OPENING CREDITS
Tell me your password and I’ll tell you who you are. My brother-in-law’s old computer password was “riskinlife123”.
Dennis Gabriel Amon, 42, is Executive Secretary to a she-devil by day, and a tech maven, automobile aficionado, and culinary connoisseur by night.
Trust him to convince his wife, kids, and sister-in-law to throw reason to the fishy twilight winds of Kovalam Beach, cobble together their travel bags, and road-trip from Chennai to Pondicherry just 30 minutes shy of midnight; and score a connecting room at Signature Inn at 5 a.m. after 2 hours of wandering in streetlight and shadows.
From afar, Mariette and I wouldn’t appear to have much in common. She’s 5’2, I’m 5’8”. She married at 22, I’m single at 22. She has two human children, I have two cats. She was born in the mid-80s, I was born in the late 90s. She’s the second oldest grandchild, I’m the second youngest. She thinks Pondicherry is all booze and beaches, I think it’s a cultural utopia.
Zoom in, and you might see the resemblances. Both of us have big dreams and small bank accounts. Both of us dream of Canadian grass under Indian skies.
She knows the Francophile in me has been pining for Pondicherry ever since I discovered a certain park on Google Maps.
Here’s to the older cousins who take the not-so-little younger ones to parks 161 km from home just to see them smile.
I’m not as old as their parents and not as young as them, which puts me in an interesting position. They were horrified to learn that I am biologically their aunt because I am their preferred playmate/sleepover buddy, and possibly their favorite home cook.
When they learned of my Pondicherry dreams, Daniel and Philip egged their their parents on until they caved. They keenly listened to the litany of my packing list, maneuvered themselves till akimbo when our backsides deflated, and found humor in being stranded under a streetlight without a hotel at 3 a.m.
I believe—as you will soon—that they have a good shot at a photography career.
SIGNATURE INN
When outsiders and first-timers think “Chennai”, their minds latch on to the Nungambakkam-Adyar belt. Similarly, when you think “Pondicherry”, you picture White Town and Heritage Town and streets with exotic nomenclature. You probably don’t know where Kottakuppam is. This was where we halted, in the middle of a majestic thunderstorm, for my nephews to take a leak. Little did we know that they were ceremonially marking a spot to which we would desperately and gratefully return.
Signature Inn is the dark horse of hotels. Located in a labyrinthine neighborhood, it overlooks a swamp, a nondescript street, and some roofs. But don’t let the outside fool you.
The reception seemed to be undergoing a color palette identity crisis with its maroon seats and purple throw pillows. The wall featured a hand-drawn gallery of tourist attractions.
At 5 in the morning, our masks served to contain our halitosis rather than filter the virus.
Philip’s inaugural gesture in Room 112 was a resounding fart in the closet. Daniel miraculously forfeited his phone to ask me why the colonizers sailed to India. In the minty air of the bedroom, warmed by the gentle light of clay sconces, we told stories, watched YouTube videos, and drifted off to sleep.
OUR LADY OF THE ANGELS CATHEDRAL
Our Lady of the Angels defies the blue-and-white chromatic identity of most Marian churches, at least on the outside.
With its cantaloupe and cornsilk exterior, it could pass for a Sacred Heart church. The interior is blue and white with gold highlights. The seemingly disparate colors actually lend themselves to a lovely interpretation: the intimacy between Jesus and Mary. Two color schemes, same wall; two persons, same flesh.
Blue, white, and gold are also the colors of French heraldry, possibly inspired by the Marian esthetic. Color speaks volumes in Pondicherry, and here it seems to say, “Protégé of Mary, property of France.”
P.S. No points for guessing what Stella Maris College’s colors are and why.
JOAN OF ARC PARK
The whole reason I was pining for a Pondicherry trip was a certain park with a certain statue. I couldn’t get in, but I just stood at the gate looking at her with a mixture of awe and sorrow. Awe because of her life, sorrow because of her death.
How do we go from heretic to heroine, from sorceress to saint, from stake to statue?
Dear Joan,
There are women like me because there were women like you.
You’re not just France’s heroine. You’re mine too.
PONDICHERRY MUSEUM
As someone who loves history and culture, my lukewarm disposition towards museums surprises me. There’s just too much to see—quantitatively and psychologically. Coins we exchanged with one another, pistols and swords with which we killed one another, urns in which we buried one another.
In the vitrine, you see yourself, a thing of the present, and behind it, the relics of the past, and wonder for a moment which of you is out of place.
P.S. Everyone gangsta until yo’ nephews ask why the statues ain’t wearin’ no clothes.
BHARATHI PARK
The cannons lie asleep on the grass. Cannonblast and fanfare have segued into rustling and birdsong. Where the roads were darkened red with blood, they are now brightened red with gulmohar petals. Imagine standing before a cannon, and not being afraid to die.
WHITE TOWN
White Town is colorful. You’d think the sun shines through a prism on this place.
Villas are yellow like mango flesh, pink like snapper skin, grey like pigeon wing.
SACRED HEART BASILICA
There’s a belief of uncertain widespreadness that, upon entering a church for the first time, you can pray three Our Father’s, three Hail Mary’s, and three Glory Be’s, and make three wishes. When Mariette told Philip this in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, he was crushed. “But I don’t know the words to the prayers!” he lamented.
Oh dear child, if only you heard the sweet sound of two hearts in love, you would abandon words forever.
PONDICHERRY BEACH
Two lighthouses watched as the sky dyed the bay blue and freckled her with gold. The lacy hem of the bay’s garment tickled the land that turned several shades darker. They watched as twilight turned people into silhouettes who, like the wicks of dying candles, or lumps of live coal, were occasionally luminous.
Drifting Dandelion 