Read Nocturne Pondicherry review here.
Night fell gently on the town. People walking on the seaside, lazily headed home in small groups, chatting with each other, or alone, dreaming of a better tomorrow. Wandering vendors were tired at the end of the day, pushing their carts wearily back home, looking sadly at the goods that were not sold.
From Nehru Street came the metallic sound of shop shutters slamming, the electric signboards switched on like dead stars in an imaginary sky. Soon, dogs would start barking to echo the sighs of miserable people looking for forbidden fruit at night. Rats would come out of gutters and run through the arteries of the town and rummage further into their night feast in cemented dustbins.
The sounds of the city died slowly to make way for the enigmatic murmurs of the night. The nocturnal face of Pondicherry is a secret meant only for lost souls like Bharat. Lost souls like him can be found everywhere. They come out only at night, cursed to kiss its hideous face. The deserted streets become the macabre stage where shadows produce their skeletal and ephemeral music. Footpaths look like graveyards from where Pondicherry emerges, taking off its veil to embrace the dark blanket of sins. Cadavers, homeless people, unfortunates indulge in dirty pleasure in the span of the night under an ethereal sky. Vagabonds, thugs, prostitutes, beggars, thieves, drug addicts get ready to seize power in the kingdom of debauchery.
Bharat went towards the railway station. He had just left Liberty Hotel but was already thirsty. Luckily, he had carried his quota for the night. He tapped a few bottles of Old Monk tucked away in the folds of the kaili around his waist with satisfaction. He looked for a good place where he could hide and drink. Even though it was late, the railway station was full of life. Passengers from train number 16115 coming from Chennai Egmore poured out of the exit to take auto-rickshaws or meet those who had come to welcome them. The place was brightly lit and full of movement. Bharat decided to go a bit further. He went his way, zig-zagging and stopped to look at the deserted Muslim quarters. Dogs barked and a beggar’s voice floated in the air. Bharat opened his bottle and took a big gulp. He suddenly had a tremor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rum trickling down from his lower lip. He confidently walked towards the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
It had been one week since Bharat was roaming around the streets of Pondicherry. He still had not found the house. He could not remember where he lived any more. Ever since his wife had left him, he was in a drunken coma and had not returned home. He woke up at odd hours on the footpath and instinctively went to the nearest bar. He had no time to think as he fell in the treacherous arms of alcohol, roaming the streets of the entire town, having forgotten where he actually lived. But for the past two days, he would stop at the same place. Drunk and tired, some hand of destiny brought him to the same abandoned house that he had started believing belonged to him. The rickshaw pullers’ snoring enveloped the silent neighbourhood. Big rats looking for food in the middle of the street ran towards the gutter as Bharat arrived. They ran, screeching angrily, waking up the dog that was sleeping under the rickshaw. About to bark, the dog moved his ears but kept quiet. He recognised the footsteps of his new master. Since this man had come, he did not have to starve at night anymore. That was the end of roaming around the neighbourhood on an empty stomach. He no longer had to beg at the tea stall on Gandhi Road or in the Muslim quarter, where competition was tough.
The newcomer spoilt him with things he had never eaten in his long and miserable life. He whimpered with joy and recognition without leaving his place. He would have loved to go and rub against the stranger. He decided not to, because he did not know what to expect. The dog remembered the last kick that had thrown him against the broken wall of the house. He just stayed there and looked over, half suspicious, half friendly. The man stopped at the rickshaw, bent over and beckoned the dog to come closer. His hunger disappeared, giving way to an insurmountable joy. He wagged his tail frenetically. The man touched the tip of the dog’s head who came out whining.
Bharat and the animal went silently towards the dilapidated house. Bharat walked in the shadows towards a room that was still strangely intact. The old bedroom did not have an entrance door, but three walls were still upright. A mat was spread along the walls on which an old, yellowed picture of Mecca was hanging. Some utensils, a trunk containing some belongings led one to believe that this otherwise spacious house was today reduced to one single room without a wall or roof. Bharat took the mat, unfolded it and sat down. He took an aluminium plate and put a packet of food on it. He had bought this meal from a street vendor on Mullah Street. There was no need to open it. The dog had already smelt the paaya kal. Drooling, he moved around the plate of food whining.
The man was in a good mood and happily opened the newspaper packet. The dog was on the verge of devouring the first bone when a shadow stopped in front of the house. The dog looked disturbed. He looked at Bharat, then at the plate and finally at the shadow. He did not know whether he should bark, eat or pretend like nothing had happened. Bharat’s inquisitive look forced him to bark. Having noticed his master’s satisfied face, the dog barked even louder. A few seconds later, a stone hit him hard on the side.
Excerpted with permission from Nocturne Pondicherry by Ari Gautier. Publisher: Hachette India. Excerpt permission/obtained via author Ari Gautier.