Ode to Pondicherry

Even when I visited Pondicherry four years ago, the quality of light and the color in this town remained as my main memory of the place. The light is extremely white with a bit of golden peach mixed in. This small city is on the ocean and there are trees here, but the light is like that of a desert, it feels so open and exposed. The colors feel very washed and sun-bleached, like neon pastels: turquoise, salmon, gold. My friend Milind told me that when he came to Pondicherry he could hardly open his eyes.

While riding my bicycle to Notre Dames des Anges church on Sunday mornings the light always felt gloriously soft and calm. The town would not have really woken up yet, so I got to savor everything in peace. I’d ride past the old colonial park full of twisted dark green trees and vines behind a fancy filigreed white gate. I’d pass thru ashram territory with fellow bike riders slowly working down the grey cobblestones, old ashramites in white shorts riding like they were still half asleep. I would ride past the vast rocky promenade along the Bay of Bengal, the sea and sky a bleached, muted shade of blue that must be the result of a landscape that is never overcast, save for the monsoon months.

Many tourists I’ve met who came to Pondicherry came during the months of December, January and February when the climate is most agreeable thought Pondy was a bit chaotic. Yes, during high tourist season and during the peak times of the day, this town can be nuts, especially the French-colonial strip along the ocean. But May-November this place has an eerie calm and peace to it, and if you got up early enough to beat the heat, it was a paradise.

I have many of those keep-in-a-music-box memories from Pondy, they’re sort of like little poems. One monsoon morning I was standing under an overhang of a hole-in-the-wall business that made signs specializing in chiseling letters into granite. They also must have made other signs as well because the backings of letter stickers covered their stoop, a strange fallen confetti of negative and backward letters of Tamil and English. This particular morning from behind a cluttered counter came a sound that I had never heard before. It was a violin playing some startling notes just as a line of water buffalo walked past, their glistening black skin slicked with rain. I love the water buffalo of this town, elongated primal cows with spiraling horns, big doe eyes, and fuzzy whiskers. The babies are particularly fuzzy and cute. A herd of water buffalo would take up two lanes of traffic everyday at 5:45 to cross the main artery of town, buzzing with motorcycles. They would patiently wait for an opening as traffic built up behind them.

I remember riding my bike down this same main artery during a strangely calm time of day, and the smell of roses started coming up from the pavement. Sure enough, I was riding on a carpet of magenta rose petals that was left behind by a funeral procession. In a town where you are always dodging cow and dog shit on the pavement, this was an enchanting surprise. I will also always fondly remember the smell of fresh jasmine, a smell unlike any other, wafting from many a lady’s hair where they pin a garland daily. On a crowded bus, a lady will practically sit on top of you, but at least you get to savor the smell of her jasmine.

I will miss the chai stalls everywhere, huge battered aluminum pots brimming and bubbling. The chai wallah pours milky tea through cheesecloth strainers into tiny cups and serves it to men who sit on the stoop with a newspaper, lighting their cigarettes from a jute rope hanging with a smoldering end like incense. I’ll miss going to my neighbor’s house for coffee and dosas to sing Karnatic songs and play cards. I’ll miss all those crispy, spongey, cultured dosas with delicious chutneys. I’ll miss going to the beach with Meghan, Galen, Yenina and the kids to karate chop the forceful waves of the Indian Ocean. It was so salty it stung! We would laugh and jump through the waves full of exhilaration and pretend we were merlions, whatever those are, as the crazy sun beat down upon us. I will miss laying on my rooftop as the sunset, relaxing after a long school day, staring at the sky full of hawks, crows and bats. It was moments like these when I felt incredibly connected to the earth and my surroundings. It was so nurturing to be cradled in the curve of the sky.

Oh Pondy, you will always be a treasured home to me, it will be a beautiful day when I return to you!