Oui, Enakku Français Theriyum
“We travel, some of us forever, to seek other places, other lives, other souls.”
A grey-bearded Indian man in a kurta walks over to me and says something in French. Seeing my uncomprehending expression, he asks “Tu ne parles pas français?” or something along those lines. He’s an Indian. I’m an Indian. We’re in India. It is 2019. He reads the irony on my face and walks away, shaking his head. Strange man.
We’re in Pondicherry, and it is this Indo-French potpourri I’ve come here in search of. A picturesque seaside town, the smell of salt and camphor in the air, the heat and humidity of the South Indian sun, coconut palms and tamarind trees along its streets, the languid rhythm of everyday life one experiences when one gets away from the big cities, all served up with a distinctly French-Indian flair. India, gigantic sponge that she is, absorbs what comes her way and makes it her own. For millennia this land has been a magnet for travelers, pilgrims and conquerors. Sometimes they stayed, sometimes they didn’t, but whatever they left behind became part of the fabric of her heritage, her culture and way of life for those that call her home.
And so it is with Pondicherry. Until the second half of the 17th century, it was part of various kingdoms that in turn prospered and declined in this part of the country. Then the Europeans started arriving, drawn to India by the tales of gold and diamonds and silk and spices they had heard about and wanted to get their hands on. First, the Dutch, then the Portuguese, then the French. When the British arrived a few decades later, Pondicherry went back and forth like a baton as they fought the French for control of this little trading post on the Bay of Bengal. Wars were waged and treaties signed, and for better or for worse, Pondicherry remained a part of French India until the 1950s when it finally was incorporated into the Indian Union.
The colonial flavour has remained. White Town, as the French Quarter is called, is quaint and fascinating. Old colonial bungalows converted into heritage hotels, with pastel-coloured walls, magnificent hardwood doors and delicate wrought iron balustrades. Street signs in French and Tamil, ornate streetlamps, restaurants serving Gallic cuisine with Indian spice, policemen in red kepi hats, cafes that know how to brew a cup, patisseries, boulangeries, bookstores, souvenir shops, graffiti, afternoon siestas, Bohemian chic and Indian tradition, all in one package.
A picturesque seaside town, the smell of salt and camphor in the air, the heat and humidity of the South Indian sun, coconut palms and tamarind trees along its streets, the languid rhythm of everyday life one experiences when one gets away from the big cities, all served up with a distinctly French-Indian flair.
We’re staying in a charming old colonial bungalow that’s been converted into a heritage hotel. As I survey the beautiful hardwood furniture and look out through the swinging doors to the balcony overlooking the courtyard, I wonder who stayed in this room, what he did every day for a living, what his 18th century life was like. What would he think if he returned to Pondicherry today? We set off exploring the old part of town. It’s hot and humid, and I realise I haven’t packed enough clothes; in this weather I’m going to have to change three times a day. It’s late afternoon and the streets are quiet. I see a man slumbering on a bench under a street sign in French and Tamil. If this picture doesn’t say ‘sleepy old colonial town’, I don’t know what does.
Through the narrow streets, we work our way eastwards to the seafront. We find fishermen repairing their nets for the catch tomorrow. It is the beachfront promenade that everyone converges upon every evening. It is buzzing with street food stalls, cafés and restaurants, fruit vendors, students on a weekend break, tourists on holiday, couples on their honeymoon, pensioners catching up with friends, devotees from the nearby ashram, and visitors from all over India and beyond. It’s a great place for watching – and photographing – people.
We walk along the promenade towards the old pier to the south. An idea for a photograph starts forming in my mind. I need to think about it. Perhaps I’ll return to the pier tomorrow to try and make that picture. We stroll all the way to the north end of the promenade, past kids playing in the late afternoon sunshine and families enjoying a drink or a gelato, to the lighthouse at the other end. The sun is setting, and we take a break in a tree-shaded courtyard in a trendy café for some coffee and cake. Oh, this place is nice. It’s funny how in a country that grows good coffee it isn’t easy to find a perfectly brewed cup.
Over the next couple of days, we explore the town on foot, sampling delectable cuisine, drinking good wine and browsing through the local shops. In spite of all its colonial charm, there is something about Pondicherry that nags me just a tiny bit. It seems as if everything I’ve seen so far is made to cater to the tourist. It feels as if the real Pondicherry is hidden behind a scrubbed and sanitised veneer of something everyone wants to see. But is this the authentic Pondicherry experience? Maybe authenticity is relative, and the idea of authenticity itself, mutable. But where are the locals? What do they do? Where do they live? What do they eat?
I find the answer to my question across the tangible line that divides the French Quarter from the Tamil part of town; the distinction is so easy to see. Is this the real Pondicherry? It seems as if White Town is for the visitor and that it is here, on the Tamil side of the divide that the local Pondicherian lives, eats, goes to work or to school. We find a gem in a narrow street, serving authentic Pondicherry Tamil cuisine (i.e. not French influenced), and it is mouth-wateringly delicious. It is the best meal I’ve had in Pondicherry, by some distance. And I know that the next time I’m in town, I’ll be coming back here again.
I return to the pier that evening to compose the shot I had in mind. It is chaotic and the whole point of the shot is to remove the chaos, leaving only the barest elements and the passage of time. It’s part of a project I’ve written more about here and here, so I won’t go into the details. It takes me a few attempts before I have what I’m going for.
Two days fly by and they’re nowhere near enough to really explore Pondicherry properly. We don’t have enough time to visit the beaches and seaside communities to the north. Or the surrounding countryside, with its mangroves, rice paddies and ruins. Or the numerous churches, mosques and temples. Or the cafés and restaurants that are to be found on every street. Contrary to the advice offered by a few people, we decide to skip Auroville, that exclusive utopian enclave whose idea, purpose and relevance elude me.
But I will return to Pondicherry again someday. Hopefully in the not-too-distant future. I will come back to White Town, of course, but it is the area beyond the French Quarter that I want to explore. There is so much history, so much charm and so much beauty here, it is impossible not to want to come back for more.
