CH PONDICHERRY  November 2nd – 10th

Sisters of Cluny

Architecture: Le Rendezvous

Ashrams, Convents and Fireworks

Chitra and Prem

Auroville

Return Journey

Overall, this examining tour had been perfectly weighted in terms of our travelling. After the orientation exercise in Delhi, we had visited four centres in as many weeks, three of which, Shillong, Darjeeling and Kathmandu, were at altitude and all, including Calcutta, crossing a weekend therefore allowing enough time for sight-seeing. After a good deal of travelling and its inevitable rigours, it was satisfying to stay for a month in Chennai (especially as we had the unexpected change of hotel mid-way through). Now, on November 2nd, we were again on the road, literally. With the exception of the flight from Chennai to Bangalore, all our remaining inter-centre journeys were to be made by taxi. We had witnessed enough Indian driving to know that some divine intervention would be welcome to see us safely through the ordeal by Ambassador, so it seemed fitting that, for much of the time, we would now be in the hands of a succession of Catholic nuns, all of whom proved to be the ultimate in kindness and thoughtfulness.

            The first of these was the delightfully welcoming, ample, be-spectacled, white-habited and wide-smiling figure who now greeted us so warmly in the foyer of the Connemara. Sister Marissa had journeyed up from Pondicherry at the behest of the Trinity centre rep, Sister Judith, to escort us southwards in a taxi driven by a former pupil of the school that was to be our base – St. Mary of Cluny Convent.  Sr. Marissa clucked around us in a motherly fashion, ensuring that the luggage was stowed with great care, seeing us politely into the white Ambassador and then settling herself alongside the driver for the four-hour drive. She explained that Sister Judith would be giving final lessons to the candidates that day as well as making last minute arrangements at the school. For her part, she had brought a packed lunch for us since, the previous year, she and my colleague George Lee, had eaten at a cafe along the road and he had been very ill for the first couple of days – she was obviously determined I would be delivered fit and well.

            We left Chennai along the beach road and joined the East Coast Road that we had used with Sachin and Kishore for our excursions to Dakshinachitra and Mahabalipuram. Sr. Marissa pointed out various temples and landmarks and chatted amiably but not incessantly, asking about our family and our trip so far, allowing us to take in our final glimpses of the crowded, polluted glories that constitute Chennai suburbs. Before long we were taking the road which by-passed Mahabalipuram – to our left we could see the rocky temple area outlined against a sparkling blue sea. We passed through various small villages, crossed rivers, moved between endless coconut and oil palm plantations and rice fields, with Sr. Marissa offering information as the need arose. We saw a number of children outside  their schools and Pat asked if the school uniform changed from skirt and blouse to sari to indicate sixth-form status. Sr. M. explained that the sari was worn from puberty "for modesty" and was, of course, "a sign that the girl was of marriageable age". If her father found a suitable marriage partner, a girl would leave school, her education incomplete. I think this was the first time I realised that a Christian-based school (as most of these were) accepted/welcomed Hindu and Moslem children, making ecumenical allowances for their worshipping rituals, but in all other respects educating the youngsters together.

            Our driver was excellent, having no propensity to overtake on bends. At one point, we were a little uncomfortable about his speed, so I asked Sr. Marissa if we could travel a little more slowly "as there is so much to see". This request was acted upon and we proceeded at a stately 50kph, occasionally weaving past broken-down lorries with rocks from the roadside strategically placed (as "cones") around the vehicle by way of warning. This method was also used when village women had spread grain across a ten-yard stretch of one carriageway so that it could dry in the bright sunshine. The paddy fields seemed in various stages of cultivation. Some were being tended by brightly-coloured saried figures, bending almost double as they pushed the plants into the ankle deep water. “Women’s work” observed Sr. Marissa, “never done by men”. In others, bullocks were standing up to their fetlocks in the water, munching contentedly on leafy remains of the recently picked rice. Many of the fields were surrounded by small banks, on top of which had been planted a cactus-type bush that presumably acted as a hedge (or even, judging by the size of the spikes like a barbed-wire fence). The usual quota of dogs, pigs, goats, dozens of white egrets and, of course, cows shared the landscape with local villagers who continued their daily tasks with hardly a glance in the direction of inquisitive European eyes.

 We stopped for our picnic in the shade of some eucalyptus trees beside a bridge across the River Palar. Sr. Marissa unpacked a delicious lunch of vegetable quiche and chocolate pastry rolls that we washed down with lime juice (a convent speciality). Just opposite our picnic spot, there was a clutch of mud-walled, reed-thatched huts. The women and children sitting in groups were aware of my camera as I roved around taking shots of the river and flood plain. A bare-foot, bare-chested old man became a photo-opportunity – he walked slowly but deliberately on across the bridge having held out his hand for baksheesh after the photo. A friendly dog was obviously hunting for any scraps we might leave. Once we resumed our journey, there were so many other places we would have liked to stop but we were aware that Sister Judith would be expecting us by mid-afternoon and therefore resisted the temptation to ask the driver to pull over. I also realised that we would have to retrace this journey since we would be flying from Chennai to Bangalore so, for this second half of the drive, we made careful note of various photogenic features such as brightly painted horse statues outside one village, the amazing sight of the Kaliveli salt flats between Marakkanam and Kalapettai, and the Star Hair Salon sign above a mud and thatch hut in the latter village. These we could investigate the following week.

            We arrived at Pondy (as we soon got used to calling it) at 2.15pm and checked in to the Ananda Inn. Sr. Marissa took her leave explaining that Sr.Judith would be calling for us within the hour which gave us time to shower and change. As petite as Marissa was buxom, Sr. Judith had the same radiant smile, with bright, lively eyes shining from a most attractive face. She kissed Pat in greeting and glowed with pleasure as we talked about our journey and she told us something of her work in Pondy. She had been entering candidates for TCL exams for over twenty-six years, teaching piano principally but also some guitar, recorder and electronic keyboard. Over the years at the Cluny Convent, she had been able to build up her influence to the point at which a group of classrooms had been allocated to her as a music school. It was to this that she now whisked us off to meet all of the candidates (including some adults) for the five days of examining who were waiting in the courtyard outside of the music rooms. They all beamed nervously at me as I told them how keen I was to hear them play, that I wanted them to do well and therefore there was no reason to do anything other than, like me, to look forward to the exam. These are the only words suitable for the occasion but their resolute smiles did little to hide their obvious anxiety. I was presented with a beautiful bouquet, after which Sister Judith dismissed them and we were introduced to the Principal of the school, Sister Mary John, and Sr. Judith’s music-teaching colleague, Sister Lisa. A young woman in her twenties, Lisa had a very pretty face to match her engaging smile and attractive personality. Both of the latter sisters wore saffron-coloured saris rather than the more formal, “European” white habit of Srs. Judith and Marissa.

            Of all the towns and cities we visited on our tour, Pondicherry (which in the local Tamil language means "New Town") remains unique. It is really two towns. There is the usual characteristically colourful, chaotic "Indian" section, all noise, choked roads, wandering livestock and people. The other is the legacy of the French, who presided over the pocket-handkerchief colony from 1672 until 1954. About half a mile in from the shoreline and its wide promenade – Goubert Avenue or Beach Road are a couple of its many soubriquets – a smelly "canal" forms the dividing line from the "other India". Because my work lay in this French quarter – known as the White City – and because it was so very different from what we had seen before, we spent a good deal of our time admiring the handsome colonial villas of Rue Dumas, their pinks and yellows shining in the sun. The streets were clean and free of the general detritus so common everywhere else in India and with the local police wearing red peaked kepis as they directed traffic past immense Gothic churches, it was easy to feel we had been transported to Deauville or Biarritz. When the Indian government took Pondy back from the French, the two governments agreed that the residents could choose their nationality. We gathered that young people who chose to "become" French, were required, at the age of 20, to go to France to carry out what our informant called "National Service" in the medical profession, armed forces or in agriculture. After 15 years, they could return to India with a very comfortable pension for life so, as it was put to us, "there is plenty of money floating around in Pondy".

            The Sisters of Cluny arrived in Pondicherry at the end of the nineteenth century and a little way off-shore could be seen the sea-worn remains of the jetty at which they landed. The convent was in Rue Suffren and my further immersion in matters Gallic took place on my first day of examining. Several of the students attended the local Lycee and Sr. Judith told me that they would be happier if the exam could be conducted in French. Fortunately, since the questions were all pretty basic, I coped although I had to ask for responses to be "un peu lentement". The standard of preparation was generally high and the morning passed in a relaxed manner. More Frenchification followed at lunchtime when I discovered that a table had been booked for me at Le Rendezvous, next door. Being at the junction of Rues Suffren and La Bahabhur, the restaurant was light and airy and, unsurprisingly, its cuisine was predominantly French. The decor was a curious mixture, with Constable's Flatford Mill next to a Monarch of the Glen alongside a five-foot high Edwardian plant holder underneath a Hindu deity complete with lit candles. And the muzak was Beethoven's Leonora Overture No.3. The kitchen could be seen through the glass door at the far end and I counted five chefs with hats of differing sizes – was there a pecking order denoted by extent of hat, I wondered? If so, a tall European was in charge – he could not have left the kitchen except on his knees so high was the hat. When the four waiters were in the kitchen getting orders, the place resembled a station waiting room. The food, however, was excellent and I determined to return with Pat for dinner one evening.

            For her part, Pat spent that first full day adjusting to the Ananda. After the luxury of the Taj hotels in Chennai, the cheap furnishings and flowerless, statueless surroundings were hard to take. She organized "housekeeping" in the re-hooking of the curtains, in replacing a broken chair and having the marble floor-tiles washed. Since the hotel was in the Indian part of town, her camera was kept busy on the street life below – herds of cows wandering through the thoroughfares, unattended but presumably on automatic pilot for this daily ramble. At the hotel shop, she was engaged in conversation with the smooth-talking owner, fluent in English, French and Italian, who was anxious to tell her how many thousand rupees the Italian visitors had spent the previous evening. "But" he added "you see my face – it is smiling the same if you spend ten thousand rupees on jewellery or ten on a card!" Pat bought a card and moved on to her hair appointment in the hotel's Beauty Salon. This small room had a "staff" of two and, somewhat against her better judgement (and without fixing a price), Pat found herself agreeing to have a face massage. For forty minutes, to the accompaniment of an Indian soap blaring from the TV (at which the girls constantly giggled) she was creamed, soaked, pummelled and patted with alternating hot air and cool packs applied to her face, all the while, leaning back in a chair designed for one considerable shorter than she. After this, it was time for the masseuse to concentrate on the TV screen while the second girl gave a twenty-minute coconut-oil head massage before the wash and blow-dry. Back at the window of our room, and having paid Rp700 for a part-enjoyable experience, Pat was able to observe the road dust being whipped up by a fierce wind. It was just about then that, the appointed taxi not having arrived at the school, Sr. Judith was packing me into an autorickshaw, telling the driver I would pay "Rp10 and no more!" I had felt the storm approaching, as dust and rubbish were tossed into the air, the clouds darkened, people hurried along, heads down, shutters were closed and commuters made for bus stops rather than wave down the open-sided autos. I kept my hand over my eyes and Pat witnessed me just make the safety of the hotel foyer before the first mighty clap of thunder that preceded the late northeast monsoon downpour. From our 4th floor vantage point, the display of lightning was spectacular.

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            The next day, Pat came with me to the school and, once I began my work, Sr. Lisa took charge of her, helping her plan a route for her morning's walk. Within minutes, she had found Beach Road and was walking up past the statue of Joseph Dupleix, a Governor in the 1740s, to sit on the low wall of the Prom watching the breakers roll in from the Bay of Bengal. Even at nine in the morning, the sun was hot enough to necessitate brolly-as-parasole. The wide, well-surfaced and clean road had little traffic and walking here, on equally clear pavements, was a pleasure. The centrepiece of the Prom was a canopied twelve-foot-high statue of Mahatma Gandhi, with eight beautifully carved granite pillars supporting an elegant roof. These pillars reputedly came from an eighteenth century fort at Gingee, some fifty miles away. Even on a weekday, there seemed to be plenty of visitors disembarking at the small area opposite that served as a bus station. Many made straight for the statue to have group and family photos taken. The occasional auto-driver honked his gander-like hooter to attract Pat's attention but she was not pestered by them or by the one or two hawkers selling jewellery near Gandhi's feet. Small children were using the elegant ramps that led away from the base of the statue as improvised slides. One lad asked Pat for a pen and, when she obliged, he took it straight over to his baby sister – he probably asked every caucasian for a pen and had built up quite a collection.

            From here, turning her back to the sea, Pat walked past the statue of Jeanne d'Arc and the French War Memorial to find Government Square and Bharti Park (formerly Charles de Gaulle Square). The neat flower beds and tidy grass, tree-shaded, surrounded the central attraction – the Aayi Mandapam. This monument, with exquisitely carved pillars, was erected in memory of a devadesi – a temple dancer cum courtesan.  The 16th century story tells how Aayi demolished her house to build a tank (lake) at the whim of a passing Vijayanagar king. Three centuries later, Napoleon III's engineers took water from this lake to pipe into Pondicherry and the Emperor, charmed by the story, erected the monument to its creator.

            We met up for lunch and I was able to introduce Pat to the delights of Le Rendezvous. She agreed that it was strange to hear French being spoken by several of les patronnes. The rest of her afternoon had been planned by Sr. Judith, who had wondered if Pat and I would like to relax by the sea at the weekend. To this end, Pat was taken off by car with Martin, who turned out to be the manager of a "beach resort" called St. James' Court. Martin had taken TCL guitar exams and therefore knew Sister well enough to ask if the examiner's wife could size up his establishment as a possible alternative to the Ananda. They drove north along the Chennai road that, at one point was strewn with marigolds and frangipani, which told her that a funeral procession was ahead. They passed the mourners and the head-high bier just before turning off down a track to the sea. It did not take Pat long to realise that the venue needed a great deal of investment to turn the small, rather scruffy bungalows into attractive beach dwellings. The "patio" outside the very ordinary, characterless restaurant was no more than a slab of concrete with a tandoori shack in the corner. The actual location on a wide, palm-lined beach (on which cows were presently roaming) was superb but Pat had to report to Sr. Judith that, beyond all else, the place was too far out of town for an examiner who would want to enjoy the character and amenities of Pondy itself.

            By the time she had returned, my exams were completed and so Sr. Judith, who seemed not in the least put out by Pat's polite rejection of St. James' Court, was able to whisk us off to see some of the beautiful churches in the town. We began with her own church, at which she organizes the choir for services. Notre Dame de Anges was built in 1855 and modelled on the Basilica at Lourdes. The pastel and white stonework made the church as attractive outside as it was startling inside – the tableaux of Christ and his disciples were stunning. Sr. J. told us that, for Sunday morning's "English" mass, the church would be packed. She put us into a rickshaw instructing the driver (and organizing the price) so that we could see the equally impressive stained glass windows in the Church of the Sacred Heart and, in the last of the three on this whistle-stop tour, the ornate filigrees in the Immaculate Conception Cathedral.

            That evening we sampled the full menu at Le Rendezvous. We sat on the roof beneath a thatched canopy or pandal, amongst French conversation, tucking in to onion soup, garlic bread, moussaka and creme caramele/profiteroles. Le patron, a rotund Indian called Vincent Mathias, had learned his splendid culinary skills in, of all places, Liverpool. His musical tastes, too, were admirable. In this setting, Charles Trenet or an accordionist playing The Bridges of Paris would have been too much – the Chris Barber, Monty Sunshine and Kenny Ball tracks plus some Nina Simone and Duke Ellington suited us very well.

            Our journey back to the hotel was notable not just because, with no autos floating about at 10.30pm, we decided to take a cycle rickshaw (the first since Kathmandu) but because of Pat's discomfort at watching a painfully thin, elderly man straining at the pedals to transport his fares along the deserted streets. The doorman at the restaurant had said that Rp3 would be appropriate but I thought I would give him five (the smallest note). As we progressed slowly and, it seemed, agonizingly for him, Pat argued that this man deserved more than an auto driver (who would have charged Rp15). I suggested that we should pay the going rate, that an auto driver had to maintain his vehicle and put fuel into it etc. But by the time we reached the Ananda, Pat had worn me down so I gave the chap three Rp10 notes. He stared at this small fortune, became rather agitated and began handing me back the notes. I insisted that he kept the money and we left him very perplexed and bewildered. I suspect that he only dealt in small change and could even have been worried that his family/friends might think he had stolen the money. Perhaps he bought another rickshaw and started up a partnership, who knows!

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The following day, and as if to make up for her prevarication the night before, Pat, who was to join me for lunch, found herself haggling with a young auto driver outside the hotel. She refused to pay the Rp30 demanded, resolutely waving him away and marching off along the road. At this, a second driver called out that he would take her for Rp20 and pulled up alongside. No sooner had she deposited herself in the vehicle when the first lad ran over, abandoning his own auto, swung into the seat beside his friend and, with a great roar of laughter, the driver shot away at breakneck speed presumably to show off his skills and put the fear of Ganesh into Pat. In this he succeeded, as well as knocking into a cyclist and making several people jump out of his way. The incident reminded me of the wry observations entitled "Street Survival Tips" I had read in a local guide book:

·        The fundamental principle is "bigger rules smaller". Never forget that buses have right of way over cars, and cars over two-wheelers which in turn dominate pedestrians.

·        Anyone can abruptly stop, change lanes or make a U-turn on any road at any time

·        Drivers are only responsible for what happens straight ahead of them within a very limited peripheral vision. Traffic to the sides? Traffic behind? Not my affair!

·       No one removing a vehicle (including a bicycle) from a parking space is obliged to notice the passage of anyone or anything on the road behind.

And so on ...

However, Pat was safely delivered and we walked south along Beach Road to the Seagulls Restaurant where we sat on the veranda looking out between tall palm trees to the sea beyond, where the occasional small colourful fishing boat chugged by. We ate stuffed nan and drank 7Up whilst a photographer and themaitre d' loaded a table with enormous lobsters and tempting salads, all decorated with fresh flowers. The two, aided and abetted as always in India, by four or five staff who mostly watched but occasionally contributed, went to enormous pains to get everything in the most photogenic position We presumed the publicity shots would be used in a brochure and were about to leave when the owner came over and said "Excuse me sir, madam, would you be so kind as to sit in our meal photograph?" There was no time to negotiate a modelling fee so we obliged. What prospective clients would make of the sweaty, red-faced European pair, the man in collar and tie, the woman in T-shirt, beside this mountain of food I could not imagine.

            It is not possible to visit Pondy without becoming aware of the all-pervading Aurobindo Ashram[1]. For many westerners, the ashram is Pondy's principal attraction. It owns its own paper works and printing press, runs a school, a bank and post office as well as various shops, guest houses and a travel agency – something approaching 400 buildings in all, mostly within the French quarter. The ashram, which has 2,000 permanent residents plus hundreds of visitors at any one time, was established by Aurobindo Ghose, poet, educator, spiritual visionary and political revolutionary. Born in Calcutta in 1872, he was educated in England at St. Paul's and Cambridge. On returning to India, he became involved in the cause of Indian nationalism and independence and, in 1908, the British authorities threw him into jail for his seditious hectoring. Whilst in prison, his meditations brought him to the realization that his ideals were going beyond merely throwing off the shackles of colonialism and that he must work towards a new age of spiritual transfiguration and enlightenment.

            After his release from jail in 1910, he fled Calcutta and moved to Pondicherry founding the ashram to fulfil his life's work. His eventual collaborator was a Frenchwoman of Egyptian and Turkish parentage. Mirra Alfassa became known as "The Mother" and, when, in 1926, Aurobindo retreated into silent meditation, it was the Mother who became his mouthpiece and emissary. He died in 1950, she in 1973 (aged 95). Our first experience of the ashram at close quarters was when, at the end of the day's examining, Sr. Judith announced that the mother of one of my candidates would be arriving to take us out. I quickly established that the candidate in question had already taken her exam and we were handed over to the energetic, bubbly personality that was Chitra.

            Once in her car, Chitra kept up an illuminating running commentary on life in Pondy as we passed various landmarks. She also told us that her father had worked for Air India and the family had lived in Kew and Feltham, hence her excellent English. She attended Twickenham County School from 1968 to 1972 where she remembered being something of a celebrity, her friend Surekha and herself being "the only coloured girls in the school". The dinner ladies, she told us, used to make sure that "the poor little Indian girls ate up all their food".

            Since Chitra had connections with the administrative side of the ashram, she was able to take us to Rue St. Martin and we were shown into a courtyard of one of the buildings – all the ashram's properties are painted pearl-grey with white trim. Here, we found the Samadhi, the resting place of Aurobindo and the Mother. Shoes and socks were deposited at the gate and we were told that under no circumstance should we talk. The shrine itself, under a large copper pod tree, is the actual bed on which the Mother died although one could see only a mountain of fresh purple, orange and blue flowers. "Guardians" remain on permanent round-the-clock duty replacing dying flowers. Apart from these "officials", there were several ashramites standing or kneeling in meditation or prayer – others sat cross-legged on the ground. The silence, the smell of the flowers and incense, and the meditation of the devotees was a splendid antidote to the pressure of the day's work such that I found myself feeling more than a little sleepy. Chitra moved us on, however, pointing out the "uniform" the ashramites wear. For example, the different coloured shorts for women denoted their age group. The women also wore white headbands called "kitty caps" – rather like turbans. We saw several who were obviously on their way to the "tennis ground" – physical exercise is compulsory between four and six in the late afternoon and the Mother was particularly fond of tennis. People come from all over the world to live in the ashram. Children are born and brought up here or in Auroville which we were to visit later in our stay. Meat is eaten by the children but adults have to eat only vegetarian food, not so much for health reasons but as a sign of austerity – food should be regarded as a necessity in order to live and should not become a pleasurable aspect of life.

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Everyday in Pondy seemed to be full for both of us. I was not sure why Sr. Judith decided I should work on the Saturday and have the following Tuesday off in lieu, I only know that working that particular day felt hard – perhaps it was because it was the first (and only) time in the tour when the weekend had been used. But the exam conditions were good. With open doors and shutters, I could see into the courtyard and realise I was not in a prison when candidates were assaulting my ears by plodding painfully through the sight reading – so much less stressful than working in the windowless air-conditioned breeze-block studios of many South-East Asian centres. During the week, I had been treated, as in Chennai, to daily visits (to a nearby business) by a reversing lorry. This time the tune was London Bridge is Falling Down in B flat. But a bigger disturbance on this Saturday came from the firecrackers anticipating the Hindu Festival of Lights, Deepavali (Divali in the North), scheduled for the Sunday. This event marks the triumph of Good over Evil and manifests itself as a firework festival. We had been aware of the occasional "banger" throughout the week but the build up was now chaotic. Several times I had to repeat Ear Tests because many of the fireworks gave off a machine-gun simulation lasting ten to fifteen seconds.

            During the afternoon, Sr. Judith took Pat over to another part of the convent to meet Sr. Therese who was (and had been for many of her seventy plus years) in charge of the embroidery centre. This was housed in what was formerly the Hotel Lagranee de Meziere, a splendid building dating from 1774. Once inside the courtyard, steps led up past elegant colonial-style white columns and in a spacious, high-ceilinged atelier, twenty five to thirty women were sitting at tables, the brightness and variety of colour in their saris providing quite a spectacle even before Pat had taken in the beautiful work on which they were engaged. The sisters take orders for handkerchiefs, tablecloths, napkins and sheets, the designs for which can be suggested by the customer – Sr. Therese herself does the final sketches and designs. The women worked in near silence and smiled widely as Sister Therese took Pat from table to table. The delicacy and intricacy of the work enthralled her – flowers, elephants, village scenes, musicians, were all brought to life on silk, cotton and linen, all of which was woven in Pondy. Some of the women, all Pondicherrians, had been working there for twenty years and the embroidery room had become part of their lives. "For uzzers" said Sr. Therese " eet is onlee for ze monee!"

             Pat was still with the embroiderers when I finished work, so I was able to see something of their artistry before meeting up again with Chitra. She wanted to show us some of the outskirts of Pondy "in case you think we have no open spaces for recreation and walking". We climbed into the family car which was driven by a family friend, Prem, whose ten-year-old son Kunal was sitting in the back. Fluent in French, Kunal attends the Lycee that, he proudly told us, was opened in 1826. As we drove out past the railway station and away from the more crowded streets, we discovered through our questioning, that Prem represented another important aspect of life in Pondycherry – commercial textiles. The town has long been a centre for the production of household linen and garment textiles in satin, twill, corduroy, poplin, chambray, cambric et al and we had noticed dozens of shops with similar and overlapping merchandise in Nehru St. As a sales representative for one of the leading Pondy companies, Prem  travels to England twice a year – especially to Manchester – to see clients. "Sixty per cent of English hotels use Indian-made sheets and most of this market is catered for by Pondy firms", he told us. Likewise a lot of Pondy materials find their way to Marks and Spencers and other leading stores.

            Our first stop was the St. Joseph of Cluny Higher Secondary School that Chitra's teenage daughters attended and although the school was run by the Sisters, it was, as Chitra expressed it, "inter-religious". Forty per cent of the pupils were Christian and the other sixty per cent was made up of Hindus and (in smaller proportion) Muslims. All of the parents were tolerant enough to allow their children to say The Lord's Prayer every morning, after which the Christians have a session of Divinity while the remainder take Moral Science. There remains no attempt to convert.[2] It is a fee-paying school and books also have to be bought by the parents. Chitra, remembering her days of "free" books at Twickenham, had suggested that some sort of library could be established where books from former students could be re-cycled but she had met with resistance. "The parents do not want used books – the taint of charity makes them unhappy" is how she explained the situation. Just inside the main gate was an enormous mango tree and we discovered that the pupils were fined if they picked any of the fruit – a local firm had been contracted to pick and purchase the mangos from the school. It was near the tree that we met Sister Agnes, the Principal. She told us that there were 3,500 pupils in the school and that the average class size was 55. The campus was, naturally therefore, very spacious, the dusty acres being dotted with trees and bushes. We were amazed to discover that the school hall was large enough for all the pupils to congregate at one time.

            On the return trip we passed the site of the former airport, which fell into disuse as more and more middle class Pondicherrians bought cars and discovered it was cheaper to drive to Chennai than pay the exorbitant Indian Airline fares. The area was criss-crossed with tarmac (the former runways and service roads) and folk were out walking, some with dogs, and everywhere around one could see lads playing cricket with makeshift wickets. There must have been a dozen or more "matches" in progress. For me, this sight, and many like it during the four months of our stay, became an enduring image of the country.

            That evening, the real build up to Deepavali began. Not only were there fireworks in the streets but a Deepavali party was being held in the hotel. Looking back, I feel we should have bought tickets and witnessed the event instead of sitting (some way) above it and cursing the noise. Truth to tell, I wanted to watch the World Rugby Cup Final live from Cardiff. This was a disappointment. The closing ceremony was acutely embarrassing as Charlotte Church, Michael Ball, Bryn Terfel and Shirley Bassey (about as big a mis-match of voices as it is possible to imagine) produced an excruciating version of "We'll keep a welcome ..." The arranger was probably taken away in a straitjacket. The piece was too low for Ball, too high for Terfel and, since she never sings in ensemble, Bassey was agonizingly out of tune throughout. The actual match was marginally more entertaining but I was glad I could turn over to live cricket from Brisbane – the third day of the Test against Pakistan.

            By 11pm, the party, several floors below us, was in full spate, the boom of the bass from the recorded music almost being felt through the furniture. The fireworks outside were becoming more insistent. Even the sparklers seemed noisy despite the presence of rockets, "spinners" and "sprays". Young men were putting crackers in the road for cyclists and autos to manoeuvre and various other explosions added to the hysterical crescendo. I resolved that, should I ever be in the country again at Deepavali time, I would be outside, experiencing the celebrations. On this occasion, I was prepared to sigh "Indiaah...". Pat, however, her mood not improved by several hours of sports commentary, indignantly rang Reception at midnight to ask if the music could be turned down and enquire when the noise would stop. This was rather like asking a ceilidh band at Hogmanay to play quietly and stop at 12.01. She was told that the party would finish about 4am – I reminded her that she had been out until that time at the Gujerati dancing in Chennai – and so we resigned ourselves to a noisy night. We drifted in and out of sleep whilst sniper fire, small arms weapons, mortars and the occasional land mine made us feel we were Martin Bell and Kate Adie holed up in a Beirut hotel on the front line.

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At 8.30 the next morning, we were woken by more noise, this time the hubbub of voices, people shouting. From the side window we could see that the extensive cycle park in front of the cinema next door (also called Ananda) was awash with a heaving mass of men, pushing and shoving each other as they fought their way to the box office. The crowd spilled out across the road where firecrackers were still being exploded, adding to the general pandemonium. At some points, the general scrum resembled the line-outs I had been watching the night before in Cardiff as young lads were lifted head-high and passed across to be dropped nearer the front. One enterprising prop forward found himself pushed through a small window at the end of the building where he presumably had easier access to the ticket booth. When tickets had been purchased, the lucky person had, likewise, to fight his way back to the outskirts of the melee where, we noticed, the tickets were being re-sold, presumably at a premium. We discovered later that Deepavali was the day for showing the very latest Bollywood blockbuster – advertisements on the surrounding hoardings showing a huge, distorted, human face with blood and gore dripping from the mouth left us in no doubt as to the film's content. Because of the holiday, there would be seven shows (the first at 9am) and the scene below us was to be repeated for each performance. Indeed, when we returned after our evening meal, the crowds were there, fighting for tickets to the 11pm show.

            We went back to bed hoping to doze for an hour or so but almost immediately the phone rang. It was Sr. Judith asking us if we had had a good night's sleep "... or did the bangings keep you awake?" We now understood why she thought we might like to go to St. James' Court for the weekend. Politely declining her invitation to be taken round the hospice that morning (not quite our idea of a "Bank Holiday" trip), I explained that Chitra was picking us up at 12 noon so we would rest until then. She was quite happy to know that we had something planned and left us to continue our far-from-quiet lie-in.

            By 12.30 we were at Prem's house in Rue Romain Rolland[3]. The property was quite capacious and, despite alterations and extensions over the years, the nineteenth century frontage was still apparent. We entered by way of an outside staircase, passed masses of bourganvillia and were greeted by Prem's charming wife Ghislaina ("call me Geegee"). She and Chitra were sharing the hosting as the latter had brought some food ready for the oven. Kunal was there of course, as was Prem's mother who lived in the granny flat attached. Chitra's husband was prevented from joining us as he was in bed with a very bad cold – "He makes such a fuss, like all men" said Chitra dismissively. But she had brought her two captivating daughters, Mallika and Radhika each in their new Deepavali outfits – a red and white sari for Mallika while Radhika wore an orange and black salwar kameez. Both looked stunning and I would have enjoyed making this Deepavali special for Mallika by telling her that she had passed her Grade 8 exam with a merit mark of 76. But this would not have been "keeping to the book" so I remained silent on the matter and the conversation was on their hopes for university and a professional life. Chitra told us how, when Prem visits Manchester, he often meets up with her school friend from Twickenham County, Surekha, who, since she herself now hates Indian food, generally takes him out for fish and chips! Prem and I drank Kingfisher beer, Pat had a glass of wine and we nibbled deep fried banana slices – more interesting than Pringles. Chitra and Geegee had prepared a superb buffet. The paneer (cottage cheese), dal and pilau rice was delicious as were my favourite galub juman for dessert. Prem explained that we were eating upstairs as the ground floor was being renovated. "Next time you come" he said " we will eat in the dining room downstairs". Not for the first or last time, Pat and I looked at one another and thought "... if only".

            Having a meal in a family setting such as this was a great pleasure. It happened only three or four times during our tour because many of our hosts would take the view, shared across Asia, that it would not be sufficiently polite or deferential to take a guest to one's own "humble abode". As Mr. Das had explained - "Athiti (guest) Devo (god) Bhara (be)". But for us, after weeks and weeks of (often wonderful) hotel and restaurant cuisine, having this lovely meal in a family home was a delight.

            By mid-afternoon, Chitra decided that we should be returned to the hotel for our siesta and so we bade farewell to these most friendly and hospitable friends and by 3pm were having – in view of the noisy night – a welcome snooze. However, we purposely limited this to an hour because we had been told that the Deepavali parade of new clothes along Beach Road was worth witnessing. We were soon on our way past the cinema (all quiet now as the 4 pm show was on) towards the promenade. Goubert Avenue (the prom's official title) was named after a politician who was prominent at the time of the hand-back to India. Closed to traffic on Sundays or festival days or whenever the police decide it shall be quiet, Beach Road (its most popular name) was a colourful throng. Whole families were strolling along, the children particularly aware of their new Deepvali outfits – dresses in the brightest of oranges and reds for the younger girls, gorgeous saris for the older groups and their mothers. The little boys, too, had smart new trousers or a frilly shirt or bow tie. The older lads obviously thought of this "new outfit business" as less important, likewise the fathers in the groups. Nonetheless, the latter were generally very smart as the families peacocked along the wide pavements or sat on the sea wall, as we did, watching the world go by. One family of six was led by a young mother who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen – perfectly possible, we thought, if she had been married off at fourteen. I joined in the "parade" by wearing my kurta which produced a few stares. People called out to us as well as to friends "Happy Deepvali!" and several men shook our hands as if in welcome to the event. Gandhi's statue was a natural focal point and I took quite a few pictures of Pondy people. Once or twice, a particularly photogenic group of radiantly happy girls would giggle and turn away when they saw my camera pointing in their direction. This could have been just girlish embarrassment or they might have been Muslims to whom photography is too akin to idolatry. No doubt a local would have known because of differences in dress or hair or complexion or a variety of matters too subtle for Westerners to understand. Balloon- and toy-sellers alongside vendors of pink and yellow candyfloss, added to the wash of colour. Firecrackers, we noted, were banned from this area and so at a pleasant stroll we covered the whole of the mile-long stretch, resting every now and again to watch the waves or take a drink. It was another gentle, relaxing, welcome experience to add to the myriad in which we had been immersed in the previous couple of months.

************

Despite having picked up her husband's cold, Chitra rang early the next morning and croaked down the phone that she would pick Pat up to take her to the ashram craft shops. Pat was not prepared for the next experience. Chitra arrived on her motorbike! She was wearing a peach Auroville T-shirt, pale blue trousers and a large peaked floral hat with neck flap. Pat had not ridden pillion since the early days of our marriage when I owned a Francis Barnet 125. Now, she found herself perched (her word) on a similar sized vehicle feeling like a circus elephant on a drum as Chitra pulled away into the mayhem of the Pondy streets India-side. The footrests were not easy to locate because of the panniers and were designed for size three feet rather than size five. Chitra called over her shoulder "Be ready to put your feet down should I start to lose my balance and then we won't fall over" – not what Pat, whose own sense of balance is woeful, wanted to hear. She closed her eyes at crossroads, hoping Chitra was not doing the same. With overtaking autos skimming passed one side and other motorbikes zooming up the other, Pat wondered if she should have achieved her ambition of visiting the Taj Mahal before I began my examining instead of keeping it for the climax of the tour. However, the journey grew less buttock-clenching as they progressed and she almost relaxed enough to admit she enjoyed the experience.

            They visited several shops, all of which had been established to sell goods made by unpaid volunteers in order to raise money for the Ashram. When one considers the commercial outlets owned by the ashram, it seemed strange that selling home-produced handkerchiefs and perfume would be a necessary activity. Nonetheless, Pat found several items for our growing assembly of Christmas presents including two "hand-marbled 100% pure silk" scarves. She saw how marbling was a mixture of batik and tie-and-dye, the resulting watermarked effect on the material proving very attractive. Chitra's daily four-hour employment at the ashram involved the "company's" stocks and shares and thus she was known by all of the shop people. For elevenses, they called on Prem's mother who served them cold, very sweet pineapple drinks. While Chitra was phoning Prem, about his offer to deal with the confirmation of our flights, Pat chatted to Mrs "Prem". As we discovered on the previous day at lunch, her English was excellent and she was very happy to chat about her husband. He had been a high-ranking policeman in the Andaman Islands and had spent his retirement years in Pondy. She was obviously delighted with her granny flat and spoke proudly of Prem and his international work.

            The ride out to Prem's factory, Anglo-French Textiles, had some hairy moments because, on the more open highway, Chitra was prepared to move along quite quickly – probably no more than 25mph but on Indian roads that seemed more suitable for Brands Hatch than Pondicherry. However, Pat was grateful to Prem for showing her something of the factory, where all of the staff, including the managing director, wore the same navy trousers and blue shirt. For my part, I was glad that neither Pat nor I had to attempt sorting out the flights with a local travel agent – my previous attempt along with Sr. Judith had been very frustrating and Prem "knew a man who would deal with it".

            Pat was finally delivered to the exam centre just as I finished the morning session and so she happily fell into Le Rendezvous for rest, recuperation – and lunch – but not before I had photographed  Chitra and her unlikely passenger in situ.

            My afternoon was quite short – ninety minutes of guitars from Mr. Jasper's very own  "Trinity College of Music  Pondicherry". This session was followed by an informal Teacher's Meeting with Srs. Judith and Lisa (plus two of their ex-pupils), Mr Jasper and Mr. Martin, the latter having entered several EKB candidates. Each of them had questions about the Ear Tests, Sight Reading and matters relating to their own specialism and all seemed very happy to have the opportunity to talk informally. I found elsewhere that many of the teachers did not have the confidence to stand up amongst their peers and ask a question – sometimes this would simply be a language problem. I spent some time talking about pedalling and realised that a good deal of work is needed in this area of the piano work. At the end of the meeting Sr. Judith gave me some elegant, locally hand-made writing paper as a memento and Mr. Jasper presented me with a plaque from his school – St Cecilia in a brass frame above the homily "Praise God in Music".

            Our meal that evening at Le Rendezvous proved to be our last. Vincent told us that all electricity would be off the next day (explaining why I had worked Saturday and had the morrow off) and that he was closing down for the day and going off to stay at his beach property. He also mentioned that the sisters had been round to talk to him in order to discover what we had been eating at the restaurant since they were feeding us the next day! Sitting under the pandal on the roof, eating delicious pasta and listening to gentle flute and guitar jazz from the Don Burrows Quintet was the most relaxing way of signing off from my Pondycherry assignment.

            The restaurant was very full and among the many European clientele was a group of Irish women from Belfast and Dungannon. We discovered that they had entered the competitive festivals in their respective homes (their children still did) and, since I frequently adjudicate at these events, we found we each knew several people associated with their organization. They had been attending an international conference on women's issues in Hyderabad and were now enjoying a week's holiday "away from the men!" More coincidence followed when we were outside the restaurant. We struck up a conversation with two women who were vacating the auto we were hiring. Mother (a retired nurse) and daughter-in-law came from Richmond in North Yorkshire and had been working for three weeks in an orphanage to the rural south-west of Pondy – "delousing, general health education". This came about through the Wensleydale Trust that supports the orphanage. Since festivals were in my mind, I mentioned that I knew Leyburn because of the competition there. "Oh yes, we've both entered for that in our time" they laughed "but never won anything" and, again, mutual aquaintances were discussed.

************

Our final day began with a stroll around the Indian part of the town. We particularly wanted to photograph the gopurams of the temples in MG Street. These we could see from our hotel room and they could not have been more different from the ones seen in Vellore and Kanchipuram. Although of the same vintage (7th century), both the Varadaraja Perumal and the nearby Vedapureeswarar temples had been recently renovated and repainted. The gopurams were a riot of colour. Every animal and deity (and there were hundreds) had been picked out in the brightest of hues against a basic brilliant white background. Set against the most beautiful of deep blue skies, the towers were a photographer's dream. The original statues of Rama, Lakshman, Sita and Hanuman (all forces for good in the classic Hindu tale Ramayana) were reputedly brought to this spot by fisherman who had dragged them from the sea.

            We wandered amongst the street traders. Some of these work on the street and have homes to return to in the evenings. Others live where they work. There were small-scale tailors working their treadles, others squatting on the ground ironing small piles of clothes. Another man was typing and we were very taken with the bicycle repairer who, like the mender of umbrellas in Daarjeeling, was working with a selection of frames which he was cannabalizing to make one half-decent bike – re-cycling took on a new meaning. At one point, walking of necessity in the road (since the pavement was the work-place), we were nearly knocked over by a cyclist. The rider was one of my candidates, an adult, and he was so excited to see me again. "Oh, sir"" he called "do tell how my exam was going!"

            One of the sights we could not get used to was that of a fully-loaded auto at school time. We watched as four or five small children in their neat blue uniforms were put into the seat of the vehicle. Then a plank of wood a foot wider than the auto (each side) was placed across the frames that act as grab handles when manoeuvring into the contraption. On this plank were deposited another five wee ones. Finally, three or four more squashed on to the seat beside the driver. We gathered that the driver could well be on a contract and, of course, the more children he took in one journey, the more journeys he could make. I wondered if he was trying to get in to the Guinness Book of Records.

            Back on North Boulevard, in the "white city", we found the paper mill belonging to the Ashram. It was a great pity that the authorities allowed no photography but we still carry vivid pictures in our minds of the huge bins of   sacking plus sugar cane (the raw material) ready to be chewed up and shredded in large, dusty sheds – many of the women had their faces covered; the dyeing process carried out by men wearing enormous Wellington boots – very heavy work moving material from vat to vat; the drying and cleaning sheds with women combing the paper with little brushes, chatting away in thin, shrill voices as they worked. In the shop, there was a large selection of paper goods, not just writing paper, but also notebooks, photo albums etc., all most attractively produced. A few more Christmas present problems had been solved before we left.

            Towards noon, we made our way to the school where Srs. Judith and Lisa were waiting to escort us to lunch in the nuns' refectory. Whilst waiting for the meal to begin, we chatted to Sister Mary John, the Principal, who we had met on our first day. She told us that the Order had been founded by Anne Marie Jarouney in 1798, later taking the patronage of St. Joseph. The full title, from 1807, became Sisters of St. Joseph of Cluny. Anne Marie's first missionary journey was in 1817 when she began her work in the French colony of Bourbon. When she died, in 1851, there were 1,200 sisters in 140 communities across every continent working with the poor, sick and mentally ill of any race, colour or creed. The children at Cluny schools wear blue and white uniform as per the Renaissance representations of the clothes worn by the Virgin Mary. A lot of trouble had been taken to prepare a meal for us and it was Sister Marissa who was in charge of the catering which explained why our picnic on the road journey from Chennai had been so acceptable. With the power off and therefore no fans working, we had to keep waving flies away from the food but the meal of soup, pizza pieces, potato wedges and salad, with fruit and Deepvali sweets for dessert, was very tasty and in plentiful supply. When I protested that I could eat no more, Sr. Marissa chortled "No room for a Bishop?" She had no idea where this saying came from and I wondered if this was the translation of a Tamil or French axiom/homily.

            After lunch, Srs. Judith and Lisa took us under their combined wings and whisked us off for our 2.30pm coach trip to Auroville. The four of us climbed aboard a very full, 35-seater bus and we sat patiently waiting amongst mainly Indian tourists and holiday-makers from "the North" – Sr. Judith recognised the regional dialects. The heat was beginning to make us wilt by the time the coach pulled away at 3pm. Auroville lay six miles outside of Pondy and we travelled through pleasant tree-lined roads until we began to notice the small mud and thatched dwellings of the original "Aurovillians".

            Aurobindo's vision of heaven on earth existed essentially in the mind but it was the Mother who gave it material substance – the utopian community of Auroville. It was begun in 1964 and was to be the "cradle of Superman" where people of different nationalities and ethnic backgrounds would join together to build a society based on the values of peace, understanding and human unity. Human nature being what it is and not what Aurobindo would wish it to be, the project was beset with wranglings and feuding. Fifteen square miles of scrub was given its own eco-system through the planting of over two million trees. We were not to see anything of the "city" itself although we discovered some 2,000 people of 27 different nationalities lived there. There were schools, health centres studios and small industrial zones producing textiles and furniture. Funding had been elicited from various governments around the world including France, Germany and America, and the French architect Robert Anger developed a plan for residential, industrial, cultural and international zones to surround a centrepiece of the community, the Matrimandir or "Temple of the Mother".

            It was to the Matrimandir that we were heading and, since the Mother was still alive when these plans were drawn up, both Pat and I felt a certain scepticism that possibly would have been less strong if the feature had been planned as her memorial. We pulled off the main road and were surrounded by massive banyan trees and eucalyptus groves. The coach parked outside the Information Centre and we were put in the charge of a somewhat aggressively-spoken guide. He explained how the building we were to enter was built of bricks which were 5% cement, the rest mud, and that the electricity was provided by wind power and solar panels. The development of such projects in an "urban" society was one of the reasons grants had been forthcoming from world governments.  Inside the Centre, we were shown a video about the aims of the community and details of its growth from concept to reality. As well as statistics, the commentary was littered with quotations from Aurobindo and the Mother. The Charter drawn up in 1968 includes the following:

1  Auroville belongs to nobody in particular.

    Auroville belongs to humanity as a whole.

    But to live in Auroville one must be a willing servitor of the Divine Consciousness.

2  Auroville will be the place of an unending education, of constant progress and a youth that

    never ages.

3 Auroville wants to be the bridge between the past and the future

   Taking advantage of all discoveries from without and from within, Auroville will boldly spring towards future realisations

4  Auroville will be a site of material and spiritual researches for a living embodiment of an actual

    Human Unity.

To apply the usual cliché of "lofty ideals" to these concepts would be an understatement. As Mick Brown writes[4]

How do you govern a society without rules? How do you forge a community ethos among people imbued with the streak of stubborn individuality to be there in the first place?

Brown also asks the question that has occupied the minds of Aurovillians for more than thirty years:

... how best to realise the Mother's original objective of dispensing with money as a means of exchange and seeing work as a means of inner progress rather than as a means of remuneration.[5]

With these visions laid before us on the screen, Pat and I agreed that a heavy dose of scepticism was affecting our thoughts. One quotation from the Mother, however, struck a chord. Despite the use of the word "divine" in the Charter, she was clear on the areligious aspect of Auroville.

Let it not become a religion. You see, this is what I have learned: the failure of religions is because they were divided. They wanted people to be religious to the exclusion of the other religions, and every branch of knowledge has been a failure because it was exclusive.

Like many generalizations, the statement is flawed but substitute "they” for "zealots" or "extremists" and the words and actions of today's Christians (Paisleyites), Muslims (the Taliban), Jews (Sharon and the Zionists), Hindus (the World Hindu Council) and Sikhs (the United Akali Dal) underline the general truth behind the Mother's statement.

            But what we and the rest of the coach party moved on to witness, revived the scepticism in us, particularly in regard to the Mother. In 1970, she had a vision of a building (surrounded by gardens) that would be the centrepiece of Auroville. Today, the Matrimandir (Temple of the Mother) is close to completion, still awaiting sponsors to provide the last of the golden reflective discs that cover the outer skin of the 24metre diameter "golf ball". Before we entered the gardens, we were told by our guide, again somewhat aggressively, that we must not take with us any cameras (he shoved mine into his pocket) and that on no account must we talk. The Mother had said:

I should like the whole place to be called Peace and the peace, actual peace, should reign there. People will be allowed in to learn how to concentrate ... inside, no one speaks"

To underline this, we were told that we must walk in single file. He asserted that any person who could not accept these rules must not proceed further. We therefore filed in, along sandy paths, through the outer gardens. The flowers, cacti, bushes and trees were pleasantly cared for and the latter screened us from the area of the Information Centre. This seclusion, combined with the total silence from the crocodile of some fifty people certainly put one in a contemplative mood. When we came within sight of the building itself, its sheer size and individuality was unquestionably striking. It was at this point that we were motioned to remove our footwear and our various jandals, slippers and shoes joined many dozens of pairs lined up in very neat rows, the nearest thing I have seen to a "shoe park". Extending to a 50 metre radius from the base of the sphere were concrete "petals" and we passed through the inner gardens with names such as Existence, Consciousness, Bliss, Life, Harmony and Wealth (?). There were Aurovillian "stewards" at various points along our route presumably to deal with any speakers – it was a measure of the effect the place was having that nobody, including the several children in the party, attempted to talk.

            But it was as we entered the dome that matters felt yet more surreal. We began climbing on concrete walkways which spiralled round the inside walls of the gigantic structure. There was nothing inside to view other than the structural features of the buildings and so the procession wound its way upwards, the gentle angle of the ramps proving not in the least strenuous. We therefore had plenty of breath left at the top which I for one immediately lost when I saw the broad, circular chamber, its walls of the purest white marble, the floors lined with white cushions used by one or two people, silently meditating. In the centre, resting on what seemed like an altar of gold, rested a crystal globe over a metre in diameter – the largest man-made crystal in the world we discovered later. From an opening above, sunlight poured in and, directed by a system of computerized mirrors, struck the globe and bathed it in a warm, tranquil glow.

More than just a spellbinding feat of technology, it was a potent metaphor: the divine light of heaven being channelled through the heart and illuminating all around it... Whatever else had grown from the Mother's vision, here was one of the great spiritual buildings in India.[6]

It would be impossible to view this "inner sanctum" without bringing away a vivid picture of that white glow surrounding the crystal. But, once back at the coach park, our cynicism returned. Why would the Mother sanction the spending of so much money on such a building? To be fair, she had claimed that the Matrimandir would be "a pavilion of the Mother – but not this Mother (pointing to herself) ... the true Mother. I say Mother because Sri Arobindo used that word, otherwise I would have put 'creative principle', or 'principle of realization'". For all that, the concept of a temple in memory of the lady herself can never be far away. We would have liked to have discussed this with an Aurovillian but, denied access to the "city" itself, the nearest we got was when Pat engaged in a conversation with a member of our party. Although he lived in Maharastra, he was a "devotee" of the Mother and thus visited the area whenever he could. Pat did not feel she could tackle him on the question of the true or perceived reason for the existence of the Matrimandir, but he offered the notion that the West is spiritually barren and materially prosperous whereas India is the exact opposite. "Indians" he said "are too busy thinking about the next world which explains why they can ignore all the filth and squalor around them". "What is the answer?" asked Pat. "Auroville is the answer." Hmm...

            Perhaps because of the enforced silence in the gardens, the noise on the coach returning to Pondicherry was considerable and thus I could not engage Sr. Judith on her thoughts about the Mother and the Matrimandir. We had bought several booklets and, since our return, have read a little more about Auroville. This has led me to have an open mind about the place. We were delighted to learn, a few days later when we were in Chennai, that Sachin Das had lived for four and a half months in Auroville while studying for his architectural degree. He had worked with the designer of the Information Centre and told us that he would love to work and live there. Like us though, he felt that the expense of the Matrimandir did not fit comfortably with the ecological and philosophical tenets of the city itself and that what was going on in the Aurovillian homes, workplaces and businesses was far more significant than the Matrimandir.

************

Because of the seafront, Divali, Chitra and her family, Auroville, the Ashram, Le Rendezvous, the well-prepared students and, above all, the kindness and thoughtfulness of Srs. Judith and Lisa, we left Pondy with some sadness. But we were not finished with this lovely corner of India because the taxi trip back to Chennai for our flight to Bangalore was to provide us with more delightful incidents for our crowded memory bank.

            Looking at a map, it seemed as though retracing our steps to Chennai in order to reach Bangagalore was moving round two sides of a large triangle. But since the airport at Pondy had ceased operating, the alternative direct route would have been by road, on a crowded, non-A/C coach. We were grateful therefore to find ourselves in the same Ambassador as had brought us down to Pondy with the same driver who had proved so safe. Both Srs. Judith and Lisa came with us, partly, we felt, for the ride but also so that they could purchase some music from Mr. Das. This would also give us an opportunity to say our "final" farewells to Chennai and the Das family. Pat and I were installed in the back of the taxi and from the front came a succession of sweets and cookies, which rendered the official "lunch" stop almost unnecessary. Just outside of Pondy, the Sisters pointed out a Cluny hostel where destitute and battered street children were cared for and where, hopefully, they could take the opportunity to have a proper childhood and be trained in some skill or craft.

            Enough time had been allowed for us to stop to take photos and the first of these excursions was when we found the highly decorated statues of horses which we had noticed on the way down to Pondy. They were "guarding" the entrance to a small village. The horses had been built as recently as the 1980s and were full of character – strong, upright and painted in vivid reds and yellows. While I was taking photos, Pat was approached by a small boy. He was grinning from ear to ear as he handed her a beautiful pink and white lotus blossom. He was soon joined by two more lads who were indicating the source of the flowers. We moved across past some trees and there lay a small, lotus-covered lake. It seemed as tidy and manicured as anything Capability Brown had designed for an eighteenth century English garden. Beyond the frame of trees, we could see the houses of the village. Sister Judith was thrilled at the sight of the flowers and she pulled up some roots which, she said, she would plant in the watertubs by the music room at school. She asked her driver, who had joined us, to wrap them up which he very neatly did in two large leaves. Sister J chatted with the boys and, after Pat had responded to the usual plea – "Pen, pen?" – told us that the lads were able to attend school but that having these pens would mean they could do school work at home. A few men had gathered round watching the proceedings and it was quite a group who walked us back to the taxi and, smiling all the while, waved us on our way.

            At Marakanam, we stopped to photograph the enormous area of the Kalevi salt flats. I had only witnessed something similar once before and that was in New Zealand. As far as one could see stretched water divided up into areas the size of football pitches by low banks giving the appearance of paddy fields without plants – pond upon pond of still, grey water. At intervals along the "coast-line" were 12-foot-high conical salt ricks complete with thatched "roofs" to keep the salt dry until required. We parked at the side of the road and walked down a dusty track to where women were shovelling the salt into wicker baskets and then filling sacks that a group of men carried to the waiting lorry. One man, bending under the weight, grinned as I took his photo and, as if to show me his party trick, removed his hands and walked to the lorry with his hands high in the air. The sun was blinding as it reflected off the pure white of the salt and, with the bright colour of the saris and the rich blue sky as a back drop, the scene was as beautiful as it was, to us, interesting. Two young lads got into the water, which was only knee-deep, and, by digging down and bringing up handfuls of pale grey mud, explained in their lilting Tamil how, when the salt had settled, the pond would be drained and the salt harvested into the ricks. A crowd was gathering now – where the people came from, I do not know – and, at the sight of Westerners, a little begging began. But Sr. Judith stepped in and, we think, gave the people a   lecture, kindly expressed, on how they should help themselves by working not hold their hands out to passing strangers. "People can be very lazy here. You will get none of this when you get to Kerala", she said as we walked back to the car. We had already learned that both Judith and Lisa were from the southern state and they were delighted that we would be going there for our final weeks in December. "It is soooo beautiful – lush, green everywhere" they had told us. For now, we reached the car to discover it was surrounded by a group of women and children intrigued by the visitors who were taking such an interest in their daily work. A lot of smiling went on. Pat only had one pen left which she gave to a little boy who, Sr. Judith said, would probably never have possessed his own before. She made wonderful contact with the villagers and they seemed to hold what she stood for, as represented by her white habit, in great respect.

            During our picnic lunch, we discussed the exam "results" as there had been one or two changes to the syllabus not picked up by the teachers. The sisters were not put out by the two or three failures as the candidates concerned had not worked sufficiently hard and, had they passed, they said, the wrong message would have been sent.

            Chennai was its usual mad self in terms of traffic and pollution but the time spent at Musee Musical was very pleasant. The sisters seemed to be buying up lots of stock while Pat and I chatted to Sachin and Mr. Das. When Kishore arrived, it was to present Pat with a cross section of a conch shell that had been polished into a beautiful ornament. It was with much handshaking and smiling that we finally moved off to the airport where, again, we were all genuinely sad at our parting. Though not appropriate for me, Pat received warm hugs at the airport from both Judith and Lisa. Again I felt the frustration of not being in the position to help the Sisters with their teaching. If only I could have had some sessions with them, not as an examiner, but as a fellow teacher and friend, I know I could pass on a lot that would be useful to them. They had given us so much of their kindness and, apart from a few tips at the teacher's meeting, I felt I had given so little. Nonetheless, it was all smiles as we disappeared through the departure gate and they were soon in their car, returning through Chennai's choked maze of streets while we settled down for the twenty-five-minute flight into the neighbouring state of Karnataka.

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[1]  Religious retreat or community

[2] Many Hindus are suspicious of the Christian policy of conversion. When we were in Chennai, an open letter to the Pope from “over 120 eminent citizens” was published in the national press expounding the view that “religious conversion is violence, pure and simple, against the Hindu faith”. Others favour more direct action and a Christian priest was hacked to death in Assam during our stay.

[3]  Many of Pondicherry’s streets are named after writers. Romain Rolland was a renowned writer on music and I discovered his essays as a student. He died in 1944 aged 78.

[4] In The Spiritual Tourist (Bloomsbury 2000)

[5]  Ibid.

[6]  Ibid.