In Puducherry (Pondicherry) in January, the top of my list of places to visit was the old French cemetery.
We had a difficult time finding it. No one we asked seemed to know anything about it or where it was.
Taxi drivers. Street sellers. Random passersby.
No one.
Or perhaps they knew, and they weren’t sharing.
My friend TS is nothing if not tenacious. The consummate host, she was determined that I’d see it.
The first cemetery we found was a municipal cemetery bounded by high walls. Yes, there were French names on the gravestones, but of course there would be. The kids playing on the walls called out to us in French: C’est quoi votre nom?
It was all a little run down and bereft of statues that I recognised or indeed any statuary at all. But then, it was a Hindu cemetery.
Some miles out of town, on our way in, I’d spotted a cemetery with simple colourful crosses. I was curious. White is more the norm, in Europe, but India does colour, on steroids. Apparently, these strong colours reflect the living memory of the dead rather than the sombre white. And I so wanted to see some.
The lovely TS, undaunted, was determined.
We eventually found the French Cemetery, the one I’d come to see. And, although rather overgrown, it was beautiful.
The simple crosses fronted more elaborate tombstones, some weathered with age and neglect, others obviously cared for.
I was particularly taken by the France/Vengeance/Pereira family’s grave and wondered at the mix of religions. Many French administrators married into local Tamil families, and these three most likely came from the resultant Franco-Tamil Creole community.
I was surprised at the family name, Vengeance, but I read that the Creole community often had what are called virtue/abstract surnames.
So many children are buried here. So many.
The inscription on Andre Poulain’s grave stone translates as:
Dear little angel, you were our dearest hopes.
You will remain our eternal regrets.
Another that caught my eye was of the Freemans, brothers I presume. Henri was six when he died, Guy died the day after he was born. Their inscription translates:
I am alive, though my tomb is immortal
in the heart of the glorious field—
too cruel an image—
where the final cradle of my body rests.
It remains the sacred place of my sacrificed parents.I watch over you.
Dry your tears.
Think of this little soul.
It’s a lovely spot to visit, although I’m not sure I’d find it again.
Cemeteries are magical places, worth spending time in. I’d liked to have had longer here, earlier in the day. As it was, we were keeping the lovely ladies from the dinner.
