Not finding peace in Puducherry

I have been a lover of contemplative places all of of my remembered life. I love unexpected soft patches in forests. Quiet bays where you can watch the waves go in and out and in and out. Old stone churches where feet have worn down the paving stones that lead to the wooden altar. And now I am in the land of temples. Well…there are Hindu temples but there are also monuments , which are no longer used for worship and there are Roman Catholic Churches left behind by the many invaders. I was in Pondicherry. Or Puducherry as it is now known.

It is a separate and small union State. It is the place of French influence. The description is that it is like Nice in the south of France. Just to let you know…it is nothing like Nice. There is a black town and a white town. The black town is much like it’s neighbours north and south. It is crazy, with an ever flowing sea of street dogs, tuk tuks, motorbikes, garbage and unidentified hanging wires.

the white town is very different. It is clean. There are trees. There are tall policeman in smart khaki uniforms walking around. The houses are solid, painted in greys and pinks. It is almost shocking to the system not to be checking for cow pats and uneven pavements underfoot. I am not going to get this right, but it seems that 80% is owned by the ashram that has it’s headquarters there. There was the Indian teacher Sri Aurobindo and then his disciple, a French woman called “ The Mother”, who came to join him and with her considerable wealth bought the majority of white town to preserve it. There are schools and libraries. There are restaurants with open terraces, government buildings white and sparkling. Parks where Napoleon Third built some structure to honor some brothel owner who had to give up her place of work…I didn’t promise accuracy here. And churches. I went to the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. Shoes off. Phones off. Bossy men keeping you in line. A large plinth covered in a painting of flowers. Women and men kneeling, arms outstretched. A bookshop with books by him and by her. Another room of photos of him and of her. And then back out to put on your shoes again. It seems the main ashram is some 50 miles north, where a community of people live and work. the less well off subsidized by those that are wealthy. And the commitment is to doing good work. I am sure there is wonderful work done there , but down here it left me cold.

I went to the temple for Ganesh. A big brightly painted hall. Smooth marble floors. A central structure where you line up to get a sight of a statue of the deity, receive the Darshan from the sight and then, the monk will wave the flame around in an “ Aarti ‘ style manner and if you choose, you get a swipe of white ash on your forehead. Turns out the white ash is powdered cow dung , so although I appreciated the thought, I wiped it off . There are other smaller chapels where you can collect yellow and red ash.That will go close to the hairline..again, not going attempt to be accurate here, but it does seem that part of the red ash and the Bindi wearing is to ensure the good health of your husband. Widows don’t get to partake. Nor it seems, would I.

Ended up at the Roman Catholic Church. Which was a calm haven of blue and white and if there were no crucifixes and signs saying that donating online with a QR code would be acceptable, it would have been a pastel place of contemplation. Ended up going for a delicious supper at a place called the Coromandel Cafe. Had the best vegetarian pad Thai type salad. And a bottle of beer. and walked back to the hotel on the promenade past a statue of Gandhi, which didn't really look like him.

Obviously I didn’t find peace in a plate full of food. But it certainly cheered me up. So I continue to look.