Nocturne Pondicherry: Ari Gautier Brings Unseen French Part Of India

A postman struggles to deliver the last letter on his last day of work. A prostitute elopes with the auto-rickshaw driver who arranged clients for her. An inspector discovers the dead body of the boy he had an altercation with the previous evening. In seven riveting stories, Ari Gautier peels back the layers of human emotions until glimpses of greed, anger and lust can finally reveal themselves. Unsettling and irresistible, Nocturne Pondicherry is an all too realistic collection where mundane situations - featuring common people, ill-fated street dwellers and hapless immigrants - pull readers in and fling them into the abyss.

Here's an excerpt from Ari Gautier's Nocturne Pondicherry

It was around noon. The mighty sun unleashed its tyrannical heat over the city. Its burning rays rolled down like balls of fire on the rare onlookers lurking around the deserted streets.



Pondicherry wore its ghostly mask with the metallic sound of store shutters coming down in Nehru Street. Stray dogs that still had the energy to walk flocked along the canal, tongues hanging out, looking for food that people threw into round cement dustbins along the road. Kumar moved forward aimlessly on Komutti Street. He covered his face with the end of the thundu wrapped around his head. The stifling heat slowed him down as he approached one of the three streets that went around the Chetty Temple, inhabited by the Chettiar community.

Within a few days, Kumar’s poor but peaceful life had become a living hell. His old parents, not wanting to be a burden, had killed themselves by consuming datura. The rest of the family had usurped the old shanty with its small piece of land on the pretext of covering an unpaid debt. They had then thrown him out of the community of potters.

Kumar could have stayed in the village only if he had inherited his ancestral profession. But his father wanted him to have a better future by sending him to school instead of teaching him the trade. Kumar had been punished by his community because he was educated. With no family, no work and no home, the young man joined the bandwagon of homeless people whose only purpose was to find a handful of rice and a place to sleep.

‘Amma! A drop of water, please!’ Just as she sat on the teak swing in the middle of the thalvaram, Kirtana heard a hesitant voice from the street. She put the Kumudam magazine on the swing hanging from the ceiling and went towards the kitchen.

She stood on tiptoe to grab the glass meant ‘for others’. Just as she turned towards the entrance, her mother came forward carrying a pot full of water.

‘Chi, chi! Po! Po! This thinnai is not for people like you! Go somewhere else! We don’t have any water!’ screamed the mother, emptying the jug over the thinnai. Kumar did not have time to react. The water touched his feet and flooded his dirty kaili. He jumped off the thinnai and ran away. He would have fallen off the footpath had he not gripped one of the wooden columns supporting the cemented tile roof. He was about to leave when a silhouette, accompanied by the sound of a kolusu, came forward.

‘You are disgusting, Ma! You preferred wasting a whole jug of water on the thinnai to chase that man away instead of quenching his thirst with just a glass of water!’ exclaimed Kirtana, looking at her mother angrily.

She went down the three small steps and gave the glass to the young man. Her mother charged down and snatched the glass from her daughter, putting it down noisily on the thinnai. Two or three drops of water spilled out of the aluminium glass and fell on the wet floor.

‘If you want to give him water, put it on the ground. Since when have we started going close to these people?’ The mother and the daughter looked at each other defiantly, ignoring the presence of the poor young man who did not know what to do.

‘Wait until your father comes. You don’t listen to anybody! You do whatever you want!’ mumbled her mother, going back into the house. Kirtana watched her go. She made sure her mother was at a distance before holding out the glass to Kumar who looked embarrassed.

‘It’s all right. You can put it on the thinnai. I’ll take it myself.’ The young girl pretended not to listen and came closer to him. Kumar bent over and took the glass in his hand. He then placed his right hand a few centimetres from his mouth, threw his head back, without touching the glass with his lips.

His Adam’s apple went up and down to the rhythm of the water flowing down like a torrent. A small trickle went down his lips. Wiping his mouth, he gave the empty glass back to the young girl.

‘Do you want some more?’ asked Kirtana.

‘Thank you. May God bless you!’ he said, shaking his head to say no, hands folded in gratitude.

Kirtana took the glass. When she reached the entrance, she turned back towards the young man. ‘If you are tired, you can rest on the backseat of the rickshaw,’ she said, pointing towards the vehicle tied to one of the columns, and went back into the house without waiting for an answer.

Uncertain, the young man looked around. A few men and women sitting on the thinnai of the neighbouring houses looked at him with pity. A few were chatting, while others took a nap. They were servants who worked for the ashramites for twelve to fifteen hours a day and were now resting.

‘Since she has given you permission, why don’t you go and sit on the rickshaw? You look tired. This Chettiar Amma does not have a heart. Go and rest,’ said the old woman, stretching her legs out and chewing betel.

Extracted with permission from Ari Gautier's Nocturne Pondicherry, translated by Roopam Singh; and published by Hachette India