It's about three in the afternoon, and the blistering South Indian sun is baking the remote temple town of Rameswaram. My friend Maddie and I have just found a spot of respite in the tree-shaded forecourt of a peaceful Sikh temple, set back from the town's main drag.
Less than an hour ago, we were coasting over windswept dunes and shallow bays in an all-terrain vehicle, exploring the eerie ruins of the melancholy ghost town of Dhanushkodi, a place literally wiped off the map by a devastating Christmas Eve cyclone in 1964.
And later tonight, I'll be boarding an overnight train for my twelve hour journey from vibrant Madurai to cacophonic Chennai for the end stage of my eight day romp around Tamil Nadu. It's been a frenetic and exciting string of adventures, with hardly a moment's rest. But now, in the serenely sleepy courtyard, Maddie and I are enjoying a rare, and welcome, quiet interlude.
Maddie is studying the contemporary food culture of Tamil Nadu, India's southernmost state, focusing on perceptions of diet change. As she explained to me, "I am interested in how people see their food habits in light of past and future, the local and the global."
I knew she would be the ultimate cicerone into a side of India the average tourist does not get to discover, so around mid-December, I began to seriously consider ringing in the Year of the Goat by visiting her. This seemed like perhaps my final chance, with Maddie wrapping up her field research while her current project approaches its end.
I was elated when my days off from work were approved, as I furiously researched destinations and attractions across the vast nation, all the while torturing Maddie with my endless questions.
Suggestions flowed freely from friends and acquaintances, and Maddie, of course, was always ready with the best guidance.
The latent promises of a pending trip solidified into bona fide exhilaration on January 15, when I confirmed and booked my flights. I'd fly Cathay in and out of Chennai, the fourth most populous metropolitan area in India, and also the closest international airport to Maddie's host city of Madurai.
Slowly an inter-India itinerary began to take shape: Maddie would meet me in Chennai, and we'd work our way south along the Coromandel Coast, through Mamallapuram and Pondicherry, eventually winding up in Madurai itself. From there, Maddie and I would part, as she stayed behind to finish her work, and I'd be left to my own devices to make it back to Chennai for my return flight.
But where else to stop on the way?
I had five options kicking about, of which I would have to choose only one. A few days later, after reading through travel blogs and various websites with the aim of narrowing down the possibilities, my list of potential locations just kept expanding.
Tanjore? Bangalore? Kanyakumari? Velore? Mysore? Tirucirappalli? Kodaikanal? Rameswaram?
One day, I sincerely hope to lay claim to having visited all of these places. But eventually I'd narrowed my choices for this first trip down to two. Tanjore, with its ancient ruined temple, seemed to make the most sense since it was en route back towards Chennai. But I was curiously intrigued by out-of-the-way Rameswaram, and especially by the images flickering in my brain of the desolate, deserted ruins of Dhanushkodi a few miles away.
I had five options kicking about, of which I would have to choose only one. A few days later, after reading through travel blogs and various websites with the aim of narrowing down the possibilities, my list of potential locations just kept expanding.
Tanjore? Bangalore? Kanyakumari? Velore? Mysore? Tirucirappalli? Kodaikanal? Rameswaram?
One day, I sincerely hope to lay claim to having visited all of these places. But eventually I'd narrowed my choices for this first trip down to two. Tanjore, with its ancient ruined temple, seemed to make the most sense since it was en route back towards Chennai. But I was curiously intrigued by out-of-the-way Rameswaram, and especially by the images flickering in my brain of the desolate, deserted ruins of Dhanushkodi a few miles away.
Common sense won out, I'm afraid. I booked a hotel in Tanjore, resigned to include Rameswaram on one of those promised return visits.
On the sixth of February, the immigration authorities approve my visa. Now all there is to do? Make it to my departure gate on time... and survive a harrowing final week at work, as visions of exotic India dance about, occupying the bulk of my thoughts.
I finally land around 1am on February 14, collecting my Visa on Arrival—and waiting for what seems a tortuously long time for my suitcase to arrive on the baggage carousel—before finding the driver holding a placard with my name printed upon it. "You're actually in India," I keep telling myself, gazing out the windows as the taxi makes its way to my guest house.
Months of planning, now finally here. Ironically, the first thing I do is fall asleep after a quick shower. But I want to be ready for what promises to be a full day.
I awake several hours later to a familiar voice outside the door. It's 6am; Maddie has arrived; our adventure is about to begin!
We waste no further time. Out for a morning stroll in the verdant Royapettah neighborhood, I'm bemused and fascinated by every doorstep, building, sari and street. "Each day, the women of Tamil Nadu scrub the ground in front of their home and use rice flower to make an auspicious design on the threshold, called a kolam," Maddie explains. And they are everywhere.
We spend our first day gallivanting around Chennai, to the historic Connemara Hotel (now operated by the Taj group) and then to a charming cafe and boutique called Amethyst, where, ensconced in their picture-perfect garden, Maddie and I linger over our cappuccinos and a shared slice of lemon cake. At both places, it's as if we've left the bustle of twenty-first century India behind and stepped into a tableau vivant straight out of the bygone Raj.
Leaving the garden, it's back to the grit and reality of modern-day Chennai. We bargain with an auto-rickshaw driver to take us to the Egmore district, where I'm bent on seeing the colonial-era railway station I've read about in an eloquent New York Times article appraising the city's architecture. "With its towers capped with domed partitions..." the author writes, "there can be few places that provide quite so enchanting a locale from which to catch a train."
It does not disappoint.
Chennai Egmore is a massive structure, at once impressive on a grand scale yet simultaneously intimate in its details. The building is a superb illustration of the Indo-Saracenic style combining characteristics of Mughal, Indian and Victorian architecture. Crimson and white blend exquisitely on its resplendent façade, with intricately embellished arches supported by elegant pillars and topped off with overhanging eaves. Those distinctive domed chhatris do indeed lend an air of enchantment.
This stateliness clashes magnificently with the commotion of the streets abutting the station, teeming with all sorts of activities. Vendors peddle their wares. Restaurateurs try to entice us in to their cafes. Cars, buses, auto-rickshaws, mopeds and pedestrians all share the same space, dust kicked up in the air as they whiz past. It's a lot to take in, and I love it.
Maddie thinks the Government Museum is nearby, and as it's another one of Chennai's attractions I've got my heart set on seeing, we head off on foot. It's farther than we expect, but the surroundings make for a fascinating stroll.
The exhibits themselves seem a bit unloved, somewhat shopworn, certainly past their prime. Clearly, this museum has seen better times. All the same, it has a faded grandeur and ebbing beauty that makes it more or less effortless to picture yesteryear's glory days. There are some beautiful bronzes, dignified portraits and peaky taxidermic beasts. But again, it's the architecture of the buildings themselves that fascinates me most.
I particularly love the shuttered National Art Gallery, closed for over a decade but a sight to behold from the outside. Fronted by a rust-colored stone façade with an imposingly high entrance, the gallery looks like the portal of an ancient shah's palace. True, we have to crane our necks, peek between slits in a fence, and wade through weeds to properly appreciate the structure. But if the telltale signs of renovation works are what they appear to be, it seems a future trip to Chennai might see the long-closed gallery once again fit for business.
At this point, we've worked up an appetite, and Maddie knows just the place for a proper South Indian repast. She takes me to a nearby branch of Hotel Saravana Bhavan, a renowned chain of high quality vegetarian eateries.
She orders herself something off the a la carte menu, but speaks to the waiter in Tamil and shoots me a look that tells me I'm in for a true smorgasbord. Rice and rice noodles are placed in the middle of a well worn pewter tray, and several miniature bowls filled with delectable chutneys and other unknown delicacies are dropped before me. If I want more of anything, I just need to ask.
I'm supposed to use the fingers of my right hand only to mix the contents of the bowls with the rice, forming a sort of glob that I must transfer from tray to mouth. And I feel like all eyes are watching, wondering how I'll do. Of course, upon closer inspection, the other diners are much too immersed in their own lunches to care. It's only really Maddie (and maybe the occasional waiter) who is interested in appraising my dexterity.
Maddie tells me what each item is, but I'm so overwhelmed it's difficult to keep my sambars, chutneys and vadas straight. All I know is everything is delicious.
Even eaten with a fork, this meal would have been a standout. The various combinations are piquant and tasty, and the rice is, oddly, the perfect vessel to fully appreciate each one. Mixed with the added novelty of getting to eat it with my fingers, it's downright spectacular. And though I don't know it yet, it's just the first of many meals that will awaken a passion for South Indian cuisine.
This is really all of Chennai I'll get to see for now, though I will be back at the tail end of my trip to fly home. I was warned by a good friend, "Land, and get the hell out," yet—so far at least—I can't understand why. Of course, I'm in no way ready for this trip to be over; nevertheless, I'm certainly eager to inspect more of this fascinating metropolis.
Back at the guest house, we collect our bags and hop in another auto-rickshaw to the bus station, where we must catch the government-run intercity bus to our next stop: Mamallapuram. I never thought boarding a bus could be a grand adventure. But this is just that.
A crowd of people surges forward taking Maddie and me along with it as the mint green vehicle approaches, me desperately trying to keep hold of my clunky suitcase. The bus hardly even stops. In fact, more accurately, it just slows down as people hop on and off. In the blink of an eye, we are no longer on the street. We're cruising out of the city, and my heart is racing. I don't recall any thought process; I can't tell you how suitcase, backpack and I all make it on safely. Somehow, I've just gone with the flow, and now we are on our way.
Arriving in Mamallapuram is, to be honest, dismaying. The past string of hours—my introduction to a curious and entirely new country unlike anything I've yet encountered—has been noisy, dusty, chaotic, wonderful. Bumping southward along East Coast Road on the local bus seemed like an appropriately adventurous continuation of the experience.
So to suddenly be walking down a sandy road lined with beachy souvenir shops (and populated by white tourists sporting Ray-Bans and Havaianas) is not quite what I want right now. It feels jarringly pedestrian, not unlike places I've been in the Caribbean, Thailand and the Philippines.
My disappointment doesn't last long. In fact, it completely vanishes when, from the rooftop patio of Sea Waves, our guesthouse, I glimpse the ancient, weather-beaten Shore Temple standing proud over crashing waves.
True, Mamallapruam might feel somewhat familiar to me, but it's still distinctly Indian. And as Maddie and I explore the beach, where cows compete with fishing boats for prime waterfront real estate and a beautiful sun is about to set on our day, India has just taught me her first lesson: just roll with the punches, and you'll be stunned. The juxtaposition is actually perfect, a succinct summation of the diversity that exists here, and an enticing hint of just how much there really is to explore in this new land.
By the skin of our teeth, we arrive at the Madras Crocodile Bank Trust for its nocturnal Saturday night safari. Although the whole guided tour is informative and captivating, there is one moment that literally takes my breath away. One I'll remember long after this night has ended.
We're told to approach a particular railing and look out over the blackness, holding a flashlight at exactly the level of our own eyes. Before I've done it myself, I can hear gasps, oohhs and aahhs from the other dozen or so visitors on our safari. But I can't imagine what I'm about to see.
As I gaze out into the still night, hundreds of green balls are glowing before me, the eyes of over four hundred crocodiles lingering in a pond under the moonlight. I pass the flashlight to Maddie so she too can understand. Now I'm no longer able to discern the creatures, but when I hear her reaction a moment later, I know exactly what she's seeing.
An Indo-French dinner of tuna salad, fish curry and a banana-Nutella crepe completes the evening, followed by a short rooftop nightcap. But it's early to bed so we can be early to rise in the morning for our up-close visit to Mamallapuram's famed ruins.
Of course I take an early morning walk on the beach and around the side streets before we seek out the ancient stone temples. Maddie stops for a coffee along the way, as we head towards Krishna's Butterball, a huge balancing rock that seems precariously perched on the side of a steep slope.
We explore the Five Rathas, Arjuna's Penance and, at last, that photogenic Shore Temple. We buy some ice cream in the late morning heat, and in a moment of weakness, offer one to a local girl who's come up to try to sell us her jewelry. Seconds later, we are surrounded by countless other children who want their own treat. It's difficult to say no, but we manage to walk away and head back to the guesthouse.
We've made friends with our next-door neighbors at Sea Waves, Parag and Sonica, tourists from Delhi who are visiting Tamil Nadu for the first time. They, too, are headed to Pondicherry in the afternoon. But first, they invite us to join them for a coffee on Mamallapuram's main street.
There's one more thing on my list before we can head off, though. And that's to indulge in a simple, fresh seafood lunch on the water. The whole fish we order is just what I have dreamed about, and the view of the distant Shore Temple crowns this second pitch-perfect lunch.
It's beginning to feel a bit like a whirlwind tour, but it's already time to check out of Sea Waves and catch the bus to our next stop. I've been in India for barely thirty-six hours, and we're about to hit city number three.
I arrive in Pondicherry almost unbelievably, indescribably excited.
You see, India only seriously appeared on my travel radar in 2012 when I saw Life of Pi in a Singapore movie theater. The film's early scenes seemed too cinematically perfect to be real. They must, I imagined, have been filmed on some studio back lot, not on location. Surely a place such as Pi's Pondicherry could not actually exist.
Subsequent research told me otherwise: I began reading of a French-controlled colony teeming with pastel-colored churches and mansions. And I instantly decided that any inaugural Indian adventure must include a stop here. Thus, in addition to visiting Maddie, discovering Pondicherry has been a major force behind this whole trip.
Still, I alight our bus not entirely convinced that Pondy will be as flawless as I've envisioned it. Luckily, it is.
Of the five destinations to be visited on this trip, Pondicherry is the one for which we've allotted the most time. We've just arrived around 5pm on Sunday and won't be moving on to Madurai until Tuesday night after 10pm. Though there are few veritable "attractions" to see here, it's a place best experienced by soaking it all in—Gallic charms coupled with Indian heritage all co-mingling in an enchanting setting along the Bay of Bengal.
The Alliance Française, just across the street from our charming lodging, Dumas Guest House, has a free photography exhibition spotlighting colonial soldiers during the First World War. Of course, we check it out. An hour or so later, the same organization is showing an old Satyajit Ray movie in their auditorium, so we find ourselves a pair of seats as the opening credits begin to roll. Both the photo exhibit and the film screening are free of charge, and I'm already enamored with the town.
Afterwards, we're back on the quiet boulevards of the Ville Blanche, or White Town as it's popularly called. Here, street signs are in both French and Tamil. The bicycle seems to be the preferred method of transportation. And evening walks along the seaside promenade are a daily occurrence. Being a Union Territory and not part of the state of Tamil Nadu, Pondicherry also has lower alcohol taxes to help lure visitors. It's pure magic.
We meet up with Parag and Sonica later, sharing a bottle of wine on the waterfront balcony of their heritage hotel before hunting for late night snacks in the sleepy city. And I can't help but stop every few feet to snap a photograph.
Monday sees further exploration of the town. I've been wearing jeans for most of the trip so far, since shorts aren't really worn here. But it is hot, and I'd like something a bit more comfortable. I've noticed that while all the women wear saris, the men have their own iconic garment: the lungi. A sort of sarong wrapped around the waste, the lungi is ubiquitous here, and Maddie guides me through the Grand Bazaar and helps me bargain for one.
Bala, one of the owners of Dumas Guest House, has arranged an old 1950s-era car, called an Ambassador, to pick us up at 2pm for a visit to neighboring Aurovillle, which happens to be the town were Maddie actually studied abroad in 2008.
Auroville is an experimental town, based on peace and unity among all people. The idea is that anyone who wants to has a place in Auroville, which, according to its founder, is "meant to be a universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony, above all creeds, all politics and all nationalities. The purpose of Auroville is to realize human unity."
Auroville's centerpiece is called the Matrimandir, a huge spherical structure we view from a lush public viewing platform. Architecturally, it's a stunning work of modern art.
Back in Pondicherry, we enjoy a French picnic at the guesthouse, with authentic wine, cheese and other goods. Making friends with another guest, Heidi, we continue till the early hours.
Somehow, Madde and I still make it up for sunrise at 6:32am, watching from the waterfront promenade. Of course I wear my lungi, and am amazed by how many others are also up for the early natural display.
We rent bicycles after checking out of the hotel and proceed to spend the whole day riding around. These are the same streets we've walked up and town for the past two days, but they never get old. The different shadows and lighting at various times makes each spot ever-intriguing.
We stop at temples, churches, the gate of the Jardin Botanique which doubled for Pi's zoo in the movie. We eat oranges, offend a monkey, splurge on a European lunch, meet a friend of Maddie's for coffee and patisseries, visit the Pondicherry Museum and continue cycling from place to place.
It's been a great day, and I hope I'll be back soon, but now it does feel about time to be moving on. Our next stop is something completely different.
Mamallapruam and Pondy are both relatively Westernized enclaves. Both have been wonderful—unforgettable in fact—but it's still marvelous to find myself in Madurai, woken out of a sound sleep on the private bus Maddie booked long ago to transport us from the French-infused seaside colony to the quintessentially chaotic temple city she currently calls home.
It's 4am, and only a short walk from where we've been dumped to the Park Plaza Hotel. Maddie knows exactly where we're going, and brushes off every attempt by an auto-rickshaw driver to give us a lift. Check-in is brisk; soon we're asleep.
When I booked the Park Plaza, Maddie told me not to include breakfast in my package, even though it cost a mere one hundred rupee more to do so. Having spent so much time in Madurai, she had other plans for my meals here.
In the morning, she takes me to the town's most well known restaurant, Murugan Idli Shop. Idli is a staple of South Indian breakfast. In fact, I'm surprised it's taken me until this point in the trip to finally try one, since I've read and heard so much about them. But most of our guesthouses thus far have included delicious breakfasts, so there's really been no opportunity.
Idli are sponge-like cakes designed to soak up all the flavors of the chutneys.
Sitting down at the restaurant, two huge banana leafs are plopped down on the table in front of us. The idli and various chutneys are then ladled onto the leaf by waiters making their rounds. And, again using only the right hand, you break off pieces of the idli, swirl them about on your banana leaf like an artist mixing paints on an easel to douse them in the flavor of your choice, and chow down.
Post breakfast, Maddie shows off her town to me. It's a city of marigold and vermilion, and I think I'll always remember the colors of this morning. We visit the massive Sri Meenakshi Temple complex, enjoy stellar street coffee, stop for an ice cream-like concoction called jigartanda, and ride a local bus to the train ticketing office to figure out how the heck I'm getting to my next stop, Tanjore, and then on to Chennai for my flight home.
The options are not promising. Train times are very inopportune, and in the end, I reluctantly decide to simply spend an extra day in Madurai. Rather than departing early the next morning and spending the day in Tanjore, I'll take tomorrow's late night train instead, a twelve hour journey ultimately pulling into Chennai Egmore.
After a spicy Chettinad lunch, again served on a banana leaf, we visit a friend of Maddie's at her work, and hit up the town's Gandhi Museum. More time is definitely needed to do the museum—which is very text heavy—justice, but it's a fascinating introduction to Gandhi's life and work. The ultimate exhibit is the poignant, bloodstained loincloth he was wearing on the day he was assassinated in 1948.
An auto-rickshaw whisks us to Ash Wednesday mass in a Tamil church, while a rooftop meal with a view of the temple's soaring gopurams concludes the day. Discussion topics at dinner, where we are joined by Maddie's friends Carmen and Stephanie, are extensive and, ultimately, encompass what I ought to do with my unplanned bonus day in Madurai. Stephanie suggests visiting a place called Rameswaram. She did it as a day trip, she says, and it's perfectly feasible.
I'm ecstatic, of course! I had wanted to include it all along, but had utlimately settled on Tanjore because Rameswaram seemed impossible. Now, I find out it's not only possible but easy to do in a day. We book a driver to meet me at the hotel at 7am the next morning, and at the last minute, Maddie, too, decides to take one more day off work to join me on the excursion. Perhaps due to this last minute addition, I'm far too excited to go to sleep. In fact, I'm buzzing. Out for a late night jaunt around Madurai I go before ultimately getting back to the Park Plaza around midnight.
It's a long ride to Rameswaram in the morning, but totally worth it. Interesting sights are constantly appearing on both sides of the road: churches, temples, colorful villages, small towns. All along the two lane highway, cars, trucks and buses are breaking every known rule of the road. If I'm not looking out the window taking in the surroundings, chances are I'm looking through the front windshield at another vehicle heading straight for us.
Rameswaram itself exudes small town charm. A lengthy main road leads straight from the bridge to the prominent temple, with its gopuram towering over the road. We must check-in our cameras and bags before removing our shoes to gain entry.
It's a massive complex, containing a series of wells holding the waters of India's holiest rivers, with pilgrims soaking themselves at each one. An impressive hall of pillars stretches for what seems like miles, where intricate carvings invite inspection, the only light is provided by either open flames or light beams streaming through high crevices.
Dhanushkodi is only ten or so miles away, but it feels about as far removed as humanly possible. A sandy parking lot is the farthest our driver can take us, since only special Jeep-like vans can successfully negotiate the final stretch of beach approaching the remains of the once-bustling town. We join a group of Bangaloreans who've invited us into their vehicle to get there.
Red bricks litter the sand, but somehow, a colony of fishermen have moved in, putting up temporary shacks and calling the place home.
It's another three and half hour ride back, and Maddie's host family is nice enough to invite me over for one last Madurai meal; her host father even drives me to my hotel on his motorbike afterwards.
I catch my train, and promptly fall asleep, waking up the next morning en route to Chennai.
I love that you can just open the doors and hang outside the cars as the countryside whizzes by. Although my mother would certainly not be happy if she could see me right now, I feel so alive: the wind blows in my face, people walk along the tracks waving at me, mountains stand proud over vast plains. It wouldn't have been a complete first trip to India without such a train journey. And don't worry, Mom. I'm holding on very tightly and ducking my head back inside whenever another train passes by!
My last days are spent back in Tamil Nadu's capital city, and it's nice to be back.
Payel and Ganesh at the Connemara, two of the most helpful hotel staff imaginable, organize another Ambassador to take me on a tour of Chennai. My driver is a very friendly local man named Srini, to whom I explain my main objective: to take in the remaining architectural leftovers of the British colonial administration. My list is mostly gleaned from that New York Times article that first informed me of the existence of the Egmore train station. Evocatively titled "Tattered Splendor of the Raj," the article describes churches, government offices and university buildings that bear silent witness to over three centuries of Chennai history.
I ask Srini to park the Ambassador so I can get out to have a closer look, and he obliges with a smile. Perhaps it's his favorite, too.
A friendly but by-the-book security guard tells me I can enter the university to wander the campus, but, eying the camera hanging around my neck, that I may not take photographs. Failing to inform him that Friday is Opposite Day, I assure him I won't.
Not only is the Senate House still standing, but it seems to have been fully restored to its former Indo-Saracenic glory, again taking pride of place as the crown jewel of the city's architectural monuments.
To my surprise, the doors are flung wide open beckoning me to enter. "Permanent Photo Exhibit," a sign proclaims with an arrow directing the curious inside. A few offices seem to occupy the entryway, and I see one young lady seated behind a desk. She does not look up as I walk past. I find myself in the great hall, with its soaring ceiling and vast windows allowing the Friday afternoon sunlight to pour in and fully illuminate its cavernous grandeur.
A grand staircase leads up to a balcony. I don't know if I'm allowed to ascend, but there's nobody around to stop me, and I really don't care. Up I go.
Spiral staircases wind up into the towers, capped with stained-glass. Pigeons have made these empty lofts their home, and they flutter about every time I make a move.
Chennai has so many sights, I don't even come close to seeing them all. Still I am glad that I've taken the time to scratch its surface. I'm toying with the idea of returning to explore more tomorrow, but I've splurged on a room at the Connemara, and want to take full advantage. I'll just have to return some day soon.
All the other diners have opted to stay indoors tonight, so I'm alone among the trees and soft lights. Ms. Khan, the charming hostess, comes by often to check in, but for the most part, there's little to distract me from the deep, complex flavors present in my curry leaf martini, crab meat soup (nandu saaru) and spectacular spiced lamb chops (karaikudi mari melagu).
I can only wish Maddie had been able to join so I could have treated her to one grand final meal as a thank you for sharing the secrets of her India with me. I'm thinking of the hundreds of pairs of carnivorous eyes glistening at the Crocodile Bank Trust, our bike ride around Pondy, the crumbling church in Dhanushkodi and lush Indian landscapes gliding by while hanging out the door of that overnight train.
I've been completely, utterly beguiled by Tamil Nadu and Pondicherry, and I leave India comforted by the fact that there remain twenty-eight further states (and six other union territories) in this country that I've yet to explore.
As Srini returns to drive me to the airport in his Ambassador, I suddenly realize this isn't the end of my Indian adventures; it's only the beginning.
I finally land around 1am on February 14, collecting my Visa on Arrival—and waiting for what seems a tortuously long time for my suitcase to arrive on the baggage carousel—before finding the driver holding a placard with my name printed upon it. "You're actually in India," I keep telling myself, gazing out the windows as the taxi makes its way to my guest house.
Months of planning, now finally here. Ironically, the first thing I do is fall asleep after a quick shower. But I want to be ready for what promises to be a full day.
I awake several hours later to a familiar voice outside the door. It's 6am; Maddie has arrived; our adventure is about to begin!
We waste no further time. Out for a morning stroll in the verdant Royapettah neighborhood, I'm bemused and fascinated by every doorstep, building, sari and street. "Each day, the women of Tamil Nadu scrub the ground in front of their home and use rice flower to make an auspicious design on the threshold, called a kolam," Maddie explains. And they are everywhere.
We spend our first day gallivanting around Chennai, to the historic Connemara Hotel (now operated by the Taj group) and then to a charming cafe and boutique called Amethyst, where, ensconced in their picture-perfect garden, Maddie and I linger over our cappuccinos and a shared slice of lemon cake. At both places, it's as if we've left the bustle of twenty-first century India behind and stepped into a tableau vivant straight out of the bygone Raj.
Leaving the garden, it's back to the grit and reality of modern-day Chennai. We bargain with an auto-rickshaw driver to take us to the Egmore district, where I'm bent on seeing the colonial-era railway station I've read about in an eloquent New York Times article appraising the city's architecture. "With its towers capped with domed partitions..." the author writes, "there can be few places that provide quite so enchanting a locale from which to catch a train."
It does not disappoint.
Chennai Egmore is a massive structure, at once impressive on a grand scale yet simultaneously intimate in its details. The building is a superb illustration of the Indo-Saracenic style combining characteristics of Mughal, Indian and Victorian architecture. Crimson and white blend exquisitely on its resplendent façade, with intricately embellished arches supported by elegant pillars and topped off with overhanging eaves. Those distinctive domed chhatris do indeed lend an air of enchantment.
This stateliness clashes magnificently with the commotion of the streets abutting the station, teeming with all sorts of activities. Vendors peddle their wares. Restaurateurs try to entice us in to their cafes. Cars, buses, auto-rickshaws, mopeds and pedestrians all share the same space, dust kicked up in the air as they whiz past. It's a lot to take in, and I love it.
Maddie thinks the Government Museum is nearby, and as it's another one of Chennai's attractions I've got my heart set on seeing, we head off on foot. It's farther than we expect, but the surroundings make for a fascinating stroll.
The exhibits themselves seem a bit unloved, somewhat shopworn, certainly past their prime. Clearly, this museum has seen better times. All the same, it has a faded grandeur and ebbing beauty that makes it more or less effortless to picture yesteryear's glory days. There are some beautiful bronzes, dignified portraits and peaky taxidermic beasts. But again, it's the architecture of the buildings themselves that fascinates me most.
At this point, we've worked up an appetite, and Maddie knows just the place for a proper South Indian repast. She takes me to a nearby branch of Hotel Saravana Bhavan, a renowned chain of high quality vegetarian eateries.
She orders herself something off the a la carte menu, but speaks to the waiter in Tamil and shoots me a look that tells me I'm in for a true smorgasbord. Rice and rice noodles are placed in the middle of a well worn pewter tray, and several miniature bowls filled with delectable chutneys and other unknown delicacies are dropped before me. If I want more of anything, I just need to ask.
I'm supposed to use the fingers of my right hand only to mix the contents of the bowls with the rice, forming a sort of glob that I must transfer from tray to mouth. And I feel like all eyes are watching, wondering how I'll do. Of course, upon closer inspection, the other diners are much too immersed in their own lunches to care. It's only really Maddie (and maybe the occasional waiter) who is interested in appraising my dexterity.
Maddie tells me what each item is, but I'm so overwhelmed it's difficult to keep my sambars, chutneys and vadas straight. All I know is everything is delicious.
Even eaten with a fork, this meal would have been a standout. The various combinations are piquant and tasty, and the rice is, oddly, the perfect vessel to fully appreciate each one. Mixed with the added novelty of getting to eat it with my fingers, it's downright spectacular. And though I don't know it yet, it's just the first of many meals that will awaken a passion for South Indian cuisine.
This is really all of Chennai I'll get to see for now, though I will be back at the tail end of my trip to fly home. I was warned by a good friend, "Land, and get the hell out," yet—so far at least—I can't understand why. Of course, I'm in no way ready for this trip to be over; nevertheless, I'm certainly eager to inspect more of this fascinating metropolis.
Back at the guest house, we collect our bags and hop in another auto-rickshaw to the bus station, where we must catch the government-run intercity bus to our next stop: Mamallapuram. I never thought boarding a bus could be a grand adventure. But this is just that.
Arriving in Mamallapuram is, to be honest, dismaying. The past string of hours—my introduction to a curious and entirely new country unlike anything I've yet encountered—has been noisy, dusty, chaotic, wonderful. Bumping southward along East Coast Road on the local bus seemed like an appropriately adventurous continuation of the experience.
So to suddenly be walking down a sandy road lined with beachy souvenir shops (and populated by white tourists sporting Ray-Bans and Havaianas) is not quite what I want right now. It feels jarringly pedestrian, not unlike places I've been in the Caribbean, Thailand and the Philippines.
My disappointment doesn't last long. In fact, it completely vanishes when, from the rooftop patio of Sea Waves, our guesthouse, I glimpse the ancient, weather-beaten Shore Temple standing proud over crashing waves.
True, Mamallapruam might feel somewhat familiar to me, but it's still distinctly Indian. And as Maddie and I explore the beach, where cows compete with fishing boats for prime waterfront real estate and a beautiful sun is about to set on our day, India has just taught me her first lesson: just roll with the punches, and you'll be stunned. The juxtaposition is actually perfect, a succinct summation of the diversity that exists here, and an enticing hint of just how much there really is to explore in this new land.
By the skin of our teeth, we arrive at the Madras Crocodile Bank Trust for its nocturnal Saturday night safari. Although the whole guided tour is informative and captivating, there is one moment that literally takes my breath away. One I'll remember long after this night has ended.
We're told to approach a particular railing and look out over the blackness, holding a flashlight at exactly the level of our own eyes. Before I've done it myself, I can hear gasps, oohhs and aahhs from the other dozen or so visitors on our safari. But I can't imagine what I'm about to see.
As I gaze out into the still night, hundreds of green balls are glowing before me, the eyes of over four hundred crocodiles lingering in a pond under the moonlight. I pass the flashlight to Maddie so she too can understand. Now I'm no longer able to discern the creatures, but when I hear her reaction a moment later, I know exactly what she's seeing.
An Indo-French dinner of tuna salad, fish curry and a banana-Nutella crepe completes the evening, followed by a short rooftop nightcap. But it's early to bed so we can be early to rise in the morning for our up-close visit to Mamallapuram's famed ruins.
Of course I take an early morning walk on the beach and around the side streets before we seek out the ancient stone temples. Maddie stops for a coffee along the way, as we head towards Krishna's Butterball, a huge balancing rock that seems precariously perched on the side of a steep slope.
We explore the Five Rathas, Arjuna's Penance and, at last, that photogenic Shore Temple. We buy some ice cream in the late morning heat, and in a moment of weakness, offer one to a local girl who's come up to try to sell us her jewelry. Seconds later, we are surrounded by countless other children who want their own treat. It's difficult to say no, but we manage to walk away and head back to the guesthouse.
We've made friends with our next-door neighbors at Sea Waves, Parag and Sonica, tourists from Delhi who are visiting Tamil Nadu for the first time. They, too, are headed to Pondicherry in the afternoon. But first, they invite us to join them for a coffee on Mamallapuram's main street.
There's one more thing on my list before we can head off, though. And that's to indulge in a simple, fresh seafood lunch on the water. The whole fish we order is just what I have dreamed about, and the view of the distant Shore Temple crowns this second pitch-perfect lunch.
It's beginning to feel a bit like a whirlwind tour, but it's already time to check out of Sea Waves and catch the bus to our next stop. I've been in India for barely thirty-six hours, and we're about to hit city number three.
I arrive in Pondicherry almost unbelievably, indescribably excited.
You see, India only seriously appeared on my travel radar in 2012 when I saw Life of Pi in a Singapore movie theater. The film's early scenes seemed too cinematically perfect to be real. They must, I imagined, have been filmed on some studio back lot, not on location. Surely a place such as Pi's Pondicherry could not actually exist.
Subsequent research told me otherwise: I began reading of a French-controlled colony teeming with pastel-colored churches and mansions. And I instantly decided that any inaugural Indian adventure must include a stop here. Thus, in addition to visiting Maddie, discovering Pondicherry has been a major force behind this whole trip.
Still, I alight our bus not entirely convinced that Pondy will be as flawless as I've envisioned it. Luckily, it is.
Of the five destinations to be visited on this trip, Pondicherry is the one for which we've allotted the most time. We've just arrived around 5pm on Sunday and won't be moving on to Madurai until Tuesday night after 10pm. Though there are few veritable "attractions" to see here, it's a place best experienced by soaking it all in—Gallic charms coupled with Indian heritage all co-mingling in an enchanting setting along the Bay of Bengal.
Monday sees further exploration of the town. I've been wearing jeans for most of the trip so far, since shorts aren't really worn here. But it is hot, and I'd like something a bit more comfortable. I've noticed that while all the women wear saris, the men have their own iconic garment: the lungi. A sort of sarong wrapped around the waste, the lungi is ubiquitous here, and Maddie guides me through the Grand Bazaar and helps me bargain for one.
Bala, one of the owners of Dumas Guest House, has arranged an old 1950s-era car, called an Ambassador, to pick us up at 2pm for a visit to neighboring Aurovillle, which happens to be the town were Maddie actually studied abroad in 2008.
Auroville is an experimental town, based on peace and unity among all people. The idea is that anyone who wants to has a place in Auroville, which, according to its founder, is "meant to be a universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony, above all creeds, all politics and all nationalities. The purpose of Auroville is to realize human unity."
Auroville's centerpiece is called the Matrimandir, a huge spherical structure we view from a lush public viewing platform. Architecturally, it's a stunning work of modern art.
Back in Pondicherry, we enjoy a French picnic at the guesthouse, with authentic wine, cheese and other goods. Making friends with another guest, Heidi, we continue till the early hours.
Somehow, Madde and I still make it up for sunrise at 6:32am, watching from the waterfront promenade. Of course I wear my lungi, and am amazed by how many others are also up for the early natural display.
We stop at temples, churches, the gate of the Jardin Botanique which doubled for Pi's zoo in the movie. We eat oranges, offend a monkey, splurge on a European lunch, meet a friend of Maddie's for coffee and patisseries, visit the Pondicherry Museum and continue cycling from place to place.
It's been a great day, and I hope I'll be back soon, but now it does feel about time to be moving on. Our next stop is something completely different.
Mamallapruam and Pondy are both relatively Westernized enclaves. Both have been wonderful—unforgettable in fact—but it's still marvelous to find myself in Madurai, woken out of a sound sleep on the private bus Maddie booked long ago to transport us from the French-infused seaside colony to the quintessentially chaotic temple city she currently calls home.
It's 4am, and only a short walk from where we've been dumped to the Park Plaza Hotel. Maddie knows exactly where we're going, and brushes off every attempt by an auto-rickshaw driver to give us a lift. Check-in is brisk; soon we're asleep.
When I booked the Park Plaza, Maddie told me not to include breakfast in my package, even though it cost a mere one hundred rupee more to do so. Having spent so much time in Madurai, she had other plans for my meals here.
In the morning, she takes me to the town's most well known restaurant, Murugan Idli Shop. Idli is a staple of South Indian breakfast. In fact, I'm surprised it's taken me until this point in the trip to finally try one, since I've read and heard so much about them. But most of our guesthouses thus far have included delicious breakfasts, so there's really been no opportunity.
Post breakfast, Maddie shows off her town to me. It's a city of marigold and vermilion, and I think I'll always remember the colors of this morning. We visit the massive Sri Meenakshi Temple complex, enjoy stellar street coffee, stop for an ice cream-like concoction called jigartanda, and ride a local bus to the train ticketing office to figure out how the heck I'm getting to my next stop, Tanjore, and then on to Chennai for my flight home.
The options are not promising. Train times are very inopportune, and in the end, I reluctantly decide to simply spend an extra day in Madurai. Rather than departing early the next morning and spending the day in Tanjore, I'll take tomorrow's late night train instead, a twelve hour journey ultimately pulling into Chennai Egmore.
After a spicy Chettinad lunch, again served on a banana leaf, we visit a friend of Maddie's at her work, and hit up the town's Gandhi Museum. More time is definitely needed to do the museum—which is very text heavy—justice, but it's a fascinating introduction to Gandhi's life and work. The ultimate exhibit is the poignant, bloodstained loincloth he was wearing on the day he was assassinated in 1948.
An auto-rickshaw whisks us to Ash Wednesday mass in a Tamil church, while a rooftop meal with a view of the temple's soaring gopurams concludes the day. Discussion topics at dinner, where we are joined by Maddie's friends Carmen and Stephanie, are extensive and, ultimately, encompass what I ought to do with my unplanned bonus day in Madurai. Stephanie suggests visiting a place called Rameswaram. She did it as a day trip, she says, and it's perfectly feasible.
I'm ecstatic, of course! I had wanted to include it all along, but had utlimately settled on Tanjore because Rameswaram seemed impossible. Now, I find out it's not only possible but easy to do in a day. We book a driver to meet me at the hotel at 7am the next morning, and at the last minute, Maddie, too, decides to take one more day off work to join me on the excursion. Perhaps due to this last minute addition, I'm far too excited to go to sleep. In fact, I'm buzzing. Out for a late night jaunt around Madurai I go before ultimately getting back to the Park Plaza around midnight.
It's a long ride to Rameswaram in the morning, but totally worth it. Interesting sights are constantly appearing on both sides of the road: churches, temples, colorful villages, small towns. All along the two lane highway, cars, trucks and buses are breaking every known rule of the road. If I'm not looking out the window taking in the surroundings, chances are I'm looking through the front windshield at another vehicle heading straight for us.
At one point, I get out to stretch my legs while we wait for a train to pass. I walk up to the gate as the locomotive barrels past with unbelievable power, its shrill whistle destroying the tranquility of the Tamil countryside. It takes about three and a half hours to arrive in Rameswaram, but the ride has been part of the experience.
Our introduction to Rameswaram is the dramatic bridge that connects the island to the mainland. In fact, there are two bridges, the massive vehicular crossing we use and a singular railway track far below. Without us even having to ask, the driver stops so we can get out and take it all in. To one side is what looks like a tropical fishing village magically set on a beach. To the other is the rickety, rusty train track, which just so happens to be in use at this very moment. Behind it all, innumerable boats dance in the cerulean waters.
All told, we spend about five hours exploring Rameswaram, with its famous temple, and Dhanushkodi, with its ruined church, school, train station, police headquarters and post office.
Rameswaram itself exudes small town charm. A lengthy main road leads straight from the bridge to the prominent temple, with its gopuram towering over the road. We must check-in our cameras and bags before removing our shoes to gain entry.
It's a massive complex, containing a series of wells holding the waters of India's holiest rivers, with pilgrims soaking themselves at each one. An impressive hall of pillars stretches for what seems like miles, where intricate carvings invite inspection, the only light is provided by either open flames or light beams streaming through high crevices.
Dhanushkodi is only ten or so miles away, but it feels about as far removed as humanly possible. A sandy parking lot is the farthest our driver can take us, since only special Jeep-like vans can successfully negotiate the final stretch of beach approaching the remains of the once-bustling town. We join a group of Bangaloreans who've invited us into their vehicle to get there.
Red bricks litter the sand, but somehow, a colony of fishermen have moved in, putting up temporary shacks and calling the place home.
A decaying stone building no longer has doors, windows or a roof, but its façade leaves no doubt that this was originally a church. A dog overcome with lassitude rests in its shadow, escaping the hot sun. The church's floor is simply sand, though the altar is still standing proud.
The half dozen other buildings, less obvious in terms of their origins, are all crumbling into the sands. We're left to guess what purpose they once served. Buttresses support the air, noble pillars hold up nothing but sky, trees and shrubbery have taken over.
"Everything we've seen on this trip so far has been incredible," I tell Maddie as we continue to explore, "but this... This I'll never forget. I've never seen anything like it."
I catch my train, and promptly fall asleep, waking up the next morning en route to Chennai.
Payel and Ganesh at the Connemara, two of the most helpful hotel staff imaginable, organize another Ambassador to take me on a tour of Chennai. My driver is a very friendly local man named Srini, to whom I explain my main objective: to take in the remaining architectural leftovers of the British colonial administration. My list is mostly gleaned from that New York Times article that first informed me of the existence of the Egmore train station. Evocatively titled "Tattered Splendor of the Raj," the article describes churches, government offices and university buildings that bear silent witness to over three centuries of Chennai history.
Its author, Tunku Varadarajan, is particularly moved by the marble memorial slabs in a pair of colonial churches, Saint Andrew's Kirk and Saint Mary's. As I explore them myself, I can easily understand why.
But of all the buildings I'm hoping to inspect today, the one I'm most anxious to see, and the one that almost knocks me down with its magnificence, is the Senate House of Madras University, "my favorite... everybody's favorite," according to Mr. Varadarajan.
A friendly but by-the-book security guard tells me I can enter the university to wander the campus, but, eying the camera hanging around my neck, that I may not take photographs. Failing to inform him that Friday is Opposite Day, I assure him I won't.
The building is a real stunner, and I take my time to fully appreciate its exterior. I'm doubly impressed, because "Tattered Splendor" was published more than a dozen years ago and laments not only the fact that Madras—as Chennai was formerly known—is losing many Raj-era landmarks to the wrecking ball in general but that the venerable Senate House is in a particularly deplorable, fragile condition.
Chennai has so many sights, I don't even come close to seeing them all. Still I am glad that I've taken the time to scratch its surface. I'm toying with the idea of returning to explore more tomorrow, but I've splurged on a room at the Connemara, and want to take full advantage. I'll just have to return some day soon.
My last day of vacation, I'm determined, is going to be one of leisure. Up early to enjoy one last South Indian breakfast of idli, dosa and chutney, I then move a few meters to the pool, where I alternate between swimming, reading and sunbathing.
Of course, last day dissipates into last night. I've booked a table at Raintree, the Connemara's signature fine dining restaurant, and I'm seated in its alluring garden. Despite India's heat, I'm wearing jeans and a long sleeved button-up, doused in bug spray to further combat the city's tenacious mosquitoes.All the other diners have opted to stay indoors tonight, so I'm alone among the trees and soft lights. Ms. Khan, the charming hostess, comes by often to check in, but for the most part, there's little to distract me from the deep, complex flavors present in my curry leaf martini, crab meat soup (nandu saaru) and spectacular spiced lamb chops (karaikudi mari melagu).
I've been completely, utterly beguiled by Tamil Nadu and Pondicherry, and I leave India comforted by the fact that there remain twenty-eight further states (and six other union territories) in this country that I've yet to explore.
As Srini returns to drive me to the airport in his Ambassador, I suddenly realize this isn't the end of my Indian adventures; it's only the beginning.
