I am finally returning to sacred Bharata, an ancient land whose history existed before Biblical records. I return with a prayer of thanksgiving, yet with an addendum to beseech the gods for strength to endure. The expressions of the Creator are limitless in this nation that was named and defined by its foreign invaders—from the ancient Greeks to the modern British. The inhabitants called their land Bharata after a great king of yore who ruled with divine wisdom. Bharata was the father of the people; they were his children, the Bharatis—the “children of light.”

I plan to explore the quieter, simpler world that exists off the beaten track, a world that reveals layer after layer of times long past. Since I have traveled here before, I know to expect anything at the airport. But I am surprised, the Madras customs’ official only wants to know if I am carrying video equipment. After a quick trip through the passport line, clutching my properly stamped visa, I exit through wide double doors to encounter hot, steamy, dark air hovering over a sea of brown faces. It’s normally dry here, but the monsoon season has recently arrived with lots of humidity.

I have never seen so many people in an airport—especially at midnight. Maybe I have just never seen so many people, period. A friend is sending a car to pick me up, but I do not know the driver. I take a deep breath and sigh my usual “how am I going to figure out this one out?” Just at that moment, I am taken aback as I spot the words “NANCY PATCHEN” waving among the placards touting hotels, limos and resorts. Hey, that’s me—what a relief. I wave as I push my way through the crowd toward the sign. The two men holding the placard quickly grab my suitcases and strap them on the roof of the car. I climb into the back seat, and off we roar into the darkness.

I sigh deeply, thankful for such a smooth entrance into my upcoming adventure. We make a quick trip down quiet, wide streets, lined with white plastered houses, surrounded by flower gardens and whitewashed walls. In contrast to other Indian cities, Madras seems sane and safe with its soft street lights and wide avenues. I smile and relax in contentment as I spot one tiny star twinkling between the gray storm clouds.

Since I have been awake for at least forty hours (I never could sleep sitting up in planes), I am relieved to find that my friend who sent the car lives south of Madras, near the airport. When we arrive at his house, he has already retired. I am glad, for I have miles to sleep before I can hope to be a social or intelligent being. But first, I step outside under the clouds and stars to say hello to this ancient land. I smile as I breathe in the air; I have many happy memories of my past travels here. Five years have passed since I resolved to return for a prolonged stay. At last I have made it. I cannot help wondering what this trip will bring. A smile spreads across my face at the unknown prospects.

As usual, I have to sleep through an entire day and night after my arrival to be able to recuperate from the twenty-four hour flight. For some reason, the planes for India always depart at midnight, so I always board the plane after a long day of hectic packing. This time I am lucky; somehow my sleeping ends one morning at 5:00 a.m., perfect timing for Indian schedules.

Since my dearest friend, Usha, lives in Pondicherry, it is the logical place for me to establish my residency. I have never been in Pondicherry before and know very little about this former French settlement, best known for the ashram that grew around the great sage Aurobindo and The Mother, his European disciple. Although both are now deceased, they continue to have a sizable European following, so there are probably more foreigners in Pondicherry than anywhere else in India. Since all foreigners have to register in their local domicile, it should be easy dealing with the police.


So the next day, rested and eager to be settled, I take off for the tiny domain of Pondicherry, which is surrounded by the southern state of Tamil Nadu. My friend, Suddha accompanies me on the journey in order to visit a friend there. Since we are in no hurry, we take the scenic route down the east coast, the very coast that Marco Polo visited 700 years ago. Clean white sand and towering palm trees continue to dominate the scene. Only a few clusters of square cement houses sprinkled along the beach bring one into this century.

About forty-five minutes into the trip, Suddha has the driver stop the car, so we can get out to watch the sunrise as the fiery disk emerges from the endless sea. He comments how seldom it is that people in today’s world have the time to witness the beautiful blessings of nature. I agree with him. Personally, I have arranged my life to include many sunsets; it has made a big difference for me. Although I do love sunrises too, I have to admit I tend to dream through them. However, it will be easier to catch them here since the warm mornings make it easier to get out of bed—especially when you know you are going to have a long lazy nap during the hot afternoon.

After passing Mahabalipuram, a quaint village with tiny ancient temples enhancing the sandy beach, we leave the coast and turn inland. Due to the scarcity of traffic, the road narrows to one lane, even though the area seems more populated. Every few miles we pass through a small village of mud huts with palm-thatched roofs. Towering palms, which give the fronds for the roofs and the coconuts for the diet, surround each village. The fronds are carefully woven, then lashed together to crown the simple mud walls with an artistic touch. Near the villages, large pipal trees spread their branches over the narrow road, providing shady footpaths for the villagers. I settle back to relish the abundance of nature’s lovely lush garden floating past us. A smile radiates from my face, for I feel so content in this leafy, green tropical world. I feel home at last.

Between the villages, we see patchwork fields of green paddy. I have never seen a field laid out in perfect squares and rectangles here. The rice is planted in a maze of tiny plots—all totally asymmetrical, and of different shapes and size—outlined by curving dikes. The local villagers do not mind the traffic through their idyllic paradise; they are ready for it. They lay out their harvest of paddy on the road, in such a way that the passing vehicles thrash it as they drive over it. (By the way, rice is not rice until it is removed from the husk, until then it is paddy.) Suddha tells me that it is fortunate that it is only the beginning of the harvesting season, so there is not too much paddy on the road now. In the height of the harvest (January), the roads are covered with it, often spread so thickly that it presents a hazard since the stalks can wrap around an automobile axle.

The villagers have even put large stones along the pavement to prevent vehicles from pulling off onto the shoulder to avoid being exploited as a thrasher. The local farmers are now scattered along the highway to tend the thrashing operation: placing and rearranging the paddy, then removing the spent stalks. The women sweep up the rice grains with their short brooms, made from stems of a tall wispy grass, into wide flat baskets woven from thin strips of bamboo.

When we have to slow down to a crawl because of the thrashing operation, several of the women notice me, drop their faces in an embarrassed demeanor, then start twittering and giggling. The children are less intimidated by the unusual sight. With broad smiles and bright eyes, they wave in spontaneous glee. I love these innocent villagers who remain the backbone and the heart of India, for the population is still eighty percent rural. As I smile and wave, we speed on, past large plantations of cashew and mango trees that stretch out between the villages.

Foraging in tree for fuel and fodder

Although we left the shore of the Bay of Bengal, we still pass lots of saltwater lagoons with cranes, herons, ducks and flocks of smaller birds. The migration of the water birds from the North is reaching its peak. Everywhere I travel here the lakes, ponds and lagoons are filled to the brim with birds during the winter months—from Siberia, everyone says. It sure makes me wonder what Siberia is like in the summertime.

Around the lagoons, a cottage industry of the local folk is visible. One-foot-high dikes divide the shallow water into small sections for drying of the seawater to extract salt. When the salt dries, it is heaped into ten-foot cones, then protected from the rain with tents made of woven palm fronds.

Surely, this tropical terrain with its extravagant flowers, birds, butterflies and flowering trees is one of the things that attracts me to India. Nevertheless, you only see such sights in the mountains and in the coastal regions of the South. Much of India is desolate, somewhat like the Southwest of the U.S. Even this region can be unbearably hot. We are getting relief now due to the rainy season. The activity here is synchronized with the seasonal rains. Everyone is thankful that they have started on time to bless their winter crop. When the monsoon arrives all of nature sings—palm trees dance, flowers burst forth, naked children play, frogs croak.