‘Oh that,’ Guruji laughed, ‘It is on Rue Romain Rolland. One kilometre from
here.’
I reached L’Orient at four. Ananya was waiting at the entrance. The hotel is a
renovated heritage building and was originally the Education Department Office
when the French had colonised Pondicherry. Now a ten-room boutique property,
it had a small restaurant in the indoor open patio. We ordered coffee and a slice
of ginger cake with custard sauce.
‘Isn’t this place lovely?’ Ananya breathed in deeply.
I nodded, still deep in though.
‘So, tell me, what did you do? And what’s with the tilak on your forehead?’
‘I hit my father.’
‘What?’
‘A long time ago. Remember, how I would always avoid talking about my
father in campus?’
‘Yes, and I never pushed after that,’ she said. ‘But what are you saying?’
I repeated the story of that night.
She looked at me, awestruck
‘Oh dear, I didn’t know your parents were like this.’
‘I nvever told you. It’s fine.’
‘Are you OK?’ she said and moved her hand forward to hold me.
‘Yes, I am fine. And I met a Guruji, who gave me good advice.’
‘What? Who Guruji, what advice?’ Ananya said.
‘I don’t know the Guruji. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes in your life you just meet
someone or hear something that nudges you on the right path. And that becomes
the best advice. It could just be a bit of common sense said in a way that
resonates with something in you. It’s nothing new, but because it connects with
you it holds meaning for you.’