If Pondicherry has a more rambunctious life, it has managed to keep it well hidden. Certainly, the papers don’t seem to hint at anything more censorious than a man caught jumping the traffic light abusing the policeman. Nor is there any evidence yet of its famed world cuisine. At least one other person shares my disappointment. “The quality,” he endorses my sad finding, “doesn’t match the reputation.”
But I must hasten to confess that I, at least, am hardly qualified to comment on the nightlife, or its lack, or the cuisine in its quaint cafes, or its unavailability, stuck as I am at a writers retreat well outside town. On the one occasion we did go to Pondy for dinner, the choice of restaurant resulted in an unseemly squabble about where the group might eat. No one else wanted what I thought might be a universal choice — a meal that might be delightfully Italian, or authentically German, or even from provencal France. The French-born Auroville resident among us insisted on tandoori chicken. When I objected — vociferously, I might add — it was to be asked, “Why, you don’t think we can make north Indian food as good as it is in north India?”
Besides being true, it was also disappointing: to have tandoori in Pondicherry seemed almost like an insult. In the end, we settled on a terrace restaurant (at least the view of the sea breaking over the marina was fabulous) with a mixed bag of fare — so everybody had what they wanted: biryani (pronounced “excellent”), fish curry (“delicious”), a filet steak (“nice”). Only my choice — I insisted on chicken in a French mushroom sauce — seemed indifferent. The Aurovillian simply smirked.
Auroville itself is enticingly close, but there is still the question of commuting: it is too far to walk to, and too close to actually order a taxi from town. I finally did what seemed the logical choice: I started bicycling to Auroville. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds, considering the last time I had ridden a bicycle was in school, which was a long, long time ago. You may never forget how to bike (or swim, or drive), but it can be hard stuff, leaving you wheezing for breath, your legs aching as you pump the pedals while skirting potholes (those really hurt as you go bumpity-bump over sharp-edged stones), and for a while after you get off, the sky seems to revolve dizzily around you.
There’s not much to do in Auroville either, since trips to the Matrimandir are strictly regulated: you first have to watch a film, then call on a number that is provided to you, and if you’re “approved”, you can collect a pass for a visit a few days later. It requires more planning than I’m up to right now — so I’m quite happy to spend the late afternoon at the shops at the Visitors Centre, though it is its cafeteria that is the main attraction for me.
So far, I’ve only managed to get away in the late afternoons, when lunch is over, so I’m an Auroville regular over coffee and samosa (the cakes and cookies seem almost too sinful after a bike ride), but because dusk comes early, and nightfall is sudden, and the roads aren’t lit, there’s really no time to linger for long.
But I’m determined to have lunch there today — there appears to be roast chicken on the menu, and how wrong can you go with that? — even if it means, once more, hoisting myself on to a bicycle and puffing all the way to Auroville. For the embarrassing thing is that the bicycle, meant for women riders, is a fluorescent pink in colour, and is named “Beauty”. The beast is merely on it.