Nocturne Pondicherry

by Ari Gautier

Genres: Short Stories

Synopsis

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.

Release date: June 17, 2024

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 114

Sample

PRAISE FOR THE BOOK

The nocturne is a musical form played at the onset of night, when all the serenading is over and done with; Ari Gautier’s tone may be lyrical, expressive and humane, but he pulls no punches in what he writes. With insouciance and huge ambition, Gautier sets static, tourist Pondicherry in motion; in this collection, that place is no longer imprisoned within the limits of the boulevard town. His readers are going to see Pondicherry in altogether different types of light.

Ian H. Magedera, author of Indian Videshinis, European Women in India

Transgressors coded with charisma stalk the pages of Ari Gautier’s Nocturne Pondicherry, and these outliers move with kineticism. The prose is studded with lyricism, which is both thrilling and precise, and in this magnetic literary smackdown, Gautier dares the reader to look away. A triumph.

Diriye Osman, author of Fairytales for Lost Children

The stories in this collection are deeply disturbing stories carrying the fragrance and the stench of a land that was entangled in a culture of the colonisers, with lasting memories of vulnerable women surrounded by debauched men, of sensitive men trying to find meaning of their lives, of unfulfilled love and deep longings of exiled women and men for a land that keeps beckoning them.

Ambai, author of A Red-necked Green Bird

Ari Gautier’s Nocturne Pondicherry is a voyage into the heart of Pondicherry. Beautifully translated from the French original by Roopam Singh, this deeply immersive collection of short stories is exhilarating, extraordinary and exquisitely written. Gautier is an incredibly gifted author whose prose makes us pause, reflect and re-read. The characters so real, calling us back to Pondicherry again and again, luring us until we are intrinsically lost in their lives. If you pick one book this year, make sure it’s Nocturne Pondicherry. You’re in for a treat because this is short story writing at its very best.

Priya Hein, author of Riambel

These are captivating stories full of the music and sights of a distinctive part of India, narrated with love, humour and perception.

Tabish Khair, author of The Body by the Shore

Viji



Taking long strides, Viji quickened her pace. She took the tip of her dhavani to wipe the sweat trickling down her neck and forehead. She had just reached the Odiansalai roundabout and quickly glanced at the liquor shop by the corner of the street just before Newton Theatre. The shiny clock on the wall showed 5 p.m. The young girl turned right before heading straight to her neighbourhood. She went past curious onlookers scouting around the cinema hall. There were very few people there, mostly men roaming around, smoking and looking at an enticing poster of a Malayali film. In it, the popular actress Shakeela was sitting on a tiny stool that was barely visible beneath her curves. Her wet paavadai was clinging to her elephant-like body, inciting sighs from thousands of men across the country. The pink plastic bucket placed in front of her looked miniscule. She was holding a pot in her right hand, pouring water over her head. In the backdrop, one could see a silhouette of a masculine face watching over. The film looked promising. Viji lowered her head while passing by, avoiding eye contact with those randy men. However, some of them stopped to look at the poster and at her, whispering lasciviously. Disgusted, she quickly walked past them.

She looked up only upon reaching the Sri Ram Hotel. The sun was slowly fading into the horizon behind the rice fields of Ozhukarai. The trees from the botanical garden looked paralysed under the tyranny of the sun god. Looking through the grill, the young woman could see lovers sitting under the trees, looking bored. She stopped for a moment to look at them and sighed as she went on her way, her right foot shaking as her sandal suddenly gave way. Surprising, since she had her sandals repaired only a week ago. She took them off and bent down to pick them up. The ground was still warm. She looked sadly at the tamarind tree behind Subbaiah’s statue. As she looked at the skinny silhouette of the old shoemaker, her face lit up. He was chatting with his friend, the rickshaw puller.

‘Viji, what do you want me to do with your old sandals? I told you the other day that I won’t be able to repair them any more. There is nothing more to be done with them. Why are you so adamant about keeping them? Look at these ones here. If you like them, you can take them. You can pay me later. Bit by bit.’

The old shoemaker caressed his big moustache with fingers blackened by wax. He then took the sandal and turned it around, looking for a way to repair it. He shook his head and gave up. He had held these sandals in his hands many times. But this time around, nothing could be done. As Viji hesitantly looked on, without saying a word, he threw them in the heap of leather waste behind the tamarind tree.

‘Aiyyo, Thatha! ’ The young girl felt a surge of desperation. ‘Please, this is the last time. Please! I am already late. If I leave without my shoes, how will I manage? You know the devil who lives in my house, don’t you? Imagine going home without my shoes! Disaster! Do something! I just need to walk a few metres!’

‘My dear, I can’t do anything. These sandals will not even last one hundred meters! Listen to me. I can’t keep saying the same thing all the time. Stop wasting my time! Take these ones, and you can pay me whenever you can.’

He took a piece of the cloth hanging over his shoulder to wipe his back and went back to talk to the rickshaw puller who, stretched across his vehicle, was nearly falling off to sleep.

Viji glanced from the pile of waste leather pieces to the new shiny sandals lying on a jute cloth in front of the shoemaker. She hesitated. The sandals with yellow straps were shining like gold under the sun as it went down. They would go well the orange churidar she had bought for Pongal. If she took them, she would wear them only on special occasions. They were beautiful. She could already see herself walking in them on the Cours Chabrol by the seaside, taking in the fresh air. She would sit down, put her sandals on the rock and dream of faraway lands. The wind would carry her on waves of happiness to shores where millions of shoes could be found under giant coconut trees. The girls in the neighbourhood would be jealous. The sound of the anvil brought her back to reality. The shoemaker had taken her old sandals and finished repairing them. She thanked him with a smile and made her way home feeling lighter.



Vijaya! Victory! One should have given the highest award for sarcasm to her parents, especially to her mother, who chose this glorious name for her firstborn. This was also the name of the Goddess Durga. However, since her birth, the young girl fell prey to defeat.

A few days after her birth, her maternal grandfather, who worked as an electrician at the Régie Dubrayapet, was diagnosed with leprosy. No one knew how he had contracted this shameful disease, but everyone said that the cause of leprosy found its roots in the whereabouts of Sannyasi Thoppu (or Sannyasi Grove). Since his wife died early in life, the only people who could look after him were his daughter and son-in-law. The latter claimed to be a carpenter but was actually a good-for-nothing. No one had ever seen him make a single piece of furniture in his life. Not even a manakkatai! Her grandfather lost his job and was chased out of his neighbourhood. He then took refuge in a miserable slum behind the tiny chapel of Saint-Antoine, on the way to Nellitope. In those days, a small community of shepherds was breeding sheep in this area known for its slaughterhouses. The slum had expanded since the construction of a new bus stand next to Anna Theatre and Mass Hotel. The once idyllic setting transformed into an infernal ghetto and a hub of vices. Alcohol, prostitution, gambling, drugs, hooligans, henchmen and lost souls found their bearings in this depraved little island. Most of the people who lived there were servants working in the White To. . .