Never Mind the Bullocks (19 page)

My vision of arriving in Pondicherry before sundown was, of course, a pipe dream. We made it as far as Tiruchirappali (whose name we finally discovered is commonly and quite sensibly shortened to Trichy) when it was starting to get dark and I reluctantly called it a day. We'd been on the road for almost ten hours and I was exhausted, between almost driving off the edge of a motorway overrun with vicious beasts and the hours of bumpy rural roads that had followed.

That night we lay in bed under an air-conditioning unit, a premium perk that Thor had sweetly insisted on as reward for the day's travails, at the appropriately named Breeze Hotel, which had a view over a deserted car park. I was worn out and a tad peeved.

‘You think I'm a loser,' I mumbled.

‘Why on earth would I think that?'

‘'Cos we didn't make it to Pondicherry.'

‘600 kilometres was one hell of a goal, little Thunderbolt.'

‘We could have done it, if it wasn't for that pesky break in the motorway. And the elephant. And all those sheep.'

‘You know, you'd do well to lower the bar on your driving ambitions, just a tad. You'll make yourself crazy.'

‘Hmph.'

‘Cut yourself a little slack.' He took my hand. ‘You wouldn't be trying to prove something, would you?'

‘Hmph.'

‘Hmph?'

‘Hmph.'

The other elephant, the one that had been with us inside the Nano all day, had been duly addressed.

PONDICHERRY; KM 3,041

If you're going to be colonized, I mused as I tucked into a ham and cheese pancake while Thor and I debated the idea of an evening of jazz and surrealist poetry at the Alliance Française, be colonized by the French. After all, they're the one nation with a god-given knack for bringing the chic into the wilds of the developing world due to their staunch refusal to leave their cultural and culinary foibles at home. Climate, geography, local economy and distance from Paris have never been factors in discouraging the French from carrying on as though they were in the thick of the Champs-Elysées. From lobster and foie gras luxury on Caribbean islands like St Barths and the twee-latticed wooden porches of New Orleans to the flouncy neoclassical flourish of the Opéra de Hanoi, there's a tangible thread that runs through the former French colonies that would read something like: ‘Well, if we're stuck out in this
trou du cul du monde
, we might as well make the most of it. Châteauneuf du Pape, anyone?'

Pondicherry was governed by the Tricolore until 1954, which was a good few years after the British left India. Its moulding at the hands of various Franco–Tamil architects over the centuries left a genuinely pretty town replete with churches, cultural centres and big mansions surrounded by courtyards and beautiful walled gardens worthy of filling several
issues of
World of Interiors
. Compare the cutesy, picturesque, bougainvillea-adorned streets of Pondicherry with Lutyens' monumental brick and mortar–fest around Delhi, and you'll get a fair idea of the difference in Franco- and Anglo-colonial styles.

More than half a century after the administration packed their Louis Vuittons and left, Pondicherry is still fragrant with the essence of Gaul: the gridded streets of the old French Quarter (today referred to rather uncomfortably as White Town, which I had to presume was a reference to the skin colour of its former inhabitants rather than the few remaining whitewashed walls) were named after notable Frenchmen with Indian connections, like author and philosopher Romain Rolland, Admiral Pierre André de Suffren de Saint Tropez and François Martin, Pondicherry's first governor-general. Many former colonial houses had been converted into fancy hotels, restaurants, internet cafés and boutiques; menus around town boasted relatively impressive wine lists to go with their Steak Frites and Croque Monsieurs; and the
boulangerie
Baker Street seemed to be frequently filled with homesick Frenchies munching on croissants and pains au chocolat that were a fair replica of the ones they'd be buying back home. In short, there seemed no better place to spend a romantic few days prior to leaving Thor at his ashram – which was only three hours away in Chennai – than in India's own Little France.

In addition to the French accent, Pondicherry had other merits: it was the kind of town where Christians, Muslims and Hindus appeared to live quite contentedly side by side in their respective quarters; mosques, churches and temples stood within streets of one another and were often subject to varying degrees of stylistic overlap. Not far from the Alliance Française was a bright turquoise building I had presumed was a Hindu temple until its caretaker spied us and pulled us inside for a gander. He asked Thor hopefully if he was a devotee of St
Anthony before showing us the interior of a Christian hall with a thatched leaf ceiling held up by bamboo poles. There was a pink altar at one end containing a small statue of the saint surrounded by flowers and cherubs in a vibrant, cacophonous style that would have been more at home among the colours of Holi than the usual sober décor of a Christian church.

We emerged after a lengthy chinwag with the custodian (who was disappointed by my scant knowledge of St Anthony and all his good deeds) to find Abhilasha relaxing on Suffren Street with the insipid obedience of a well-trained hound at a dog show. Her jovial, upwardly pointed headlights demonstrated blissful indifference to what lay outside the phlegmatic streets of the French Quarter, as well as what seemed like a lightly flirtatious bearing directed towards a rather handsome Hyundai that was parked right in front of her, bumper to bumper in an Eskimo kiss. The car was sparkling grey, its bonnet draped with a garland of marigolds and its headlights daubed with large dots of red powder. I imagined it was these decorative details that had attracted Abhilasha to the dishy vehicle in the first place, though I doubted she knew that in fact they were tell-tale signs that this particular jalopy had come fresh from the car showroom via a Brahmin's benediction.

When a new car is purchased in India, barely does the ink dry on the registration papers than the owner makes a beeline to the local temple, where a priest marks it with a sign of divine insurance. Even for the non-religious, a car's spiritual servicing is considered as important as checking its brakes and testing its horn; having it blessed before taking it out on the road greatly increases one's chances of not being pulverized under the wheels of an articulated lorry.

I had also read about the Ayudh Puja ceremony (a festival to mark the worship of implements, especially cars and other motor vehicles) and thought it to be an excellent idea. And
yet I couldn't help but wonder whether the respect afforded under the sanctimony of a Brahmin was some form of guilty and superstitious compensation for the extreme lack of consideration that seemed to kick in once the car was safely out of the temple and on the roads. Was it basically okay to drive like a maniac before going into a temple and begging your god for forgiveness for all the heinous traffic sins you'd just committed? Was this obeisance to one's car in a whirlwind of incense and a sprinkling of powder a bit like wiping clean one's weekly sins at Sunday confession? And did such attention to a car's spiritual wellbeing mean that one was then covered by the ultimate divine insurance company?

Contemplating the flashily garlanded Hyundai that looked like it was trying to get its leg over Abhilasha, I began to wonder whether I had such godly protection. Had Mr Shah of Mumbai thought to have the Nano blessed before selling it on so quickly? And even if he had, did the blessing only apply to the current owner or to the car's future proprietors as well? The issue seemed laden with complications, and I was beginning to think that Abhilasha and I might be at a disadvantage. How could we possibly compete with all the other cars on the road, the ones with swastikas (of the Hindu variety, the holy symbol that embodies a great spiritual thumbs up, and not, I presumed, of some local Nazi drivers' movement) dangling from the rear-view mirror and little framed pictures of Shiva and Lakshmi next to the ignition? Looking around at the other cars parked on the street, I realized that all of them carried some sort of talismanic trinket, ranging from the religious as far as the political. My favourite was an arrangement of stickers on the back of a Mahindra Verito that displayed the petition ‘Jesus Save Me'. The stencilling was detailed and intricate and looked like it had taken someone the best part of a week. Whether it had occurred to them that they had paradoxically also reduced
their chances of earthly salvation by almost entirely blocking all visibility from their rear window was another matter.

I decided nothing would be left to chance. Our dashboard-bound three-inch plastic Ganesha did not necessarily guarantee adequate divine protection. I wanted more; I wanted the full monty. Exactly how to have Abhilasha properly consecrated became the next big question. Did it matter that my name wasn't on the registration papers? Should I wait until Dussehra, the Hindu festival celebrating the victory of good over evil? Could a non-Hindu feasibly waltz into a place of worship and demand that her car be blessed?

I decided to consult Radhika. She was a professor of media studies at Pondicherry University to whom I'd been introduced by a fan of the Nano Diaries blog, a Mumbai professor by the name of Mangesh Karandikar, who contacted me when he saw we were passing through town. He insisted I meet his colleague, a ballsy Delhi-born educational crusader, who, it took me under a minute to realize, was also a most frenetic soul.

‘Excuse my appearance,' she said breathlessly, as I followed her striding lead through the corridors of Pondicherry University's Communications Department. ‘It's just that I haven't been home for ten days now…'

‘Where have you been?' I asked, thinking she looked just fine and trying to keep up.

‘Here at the department!' she exclaimed, turning round to face me, her eyes fizzing. ‘I have no problem with sleeping on the floor of my office. We've been so busy…' she started, before her attention was pulled away by a lad hauling a large cardboard box in our direction.

‘Bagalavan!' she cried out.

‘Yes, ma'am?' came a voice from behind the box.

‘Bagalavan, do you have all the recording equipment in there?'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Well, fine, then take it to my office and make sure you lock the door behind you.' She turned to me. ‘We have so many problems with this recording equipment, it's driving me crazy. Last week one student lost a microphone from the department's store, and two days later a tripod went missing.' Radhika put her hand to her temple and grinned. ‘Every day I have migraines from this job. My nerves are all wrecked, you know…'

We came to an abrupt stop outside a large door in the department. I was puzzled, as I thought Radhika and I were meeting for coffee. I had left Thor blissfully programming in a café in order to come out for a bit of girl bonding, but instead of lounging in the university canteen, Radhika and I seemed poised to enter a lecture theatre. She put one hand on the door and looked at me with academy-award-grade supplication. ‘Can I ask you for a favour?'

I began to cringe in anticipation of what she might be about to say.

‘Would you talk to my Year One Media Studies group about your project?'

‘You mean… give a lecture?' I stammered. Public speaking came somewhere near sticking my head in a basket of irate cobras on the list of things I'd rather not do if that's all right, thanks.

Radhika threw her hands up in exaggerated astonishment. ‘
Noooo
! Nothing like that; nothing so
formal
!' She leaned in towards me and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think these students could learn a lot from listening to you. About your journey, your blog, your process… There are some girls in there who are frightened even to take a bus on their own. I want them to be inspired. Can you do that?'

Inspired? How on earth could I inspire a group of late teens into anything but a pre-lunch nap? I was flummoxed. What was
there to say? I had bought the world's cheapest car, mostly because I didn't have the cash for that coveted Toyota Innova, and had decided to come to India on the back of a failed relationship while chasing after some lost nostalgic notion of the Indian dream that these students would probably think was utterly cheesy. In addition, I'd spent the last two weeks fawning over the ginger-haired French American in my passenger seat; I was a living breathing soft-focus road romance, who spent most of my time planning routes, cursing Delilah and complaining about pain in my legs and lumbar region. What on earth could I pull out of my backside to galvanize a class of media studies kids?

‘But… but I haven't prepared anything…'

She grabbed my arm and smiled in a way that was both placatory and expertly guileful. I realized I wasn't getting out of this one. The lecture hall doors swung open and not one single student looked up.