I didn't know that you could miss a town like you miss your beloved: her scent, her voice, her hair, the texture of her skin, the contours of her body, the things she says and the things she doesn't. Yes, I am lovesick and I have left my dearest far behind me on the other side of the world.
Pondicherry, my love, how I miss being jolted out of my sleep at ungodly hours by the crowing of roosters, then drifting back to sleep again, before being gently teased awake by the mouth-watering aroma of crisp dosas and spicy chutneys wafting in through the open window; starting my scooter in the morning and riding out to the chai-shop with the breeze in my hair, the chai-master making me a cup of delicious, piping hot tea with kammi shakkara (less sugar) and the group of regulars, men mostly, tolerating my presence in their midst; Laxmi, the temple elephant, sashaying down the wide, paved streets towards the Ganesh temple, her enormous bottom moving from side to side, keeping time with the bells jingling around her neck; troops of school girls and boys streaming out of ugly, boxy buildings, giggling, chatting and merrily blocking the honking auto-rickshaws and motorbikes; biryani-sellers ladling out yellow rice with chunks of chicken from enormous black-bottomed pans, a dollop of fiery gravy, a scoop of chopped onions in yoghurt and presto another packet is ready for take-away; the long hot afternoons with dogs snoozing in shady corners, the sky a pitiless blue and the harsh cawing of crows shattering the drowsy silence; then come evening, a leisurely stroll down the beach road, the sky streaked with violets and pinks, the sweat dried by the cool breeze of the sea, stopping to say hello to friends and acquaintances, buying boiled peanuts sprinkled with salt and chilly powder and topped with thin slices of raw mangoes till night falls and the street lamps are lit.
I know these are cliches. But far from my country I am like the tourist who
only remembers the droll, the colorful, the touching, and whose memory has
drawn a curtain over all that is dingy and unpleasant.Yet it was not always thus. In fact, when I first
came to Pondy to study in 1979 from Bengal, I found it strange and disorienting
after my childhood in Berhampore; an old town on the banks of the Ganges. Here,
big crumbling houses and mossy terraces were packed in narrow, winding streets
where men, cows, and rickshaws jostled with each other. Black-faced monkeys
jumped from one terrace to another, swung dangerously from electric cables and
sneaked into kitchens to steal food. In the evening, the acrid smoke rising
from mud ovens caught at our throats and made our eyes water, while from all
around the sound of conches being blown for the evening pooja rose in the air.
Pondicherry of wide streets, colonial houses with flowering gardens, and cyclists pedalling sedately down the road seemed too empty, too orderly, too impersonal. So it was over years that we fitted into each other; like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which do not initially go together, but whose contours have been smoothened by time and effort into the shape required. And now after thirty long years I have moved again, abandoned my love, wooed and won over with difficulty, for a new country, a new town. Perhaps it was time, because like an old couple we had grown too used to each other or, perhaps, it is I who had got jaded and let myself slip into a comfortable but uninspiring routine. So when, because of diverse circumstances, I had the option to move, move I did with a mixture of sadness and excitement, encouraged by the words of an acquaintance who said, “What? You have lived for thirty years in Pondicherry! You can move now because she will always be there in your heart.”
And from the South of India here I am in the South of France learning to adjust and appreciate another culture, another place, learning to make place in my heart and mind for new experiences. But to my delight I find that Pondicherry, Berhampore, India like strains of a favourite melody keep weaving in and out of my life, through chance encounters: a Bengali tabla player tucked away in a remote village near the Pyrenees; a Tamil bio-chemist from Ooty working as a researcher in Narbonne; a Delhiite come to present her publishing house in a literary event; through documentaries, festivals, songs, through updates on Facebook telling me, “it’s terribly hot in Pondicherry and even hotter in Chennai.”
Arunima Choudhury
