Jan-April 1998
Pondicherry-a mad medley of bikes, scooters, cycles, the odd car and the all-important-pedestrian. A town of crazy traffic, duty free alcohol, ambrosiac food and an old world charm that refuses to be cowed down by the chaos and randomness of a growing, pulsating, alive seaside city. A town steeped in French heritage, a town of dosas and sausages, toddy and Bordeaux (often in the same shop), where names are still spelt as Anandakirouchanane and Latchoumibady and where you can get to the Romain Rolland Library via Ellaipillaichavady and Mission St.
I have another 10-11 months to go in this town and in this College and I now feel that I am a part of this place. Pondicherry-with all it's sights, sounds and that intangible feel, is now much more familiar to me than Chandigarh has ever been. For me Pondicherry has become a person-a city with a soul, a city, that, even when I am sober, I imagine welcoming me back every time I return from a trip back home.
The RHC posting, with it's siesta afternoons and lazy evening bike rides gives me ample opportunities to be contemplative and dreamy. I know that this phase will end soon, in April to be precise, when I will enter the real world Internship of Medicine with it's endless night duties, torturous ward rounds and a daily grind spent largely in collecting X-Rays and blood reports. For the time being though, Ashley and I spend many evenings wandering aimlessly in the areas around the Jipmer campus around Indira Nagar, and just beyond, in the wide empty spaces and fields still untouched by the growing house construction phenomenon that's becoming increasingly apparent over what were once verdant, untouched pieces of land.
Indira Nagar is a small housing colony just opposite to Jipmer campus and consists of pristine, well-kept double story independent houses resident to the bureuacratic machinery that governs Pondicherry. The name plates read like a Who's Who in Pondy Administration and at the end of this small lane lies the biggest house of them all, earmarked for the Chief Secretary of Pondicherry.
Just off this lane is a well maintained Tennis court, ostensibly used only by the Indira Nagar VIP residents and therefore, not at all. It is made of red clay and just begs to be played on. There is a net, the lines are well marked and the clay is well swept, but the gate is locked and I've never seen anyone play here. I am a keen tennis player and last year, in a fit of optimism and a fleeting desire for fitness, I had asked Dr Thapa, the Head of Dermat, if he could please get my tennis racket with him on his way back from a Conference in Chandigarh. And he had kindly obliged.
My racket-a beautiful, Wilson Pro Staff 95, 6.1 SI, was lying untouched in it's black case and here was this pristine tennis court lying unused with no one to play with, a court apparently reserved for the VIP's of Indira Nagar.
It was here, in the Chief Secretary's House, that I had lunched with Rahul 2 days prior to joining Jipmer and it was here, one late evening as I was staring at the tennis court, that I found myself face to face with a thin unkempt looking, moped driving, very familiar guy coming out of the gate. He had a bluish-green bag slung over his shoulder, sandals on his feet and a beard that needed a good trimming.
This was Prashant-the son of the current CS of Pondicherry and someone I had met briefly last year through Rahul.
We exchange startled abuse laden greetings. Prashant is a graduate of the Jamia Millia Mass Comm Institute and is here trying to make some sort of a documentary in Auroville. Every morning, he mopeds off to Auroville, does his stuff and mopeds back. He knows no one here and over the course of a conversation conducted perched on a Yamaha and a moped, I discover that he is a keen tennis player too. Add the fact that his father happens to be the de facto head of the Pondicherry Govt and the locked gates of the tennis court open magically.
Prashant is like no one I've ever met. Of course, all my acquaintainces thus far have been variants of book toting, trivia spouting, occassional partying medical students so Prash, as he likes to be called, is a complete breath of fresh air. He talks wisely, has his fundas clear. Apart from making his documentary, which I discover is just an excuse for him to visit Pondicherry, he is doing nothing and has nothing planned. He is single and loving it. He just goes with the flow.
And he plays tennis.
What can be better?
Pondicherry-a mad medley of bikes, scooters, cycles, the odd car and the all-important-pedestrian. A town of crazy traffic, duty free alcohol, ambrosiac food and an old world charm that refuses to be cowed down by the chaos and randomness of a growing, pulsating, alive seaside city. A town steeped in French heritage, a town of dosas and sausages, toddy and Bordeaux (often in the same shop), where names are still spelt as Anandakirouchanane and Latchoumibady and where you can get to the Romain Rolland Library via Ellaipillaichavady and Mission St.
I have another 10-11 months to go in this town and in this College and I now feel that I am a part of this place. Pondicherry-with all it's sights, sounds and that intangible feel, is now much more familiar to me than Chandigarh has ever been. For me Pondicherry has become a person-a city with a soul, a city, that, even when I am sober, I imagine welcoming me back every time I return from a trip back home.
The RHC posting, with it's siesta afternoons and lazy evening bike rides gives me ample opportunities to be contemplative and dreamy. I know that this phase will end soon, in April to be precise, when I will enter the real world Internship of Medicine with it's endless night duties, torturous ward rounds and a daily grind spent largely in collecting X-Rays and blood reports. For the time being though, Ashley and I spend many evenings wandering aimlessly in the areas around the Jipmer campus around Indira Nagar, and just beyond, in the wide empty spaces and fields still untouched by the growing house construction phenomenon that's becoming increasingly apparent over what were once verdant, untouched pieces of land.
Indira Nagar is a small housing colony just opposite to Jipmer campus and consists of pristine, well-kept double story independent houses resident to the bureuacratic machinery that governs Pondicherry. The name plates read like a Who's Who in Pondy Administration and at the end of this small lane lies the biggest house of them all, earmarked for the Chief Secretary of Pondicherry.
Just off this lane is a well maintained Tennis court, ostensibly used only by the Indira Nagar VIP residents and therefore, not at all. It is made of red clay and just begs to be played on. There is a net, the lines are well marked and the clay is well swept, but the gate is locked and I've never seen anyone play here. I am a keen tennis player and last year, in a fit of optimism and a fleeting desire for fitness, I had asked Dr Thapa, the Head of Dermat, if he could please get my tennis racket with him on his way back from a Conference in Chandigarh. And he had kindly obliged.
My racket-a beautiful, Wilson Pro Staff 95, 6.1 SI, was lying untouched in it's black case and here was this pristine tennis court lying unused with no one to play with, a court apparently reserved for the VIP's of Indira Nagar.
It was here, in the Chief Secretary's House, that I had lunched with Rahul 2 days prior to joining Jipmer and it was here, one late evening as I was staring at the tennis court, that I found myself face to face with a thin unkempt looking, moped driving, very familiar guy coming out of the gate. He had a bluish-green bag slung over his shoulder, sandals on his feet and a beard that needed a good trimming.
This was Prashant-the son of the current CS of Pondicherry and someone I had met briefly last year through Rahul.
We exchange startled abuse laden greetings. Prashant is a graduate of the Jamia Millia Mass Comm Institute and is here trying to make some sort of a documentary in Auroville. Every morning, he mopeds off to Auroville, does his stuff and mopeds back. He knows no one here and over the course of a conversation conducted perched on a Yamaha and a moped, I discover that he is a keen tennis player too. Add the fact that his father happens to be the de facto head of the Pondicherry Govt and the locked gates of the tennis court open magically.
Prashant is like no one I've ever met. Of course, all my acquaintainces thus far have been variants of book toting, trivia spouting, occassional partying medical students so Prash, as he likes to be called, is a complete breath of fresh air. He talks wisely, has his fundas clear. Apart from making his documentary, which I discover is just an excuse for him to visit Pondicherry, he is doing nothing and has nothing planned. He is single and loving it. He just goes with the flow.
And he plays tennis.
What can be better?
MAN ! i loved that guy
ReplyDeletepondicherry must be wreathed in huge smiles ..reading your blog and your love for the place.long live pondicherry and its effect on its people!!god to read abt prashant and tennis.
ReplyDelete