Ubiquitous soul...

Where are you? asks my dear friend and proofreader Denis.

To answer this I can say that I am undergoing an ubiquitous experience to the point that I feel I am here but I am also there.

The Cévenole monsoon - as we call it here - is in definite contrast to the suffocating and scorching heat of the Pondicherry summer, deprived of air and oxygen, quite literally. It isn’t like the Indian monsoon, which is special; the land absorbs the much-cherished rains and harvests it for the most difficult dry months.

A little bit of predictability in this uncertain world is reassuring.

Well, it’s not just regarding the vagaries of the weather. Pondicherry sweats in the heat of May, the mercury already crossing forty degrees adds to the new lockdown the “déjà vu” and the “I have had enough”! 

We are all aware of the present pandemic situation in India but unfortunately, some still view it as some kind of conspiracy. The North of India has been reeling under a catastrophic second wave since April and it has now passed on the pandemic flame to the South of India. The virus seems unstoppable. The cases in Pondicherry have doubled in the last few days. The news is unsettling; everything feels gloomy, recount my Indian friends and family. In the last few days, everyone has been hit personally.

Despite all the government promises to revive the economy, Pondicherry and Tamil Nadu have settled in to an unusual never seen before calm. No state has escaped sudden halt of the eternally lively Indian life. There has been complete and strict lockdown since Monday. Masks are back in use though they are rarely worn correctly. This was quite visible during my last ride on my red TVS. 

Streets are empty.

This evening, a policeman ruthlessly destroyed a Bhaji stand (a popular snack available on the street) belonging to a cheerful grocer on 66 Pappamal Koil Street. They even stopped all passersby who were trying to get some fresh air in front of their houses along the road in the evening.

My friend Bhawna messaged me today saying she was relieved to have got both her vaccine doses and that in our dear Pondy, everything was deserted and lifeless… This year she couldn’t go back to her house in Morni, a hill station at the foothills of Himalayas. 

Leaving is dying in some way… Edmond Haraucourt begins his poem “Rondel de l’adieu” with this famous verse highlighting that when we leave a place, we no longer belong to the realities of that place. This is precisely why my departures are always so moving and especially this one, which was initially scheduled for the end of May.

I decided to reschedule my departure, mainly for two reasons: to be sure of meeting my mother and to escape the onset of the second wave in the south of India, with all its implied restrictions. That’s how three weeks before my planned departure; I did a 9 hours long journey to reach Bangalore Airport. The bougainvillea are just beginning to bloom in early May. The same trip as last year in June looks like a hasty departure this time. However, what was so unique and exceptional for me then has now become almost a routine, despite all sorts of tests and paperwork involved in the process.

Thirty-six hours is a long journey after all… How has travelling changed since last year? Despite its set of restrictions, should we too travel in the modern times like the great travellers of the previous century? Alexandra David- Neel and Ella Maillart, my favorite travel writers, invite me to keep my eyes wide open to the worlds that I have the privilege of crossing.

How to understand this disrupted world, juggling between fear, suffering, and emergence?

At present, I am back in France, a period of transition for me through a quarantine in nature in an almost forgotten calm.

Ten days of being under the vigilance of civil security and the daily visit of kind and compassionate police personnel. The Ardèche spring offers me its idyllic landscape in my ten days of house arrest. 

 

A transition that unites the two worlds.

 

The fragrant roses along the paths traversed during the strict outing hours take me back to Laboratoire Senteurs in Pondicherry. Two hours of liberty every day to smell the scented roses here and to belong there, are among my favorite olfactory memories. I am particularly reminded of the scent of the small roses, of the process through which their petals were plucked with love and care to be distilled in an old and faithful still. 

My suitcases were stuffed with so many treasures packed to offer a little bit of India to those who have not travelled for one year now. Tourist visas are on hold at present.

My mom is counting days… Tested three times in two weeks, in five days I’ll be free…

But what does it mean to be free in 2021 ? 

 

Translated by Bhawna Singhmar. My favorite heroine...