The Daughters of Pondicherry

I was nineteen when this story happened to me.

My father used to say he was a progressist. He said he would one day pay for my education abroad and that he would never force me to marry.

So, he naturally enjoyed when Baptiste started appearing in our shop, located in the heart of Pondicherry. We sold antique furniture and handcraft items, which made the shop quite popular among foreigner visitors.

Baptiste showed an interest in our shop from the beginning. He would often appear with friends and stay there for hours, drinking tea and talking to my father. Baptiste and his friends were studying History in college and were now traveling around India. As for my father, he had worked at museums in the past. This made their conversations long and interesting.

That perhaps explains why my father didn’t protest or deemed it unusual when one day I spent the night drinking wine with Baptiste and his friends. I was already deeply attracted to him, but never expected things to go as fast as they went.

I woke the next morning naked on Baptiste’s bed. He was very gentle with me and invited me to have breakfast with his friends at the guesthouse they were staying. Of course the owner of the guesthouse didn’t want me to stay there. He argued I wasn’t a paying guest, but I knew it was something else.

Baptiste and his friends protested and in the end they all left the guesthouse. I went home with a torment of thoughts and feelings. I was utterly ashamed for what had happened, but part of me was extremely happy for having found the person I was absolutely sure to be the love of my life. Besides, Baptiste had a way of explaining things that just made me feel comfortable. He said such things were only natural with people who loved each other. And if my family didn’t understand, I could run away to France with him. He told this with a warm and beautiful smile. And I believed in that.

But by the time I arrived home, my parents and sisters already knew. The owner of the guesthouse had been there earlier. My mother was hysterical, saying that I had brought shame to the family. My father, however, didn’t say anything. He simply went to the shop and stayed there. He didn’t say a word. Perhaps it was too painful for him to realize that a progressist can go a long way in this world, but there is always a point where you have to look back and find refuge in tradition.

My mother made my life at home unbearable. Our neighbors and my friends too. So it was no surprise to anyone, especially to me, that when Baptiste and his friends decided to leave Pondicherry, I went with them.

I traveled with them for months, visiting many cities and places I had only learned about in school. I had some money with me, but Baptiste paid for most things. I always slept in a separate bedroom with him, wherever we went. It was magical. After meeting Baptiste, I suddenly had a new life, one I never thought it even existed a few weeks earlier.

But things changed when we arrived in Delhi. Most of his friends went back to France and we stayed there. One day, he said his money was almost gone and he would have to go back too.

We spent our last week together barely speaking to each other. He stayed away most of the time, arguing he had to work on his thesis at the local university. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know anything. We would only meet to have sex and sleep at night.

On the eve of his departure, he bought me a train ticket back to Pondicherry and promised he would one day return. Then he took a rickshaw and left.

It took me days to return to Pondicherry. I cried most of the time. So heartbroken I was that I didn’t really think about how my family would welcome me. My only consolation was in knowing my father wouldn’t abandon me.

When I arrived home, things were the same. My mother was still mad and my father would barely speak to me. There were days he would hug me and say words of encouragement. But there were also days where he wouldn’t even look at me. It was clear he was still struggling with his internal conflicts.

However, when news came that I was pregnant, things changed for the worse. My mother never spoke to me again and my father told me the best thing I could was to leave the house. He found me a small apartment to live, one that belonged to one of his many friends in town.

My sisters would often visit me. They would come in the afternoon, after school. They told me my mother would take me back if I had an abortion. I never even considered that possibility.

I was still talking to Baptiste, through letters. He always made me feel special when he wrote to me, in a way only he could. In the letters, he said he would return to India so we could stay together again. He would also send me some money with every letter.

I only told him about our daughter almost a year after she was born. After that, months went by without any new letters. When one came, it came with many excuses, some apologies and a lot of money. Really, a lot of money. Enough for me to buy the apartment I was living and another one, which I rented. Then, no more letters. Ever.

When my father heard about this, he came to visit me. He wanted to see his first grandaughter. He would then do this once or twice a month. Always hidden. Always at times he knew my mother wouldn’t notice.

I always told the truth to my daughter. I never hid anything, and I made sure to always tell her in a way that showed no sign of regret. I was only nineteen when those things happened, but I knew, despite my inexperience, that I was always doing what I wanted to do.

At the time my daughter turned nineteen, I encouraged her to go and find her father. I had no idea where he was living, so I gave her one of the letters he had sent me, which was a good place to start. I bought her a ticket to Paris and gave her enough money to stay in France for about a month.

She would email me often during her trip, sending me pictures of the places she visited and the friends she made. On her last week, she said she was close to finding her father, but that she would need to stay a few extra weeks. I agreed and sent her more money.

A couple of weeks later, I received an email with pictures of her father in his house, with his children. He hadn’t aged well and appeared to be sick. But I didn’t say anything. My daughter said things were awkward at first, but then it was ok. She also said he had married twice, and was now living with his current girlfriend.

When my daughter returned, it was already spring. She told me everything about her trip. She also told me she had met a boy and that he would come to visit her soon. When she noticed my worried expression, she assured me they had only kissed.

When Jean-Luc arrived in Pondicherry, at the end of the year, my daughter had already forgotten him. She had a boyfriend, a young man she had met in college. My daughter was living in one of the many apartments I had in town. I knew her boyfriend often stayed the night there, but I never said anything. My sisters did. And they told me my mother was appalled by how I was raising my only child. But I didn’t care. I had learned not to expect anything other than that from my family.

Jean-Luc stayed in the apartment with my daughter and her boyfriend. It’s fair to say things didn’t happen as he expected when he came to India.

Jean-Luc was meant to stay for a month. He stayed only for three days.