Project Pondy

Like good movies and Tiramisu, holidays in VIT are a rarity celebrating their profound uniqueness. They stand out in the academic calander as would a floral south Indian shirt in front of a grey building. We, like starved hounds pounded on this opportunity, and decided without much preamble to settle for a trip to the french colonised land of beaches, Pondicherry. So Lord KronoS, PK, J, Siddhant and me, the entourage, proceeded towards unknown waters.

The place was 5 hours and 2 buses away. The journey started piling incidents worth narrating rightaway. The first bus was a preposterous collection of people, due to their sheer number. And as J reassures, the fantasy movie being played in an alien tongue was actually a Vijay starring Tamil blockbuster. The movies itself deserves a blog to its improbabilities and impossibilities.

After a tire replacement, in which we climbed the rear end wrungs of the bus and posed as, well, insanity stricken youth, we reach the humble township of Vellupuram. (After a while, they all sound the same, i swear...)The second bus was a documentary worthy Tamillion circus of obese contortionists in outrageous numbers and equally repulsive demeanor. We were, by some roll of fate, to stand throughout the journey. And what I say is not an exaggeration, but a mere approximation of the true payload the bus carried. Every jarring piece of metal clutched on for support, bodies pressed in directional and merciless unanimity. (A gentleman wearing a shirt looking at which itself was making me sweat in the conceivable heat it would generate, was flaunting his sleek chinese mobile with 2 screens, and cacaphonous speakers in a myriad of

Tamil chartbusters from the devil's personal playlist). The executive cattle class journey, bringing to question the bus's skeletal integrity and the conductor's morality ended in an hours time, leaving us off at the main bus stand, Pondicherry. Amen.

Lord KronoS, on his insistance, led us to Mission Street in a promise of "awesome food" and "2 wheelers for rent". Surviving the turmoil in the bus left us starved, so we chose to satiate our hunger, first. The intersecting streets were no respite to the caboodle of 5 hungry travellers, as they ended us going in circles, rather, rectangles, considering the geometry. All the restaurants, flaunting flashy names, were disappointing, in no particular order. Due to the Pongal holidays, all they served was South Indian thalis. And trust me, nothing kills appetite like the smell of curry leaves in every frikkin food item. Not having found any place to eat something we wouldn't get in Vellore itself, the next strategical move was to acquire our own conveyance. Bikes.

The 2 wheeler rental place was run by a demented local with serious management issues (In my defense, he ran to and fro from the stand to his "counter" some 30 metres apart to fetch the keys of the 3 bikes, once for each bike, which evades any logical approach to the situation...) After an hour and half of standing there with blank expressions and empty stomachs, he managed to, in exchange of 2 VIT ID cards and a Club card, give us 3 vehicles for 2 days. The Kinetic honda posed certain technical glitches while KronoS took charge of an Activa and Siddhant, of the Glamour (Considering his immodest fast track shades, i'd rather say pun intended... ;). I preferred to sit passive, and comment (and also navigate). After splitting involuntarily in the maze like roads, and fuelling the vehicles, we managed to regroup and headed off to "Gandhi Rock beach".

A misnomer, was soon evident. The statue of Gandhi in its black marble brilliance was not sporting the contemporary rock sign \m/. The "rock" in the name was of a more geological relevance than my musically inclined conscience had interpreted. And soon, the 5 were busy clicking off with their 2, 2, 5 and 9.3 megapixels. The breeze was ethereal. KronoS knew a good seaside restaurant there, and we headed to it without hesitation. Only to face disappointment at its personal best. The place was taken over by a handloom stall. Rats.

Another requisite was accomodation. KronoS, ad libbing, took charge and led us 10 kms from the city to Aurovil beach. Then began a sporadic search for a room, and we crossed the Pondicherry Engineering College 5 times (One way, i.e), finally managing to reach a place that did have shelter. The more mentally sobre individual owning the place granted us two rooms for a valid sum. The super-friendly puppy, instigating my canine phobia, was not much consolation to the earlier homelessness we basked in. The accomodation consisted of 2 huts, supported on stone columns, made fully of wood, bamboo, dry grass and fisherman's ropes. The inside was a small space with 2 matresses, and a hanging table fan and single light source. Perfect, in all sense.

Orly cafe, a french restaurant (Discovered in a fit of explorative instincts, and the power of freedom bestowed by the two wheelers), with dim lights at night, in an intertwining locality, looked too arcane to dine in. So at last we found respite in another restaurant that served decent enough chicken and prawns.

The next day started off with a visit to the nearby Aurovil beach in the morning, minus the company of PK and J Sid. After a quick succession of camera clicks and sand wading, we returned to the shack. The friendly owner directed us to Orly cafe for breakfast, and we retraced the last night's path to it without delay. The place, in the morning brightness looked eniterly different now. With a menu spelt in Francais, and a monthly French newspaper lying on the table, the place was memorable, by all means. Ironically, they didn't have "French toast" on the menu, but compensated for by the godlike black filter coffee. All the people here, as opposed to Vellorians, turned out to be really soft spoken and kind. Asking for directions to the nearest beach, the Orly people told us of the "Fisherman's beach", soon to be the most memorable moment.

With boats upturned, shells pockmarking the sand, and waves crashing on the immodest rocks, the beach was perfect to our need, in the solitude it provided as opposed to the rouhaha in every other beach, littered garbage, quarter wits relieving themselves into the now timid ocean. Leaving my favorite oshos (Blending deviously into the sands) next to a boats carcass, I let the first waves caress my feet, wiping off the sand (not to mention making the next round of sand more sticky) and imparting a calm serenity. I devoured the breeze and the sparkling spray of ocean water, for a moment using only the sense of touch and olfactory faculties to comprehend my surroundings. This poetic reception of the moment was hacked into by the shouts of the rest, frolicking in jolly abandon, piercing the cresendoal cadenza of the incoming waves. We did what any visitor to the place would, and rather than sitting on the rocks contemplating the theories of chaos and determinism, in nature's meditative manifests, (as would a localite reading well his philosophy and metaphysics), we produced our cameras and cell phones and clicked away in a frenzy of photographic documentation of the trip. Some memorable, modest, immodest, obstreperous, genuine, forced, illogical, pure imbecile poses later, having traversed the length of the enclosure between two jarring rock accumulations, the next move was to sobre up, and vacate the shack we crashed in. After a frantic search for the kinetic key in the infinitive expanse of the cottage for around 45 mins, and finding it lying in all humility, where KronoS had kept it, and having forgotten due to "untraceable reasons", we left for the city again, in search for good food, without much hope courtesy to the last days fallacy.

PK, now having taken charge of the mechanically dilapidated Kinetic, ridding J Sid of his obligation to navigate this mount of no consequence, and also being in a noob driver, was soon out of sight of the rearview mirrors, which already proclaimed that the objects in the glass were closer than they appeared, leading us to wonder exactly how far behind he must be. Glitches apart, we reached the seafood restaurant called "SEAWAY", ran in, and then walked out without much delay too, when they revealed they had only a couple of dishes, none to our liking. "Salt and Pepper", a better dine, provided for our hunger. (They charged us for just one Indian bread, while we had around 7, which was a nice gesture on their part). Finally, with leftover fuel in bikes, and time, in our hands, we dispersed into the labyrinthine roads of Mission street. KronoS and me, in search of my beloved Tiramisu, scathed the place of bakeries, and finally found one. As fate would have it, we did not find what we were looking for, and settled for a mild compensation, which actually turned out to be some cook's sad sense of humour, and thankfully, a strong espresso covered up the dessert folly.

Bus back to Vellore was a euphemised version of the previous buses we encountered, and people were more or less the same, visually and ethically. Somehow them being packed closer and closer does not seem to offend an iota of sensibility. Surrounded by more people than your vision registers, with them conversing and jeering in a language you don't understand, and your mind whispering to you that the next 5 hours will be spent in such specifications, is no respite. The familiar township of Vellore, once in sight, imparted a feeling of homeliness I never associated to it in conscience. The blue of the VIT FacB was nowhere close to the "blue" we associate to its workings. VIT, finally. Home (as of now, atleast).

Reminds me of a closed Knight's Tour on a chessboard of experiences and memories. And as we form the diamonds and squares, we collect memories that last forever, and confine ourselves into the experiences, immersing in them for an eternity, in some part of our minds, and hearts.

I take the final step into the hostel gate, staring at the face of a regular-VIT-nonchalant-Anna sitting on the guard desk, senses set to snooze.

Register entry. Back to room. Closed tour. Pun intended.

R.I.P

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