Ok, so I was stuck in some kind of Bohemian bad dream, in weather that made Hurricane Katrina seem like a light shower. I was confined to a room with a fan that made a horrible thrumming sound every time it rotated and thanks to this unthinkable eco-toilet contraption in my bathroom, I had spent the past 48 hours being forced to endure the stench of my own excreta. Yes my friends, I really was knee-deep in shit. But I was not going to let this defeat me.
Convinced there was more to this place than the pseudo-spiritual bullshit I’d encountered so far, I made plans to escape. I want to discover the real Auroville and meet a cooler group of people than the woolly sock and sandal set that I was currently being held captive with.
I headed over to reception to see if I could get someone to shed a little light on the situation but all I got were a few hostile grunts about the monsoon buggering everything up. No shit, Sherlock.
I was about to give up and succumb to another day of staring at the four walls of my insect-ridden room, when I spotted a small poster on a nearby noticeboard advertising the services of a local guide called Ganesh. Perfect. I called the number listed and got through to a very chirpy sounding fellow. He spoke perfect English, which was a first and I was delighted when he agreed to come and pick me up later that day. Halle-frickin-lujah!
We’d arranged to meet at 1pm outside the front gate of my hotel. So at 1pm sharp I waded over and took up my position. The rain was lashing down, but I didn’t care. A few minutes later, I spotted a man trudging up the path. I promptly launched myself at him, repeatedly shrieking “Ganesh?” but neither his confused reaction nor his complete inability to comprehend me would convince me he was anyone other my man. He was carrying a hose, which I thought was a bit odd. It was only when he stomped off indignantly, muttering something in Hindi under his breath that the penny dropped. He was the hotel gardener and I’d scared seven shades of shit out of him.
Undeterred, I returned to my waiting post and proceeded to scream “Ganesh?” at pretty much everything that moved, including a toothless old woman, a small child and two stray dogs. Half an hour later, feeling hoarse and wetter than an otter’s pocket, I was about to throw in the towel, when I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. Ganesh had finally arrived. Togged up to the teeth in Gortex, looking like some kind of hermetically sealed swashbuckler, he beckoned me on to the back of his bike.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I sort of expected my guide to turn up in something with a few more wheels…and a roof. I’ve never been on a bike before, nor have I ever had the inclination to give the experience a go. But I hopped on anyway. And so, clinging to Ganesh’s waist like a fossilised limpet, my white-knuckle tour of Auroville began.
We travelled the length and breadth of the city for nearly 2 hours, passing through thriving villages with affected names like “Tranquility”, “Serenity” and “Acceptance”, taking in the mixed landscape which stretched through forest and woods, across rivers and lakes, right the way down to the beach overlooking the Bay of Bengal. Unfortunately, a combination of g-force, the forbidding wall of rain, along with the thwacking sound my wet hair made every time it hit my face, rendered Ganesh pretty inaudible, so I had no idea what he was trying to tell me about these places. Still, I found the whole thing exhilarating.
The key site on Ganesh’s itinerary was a whacking great golden sphere, which looked as though it was literally rising out of the earth. It was called “Matramandir” and it was located in a suburb called “Peace”. Covered in 2 million discs of 24-carat gold leaf it was one of the most jaw-dropping structures I had ever seen. It was the vision of Auroville’s founder, a woman they referred to as the “Mother” and I was told it represents the soul of the city, where Aurovillans could come and “find their consciousness”. It was magnificent and I wanted to go in. But the blasted monsoon had put paid to that too. It was closed.
I was a sopping, filthy mess. Clumps of matted, wet hair had congealed into a kind of soggy wet helmet, which delivered a rather endearing frame for my mud-spattered face. And I was particularly delighted that my sodden form was now a huge source of amusement for Ganesh. But taking pity on me, he suggested we stop at the Visitor’s Centre so that I could freshen up and relax over a cup of hot chai. The impact of my grand entrance into the crowded café was instant – I literally turned heads as I squished my way through the place. A few weeks ago this would have paralysed me with embarrassment, but amazingly, I was perfectly comfortable with all the strange looks I was getting. In fact I didn’t give a tinker’s cuss!
I was really starting to warm to Ganesh too. He was smart, funny and seemed a lot older and wiser than his 26 years. He was really striking – and pretty tall for an Indian, with a perfect set of flawless white teeth. He cut quite a dash. I found out that he had been born and raised here and over the years had seen countless, Western enlightenment chasers come and go. He kept his opinion of them fairly neutral and said he liked his life here. But I could tell he was starting to find it all a bit claustrophobic. He wanted to experience the world beyond and was hungry for the details of my life in the UK. We spent hours chatting and drinking chai - Ganesh was wonderful company.
We set off for my guesthouse as the sun was setting. The rain had stopped, so we rode at a leisurely pace, taking in the colourful landscape. Auroville really was a beautiful place. I wanted to pay Ganesh for his time, but he was having none of it. We were friends now, he told me.
And Thanks to my new friend, I had had the best day in India so far. I still found Auroville a bit peculiar, but I was beginning to quite like it here. Nevertheless, the monsoon was driving me crazy. I decided it was time to move on. With plans to escape the rain, I went to bed. Tomorrow I would head for the hills.
No comments:
Post a Comment