Mother May I? Relaxing in the Sri Aurobindo Ashram – Pondicherry, India

Paul Theroux said that travel is only glamorous in retrospect. I was beginning to agree with him. After just three weeks in India, I was already worn out by the time I arrived in Pondicherry. I had been scammed by taxi drivers, touts and tour guides. I had argued bitterly with my travel companion whose usual gentle nature had turned unpredictable due to stress. And I had been sick and unable to go much beyond a hotel room for about a week.

I had also been growing more and more intrigued by what I might find in Pondicherry: a few sticks of rose incense for sale in a dusty shop, a thin book left behind in a hotel room, an old man in white robe gazing out from its cover. As I travelled through Tamil Nadu, these were the harbingers that announced the proximity of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, creators of calming incense and soothing prose whose industry and influence encloses the busy seaside town like a cocoon and spreads its web throughout India and beyond.

My travel companion had at least stopped being a source of anger but was now one of worry, he had grown quiet and his skin had taken on a distinctly yellowish tone, yet he was refusing to go to the doctor. By the time I stumbled into the reception area at the Park Guest House and put down my heavy backpack, subconsciously I was probably looking for more than just a hotel room. I wanted fluffy pillows, warm soup in short, someone to take care of me. That’s when I looked up and saw the Mother, her kindly face smiling down on me knowingly.

I don’t mean I saw my mother – she was safely back in Britain and isn’t the fluffy pillow type. Instead, this large photograph of a Frenchwoman, Mirra Alfassa Richard, known as the Mother, was sitting next to an equally large copy of the picture I had seen of the man in white robe. This was her companion, the guru Sri Aurobindo. They both looked wise and friendly and I felt strangely overeager to entrust myself to their care. Unfortunately, this wasn’t possible as they are deceased. The closest I could get was to avail myself of the various industries for tourists run by the ashram they founded.

The Park Guest House was the first of these. We checked in, got our room key and entered an oasis of calmness. We walked past beautiful gardens and a fish pond filled with lotus flowers. Small Indian children in school uniforms played contentedly on the lawn. The hotel’s blocks had names such as Harmony, Peace, and Beauty. Each had its own large balcony overlooking the gardens and the ocean beyond. We settled in and my friend promptly installed himself in bed. I made sure he had enough water and was comfortable. Then, having spent far too much time in hotel rooms already, I was off to find moderate adventure.

I strolled along the seaside promenade past groups of Indian tourists, bell-ringing ice cream vendors and women selling fruits from woven baskets. My first stop was the Sri Aurobindo ashram. There I felt a bit like a bull in a china shop in the small space where everyone else seemed to know exactly what they should be doing. Most of what they were doing, as far as I could see, consisted of stringing garlands of brightly colored flowers and placing them on the samadhi, or tomb, where the Mother and Sri Aurobindo are buried. There were also many people meditating and everyone was silent which made it difficult to ask any questions. I went back out, collected my shoes and asked the attendant where I could find out about organised tours. Auto care, he told me, and pointed to the top of the road.

Across a busy street I found a car repair service which on closer inspection also offered various Sri Aurobindo-related tours. There were trips to see their various industries in action, from printing presses and car repair to weaving and incense-making. I chose a tour of Auroville, an offshoot community of about 2,500 people located a few kilometers outside of town. I bought a ticket and, when the time came, joined a group of mostly Indian tourists on a dusty minibus and settled in to be shown the sites.

The great attraction on the Auroville tour was the Matrimandir, touted as the “soul of the city.” The structure, which I can only describe as an enormous golden golfball, contains the world’s largest artificial crystal, made in Germany. It also has a large amount of scaffolding held together with duct tape – the place has been “under construction” since 1971. The architect on the project was the Mother’s son-in-law, Roger Anger. Visitors were hurried in and out of the center at an alarming speed, which was okay with me, as I preferred to rest among the large banyan trees in the gardens outside.

The day nearly over, the tour’s grand finale involved a stop at a nearby beach for the sunset. Several Indian ladies among the group waded out into the ocean to knee level, leaving their saris to drown modestly in the surf. A young boy produced a shrunken beach ball from his pocket, a man blew it up and they began to play. I sat on the sand and watched the people in the fading light. I felt at peace, but not the structured peace that could be sold or bartered to tourists by any institution. Instead it was the peace that comes from sitting quietly and watching India unfold.

That evening, I ventured out for dinner even though the ashram warns its visitors not to eat anywhere but in their dining hall. Don’t tell the Mother, but near the Park Guest House in the old colonial neighborhood, you’ll find a pair of good restaurants, one called Le Club serving tasty but pricey French and Indian food – the other a more casual place, IndoChine, whose Thai and Vietnamese food is a delicious bargain.

The Sri Aurobindo Ashram really is equipped take care of you if that’s what you truly want. I quote from their web site: “The Ashram provides its members with all they need for a decent and healthy life.”

But for me, I chose to make my own way. The next day, I was ready to pick up my dirty backpack and move on. My friend, no longer a sickly yellow, agreed.