfigure it and make it look like battered bread.
I think of tapioca dishes in Kerala. There was a time it was considered to be
poor man’s food. But it was eaten by the rich and poor alike. But today you go
to a Kerala hotel, they ask whether we need a special tapioca dish. If you
order they charge you a bomb. Tapioca has become a part of tourism the way
Ayurveda and Kathakali have become.
On the day of arrival we go to walk at the Promenade. The
place looks like a Juhu or Chowpati in Mumbai. The whole walk way is designed
the way Marine Drive in Mumbai is designed. Impatient waves try to break
through the girdles of rocks. Patient people sit and watch them in awe. Women,
men and children in rags sell toys and balloons. There is no dearth of beggars
who are mostly old. The initial reaction is a sort of dejection. I had a
different picture of Pondicherry in my mind. A Pondicherry of history books and
Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. But this Pondicherry looks different devoid of all
romantic hue. On my left I see a series of bungalows that have been now
converted into hotels and inns. And at the far end there is the Government
Secretariat. This must be one of the most beautiful places to govern from
because it is sea faced and there must be no need to have air conditioners as
sea breeze would waft through the windows. But there are air conditioners
because all the windows are fitted with glass panes allowing a silent view of
the sea devoid of its salt and breeze.
On the second day morning, as per the advice of the very
benevolent hotel manager, a woman full of energy and smile advices us to visit
the Aurobindo Ashram first because by twelve they would close the doors. We
walk to the place as it is a couple of streets away from the hotel where we
stay. This is the place where Aurobindo stayed and passed away when he decided
to make Pondicherry his home and ashram. This is a beautiful building. The shoe
keeper does not charge any money as it is run by Ashram. Most of the people see
around speak Bengali. They are very proud of their own Aurobindo Ghose.
Photography is not allowed. But they don’t confiscate cameras. You enter the
building and walk towards your right, that’s how they direct you. And you are
asked to keep strict silence. The campus is full of flowers so beautifully
kept. A gardener’s aesthetics is very visible here. At the other end there is
Aurobindo Samadhi, where Aurobindo’s mortal remains are buried. It has a marble
plank raised to three feet from the floor and is covered with flowers. People
sit around in silence. Some people keep their forehead at the marble as if they
were paying tribute to a sufi peer as seen in Mosques. People have created
their rituals by replicating what they do in other religious places. I find it
extremely funny. I just walk around thinking of Aurobindo himself thinking
about such rituals taking place at his tomb. The eventual unavoidable
institutionalization has taken place here too.
From the shrine you are led to the publication wing of the
Ashram, where you find all Aurobindo and Mother literature. People browse
through the books as if they were doing real research. For a moment I think I
need to read all those books. Then the second thought is that I need to read
any of them. I know what they are saying. What I don’t know is the finer
details. I just need to learn them later when the time comes. So I buy four
small books; Aurobindo’s Jain diary, Aurobindo and Mother’s views on education,
their views on Women and one Jail Diary of Ratin Ghosh, Aurobindo’s brother who
too was jailed for nationalistic acts in early 20th century. Why
Jail diaries, you may ask. May be this is my interest in secluded life. It was
in Jail Jawarlal Nehru wrote his Magnum Opus, the Discovery of India. It was in
Jail Gandhiji wrote his best of communications. It was in Jail Nelson Mandela
wrote the ‘Long Walk to Freedom’. Jail has been a place of contemplation for
all those world leaders and spiritual people. My interest is only that. What
happens to a person when he is all alone. From the book shop I walk to another
section where the photographs are sold. I understand why they do not allow photography
inside Ashram. They monetize Ashram through selling souvenirs. But I feel that
if they allow photography the name and fame of the place would reach even to
the common man’s house. But then tourism is not meant for all the common men
and women.
(JML at Aurobindo Ashram)
Next destination is a few paces away. In a bungalow there is
the Pondicherry Museum. While walking towards it a Police van is hit by a
private car. The deafening thud sound alerts everyone. In a peaceful atmosphere
that accident looks like an odd thing to take place. The Policemen come out of
their Omni and walk hurriedly towards the car. I anticipate an altercation. But
nothing happens. But the car and the people are whisked away to a Police
station. Life goes on peacefully in a touristic way as if nothing has happened
like an accident. At the museum again photography is not allowed. This museum is
good as it shows the history of Pondicherry’s trade with Romans. The broken
vases hold history in all possible ways. Fossils are kept in array. A Corregeo
(Not Caravaggio) original , ‘Diane’ is in a state of deterioration thanks to
lack of conservation. A few rooms house the Governor General’s bed room,
furniture and art collections. There is no lavatory in the whole premise. I
wonder what the staff members must be doing when they need to attend nature’s
calls.
(Ferry to Choonambra Beach)
A silent driver who is incapacitated by ‘Tamil’ only
attitude and with a very evoking name like ‘Prabhakar’ but with no semblance to
the late Tamil Elam leader then takes us to Choonabra Beach. It is a salt water
lake, twenty odd kilometres from the city. You have to travel around fifteen
minutes by ferry to reach the beach. We reach and kids play in the water. I see
a lot of young men and women drinking beer and frolicking in water. One young
man was pulling his girl friend to the waves as if he were taking some kind of
revenge on her. I keep looking at them and I find that in his efforts to make
her drenched by sea water he does not spare any tenderness or love. Each time
she tries to run away from waves his mirth finds a new level. I see women in
full churidar kurtas taking bath in sea. They play in gay abandon. I wish we
too had decimated our obsession with female bodies. Women, when they are at
sea, are with their own selves. None tries to cover to protect their modesty. I
think if the sea calls they will walk into her womb leaving their male
companions to wonder what has just happened.
(At the Choonambra beach)
We have a late lunch at Anjappar, a hotel named after the
name of a pioneer chef of Pondicherry. The food is abysmally poor despite the
star ambience of the hotel. It reminds me of the abysmal analogies that some
writers use in their writings and conversations. I smile at the food and then
eat them. The fishes that swim around in the aquarium of the hotel silently
look at a piece of fried fish in a plate kept before my son. I eat in silence.
My daughter as usual throws more food around than the little amounts that she
eats. As stereotypical parents we fight over issues and eat morsels of anger
along with food. Pondicherry is a place where anger is silenced by fatigue and
hopes of Auroville. What could be Auroville telling me? I am coming.
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