Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry, a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road in the middle and its occasional motor vehicle, an adjoining ten-foot pavement and its decorative pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.
A series of seven posts cover some aspects that most appealed to me and kept me preoccupied during the last five days.
Just when you think they’re taking a breather, a swelling oblong mound advances and eventually spills a milky thrash, disintegrating into a mosaic-like bubbly. Where does it get all the energy, you wonder. Perhaps from the complex carbs of the blue in the sugary horizon? Or from all the candy floss and ice cream vendors who might secretly feed it this side of the breakers?
Unlike the sea of the west coast, its eastern Coromandel counterpart seems rather unforgiving and stern, yet playful. No wonder then, that a gigantic Gandhi statue must stand at the promenade, smiling, as if walking.
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