It was an enlightened apartheid: the spiritually
and materially liberated on one side,
and we barbarians on the other.
Imagine Indian mysticism spliced with
bad science-fiction films from the 60s: a giant
golden sphere on a manicured lawn,
and a few acolytes in the distance;
the off-limits distance. Vassals to the sun
busy scorching the red earth; we walked
through gardens tended by lean,
dark-chocolate Tamils: they hated their work
and they showed it, their disgruntled
demeanour piercing the tenuous peace.
We followed the signs back to the tourist centre
and decided on lunch. The café and shops,
which unlike the rest of the city were
open to all, might have been an IKEA store:
a kindergarten for the thrifty consumer,
rounded edges and colourful blandness.
Although Auroville residents made no use
of paper or coin currencies, we as outsiders
paid for our incense and scented soaps
with dirty rupees. Manufactured to subsidise
‘Auroville’s plans for a sustainable future’,
their products are available online,
as well as in upmarket outlets in London,
Paris, Tokyo, New York and Berlin.
(near Puducherry)