Dr. Roopali tells us about the pleasures and pain that she experienced during her visit to Paris. She weaves the thrills, disappointments, adventures of that voyage. An exclusive for Different Truths. 

The bus carrying sleepy passengers from London to Dover had slid into the boat that quietly took it across the English Channel to slide out into the romantic city of Paris. The door opened and a pencil- moustachioed policeman in uniform climbed in, nasally singing, “Passport! Passport!” I was relieved. For most of the night on the bus that rode on the boat, a hairy hand had sneaked in from behind my seat to try to systematically grope me. Regrettably, I did not have a safety pin to intimidate the hairy hand. Afraid of creating a scene I had kept quiet. Morning and Mister Peter Sellers Lookalike Policeman had brought immense relief.  

My passport needed attention. But Mister Peter Sellers Policeman did not have a pen or a pencil. He now began to look for one in his pocket, then in his satchel, then finally asking somebody for one. Just as I was wondering if I was back in India some jugadu fellow produced a pen by passing around a hat. Inspector Clouseau quickly turned the pages of my passport, looked at me several times, shook his head and got off the bus with the pen. 

The sleepy bus now rolled down empty boulevards littered with brown paper bags and other objects that flew around the shops with rolled down shutters. The littered, untidy early morning streets with upside down tables and chairs on roadside cafes were beginning to make me have serious doubts about where the bus had brought us. 

The bus offloaded us at the railway station Gare du Nord, five kilometres away from the Eiffel Tower.

I love Paris in the springtime
I love Paris in the fall
I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles
I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles

I love Paris every moment

I, who had never ever been to Paris before, hummed and hummed and hummed on my way to the baths and toilets and locker rooms and money exchange counters and the tourist information booth in the station. The capital of France – Paris! The city of lights on the banks of the River Seine. Crisscrossed with boulevards, a global centre for art, fashion, gastronomy and culture. A city going back two thousand years!

My very health conscious bachelor cousins in London had hastily packed a small box of mango yoghurt and some sunflower seeds. I was on a shoestring budget, and was to live on them for the next few days. Now when busloads of Patels and Raos and Mukherjees and Aggarwals travel to Europe, stay in three-star hotels, eat pau bhaji, peeja and chhole bhature, and return home to say they stayed in a five-star and ate escargot, I realise travelling with truly little money has its joys. You find yourself staying in lesser known areas of the city, walk miles, eat very little, enjoy window shopping, lunch in parks, and see and hear a lot. You also end up tired, and find sleep comes easily.

Budget travelling was good. I had read books that talked about Europe for $20 a day. Nighttime was reserved for travel, and during the day you explored the city. That’s how one saved on accommodation! On day-three I’d check into a hotel.  I was told the left bank of the river was safer for women traveling alone. Close to the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower it was the artsy part of town. This is where writers, musicians, artists and painters, and haute couture designers lived. The river’s right bank was different; the book had said. One needed to be careful. Passports and cash were vulnerable.

There didn’t seem to be much going on. The shops weren’t yet open. A gendarme rolled up on me. French armed police. He smiled. “Are you from India?” “Yes!” I replied. “I am from Pondicherry,” he kept smiling, and nodded his head in a familiar way. Pondicherry had been a French colony, and its residents were allowed to hold French citizenship. That’s how P.T. Thambissamy had arrived in Paris. “Aujourd’hui, c’est le 14 juillet,” he said. “Today is Bastille Day – 14^th July. It’s a National Holiday. Everything is closed.”

Bastille Day, or Fête Nationale – The French National Day is the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille on 14 July 1789, which was a turning point of the French Revolution. Throughout France celebrations are held. The Bastille was a symbol of the despotic powers of Louis the XVI, who was later overthrown and beheaded with his queen. If you come to think of it, it was pretty violent stuff. Wordsworth wrote of those times, “Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven.” Thambissamy helpfully suggested the celebrations were starting at the Bastille square, and also opposite the Eiffel Tower where a sound and light show was going to happen. People had begun to gather. 

It was 4:00 p.m. A sweltering and suffocating crowd began to choke people, and a continuous decibel shattering blah blah blah in French recounted history and the Revolution. Each time an official car drove into the square, the standing-roped-off-pushed-and-shoved crowd jeered and sniggered and cat-called. Nothing solemn and reverential like our Republic Day in India. After the heat mounted and the crowds swelled, many women in stiletto heels began to fall down like ninepins, fainting all over the place! As soon as that happened, with a hey-ho and a let us go, a group would quickly form itself, lift the woman and whisk her away from the airtight space.

The sun had begun its journey to the other side of the world, and all kinds of swirling lights and beams came on, and blaring music belted out from all corners. By now thirst and hunger got the better of me, and feeling my legs give way I plopped down on the ground between closely-packed legs that could have trampled me. It might just have been the most foolish and dangerous thing to have done. This was Paris when it sizzled! A few guys saw me down there and sneered.

I prodded a leg or two and some kind ones helped me to my feet, and pushed me out of a mile-thick crowd that was crawling with bottom-pinchers. An international crowd. Kicking and clawing I finally got out into fresh air. Apparently pretty women have their derrière pinched in appreciation. Oh well. Travel maketh a man that’s what Bacon wrote. Does it maketh a woman too?  All this while the Eiffel Tower had been looming behind me. Now I could finally crane my neck and look at it. Built-in 1887 by French engineer Gustave Eiffel it has a panoramic view of the city of Paris. It is locally nicknamed La dame de fer (Iron Lady).

The sound and light show was in full swing with its blah blah BLAH, and I had had enough of it. Hunger had started clawing my innards. Large sausages were being roasted on barbecue stands and I bought one. It looked tasty and tasted terrible! Chewy and leathery. I began to hallucinate about idli and chhole bhature! It was futuristic. In a time machine, Mr. Patel and Sri Srinivasan were all getting to eat these goodies on the Champs de Mars! 

The nearest metro station was lonely as people were still milling around the Eiffel Tower. Since the Louvre and other museums and art galleries were nearby, the station had various artefacts. The poky little bed and breakfast hotel had a surly resentful fellow at the reception who grumpily gave me the key to the room. Five minutes later, I was back in front of him, waving the key in his face, and insisting he change the linen at once. Although he didn’t argue, he gave me a sly look. The room was small and the attached bath was a square tiled floor in the room with a shower and a bidet. The toilet was up against some stairs and you could walk in backwards only! So much for bed…next morning, the breakfast was continental! I imagined all kinds of goodies.

A cup of coffee and a greasy croissant was placed before me. I kept waiting. This was it. The great continental breakfast! 

The Louvre is massive. Violinists stood outside playing their instruments with their mounted music scores. Discreet hats lay about for tips. Broke as I was I pretended I could neither see nor hear! My heart was beating out of my chest as I entered the building. The Mona Lisa was here! All of a sudden I came upon her. Inside a bullet-proof steal-proof glass case. A large group of people stood silently stunned staring. Nobody uttered an aah or ooh! Just looking and looking. We were standing before one of the greatest works of art known to us. A half-length portrait, the Mona Lisa painted by Italian artist Leonardo da Vinci. It is seen as an archetypal masterpiece of the Italian Renaissance. One of the most visited, and written about works of art. Her mysterious smile has for five centuries drawn the attention of millions. Not too long ago the Mayo Clinic journal in America carried an article saying she suffered from hypothyroidism! All mystery and romance flew out of the window!

Meanwhile, a small problem needed sorting out. An endorsement on my passport, which would allow me to return through France to England a month later. My French visa had expired. With immense difficulty I got a cop to direct me to the immigration office. After an hour of standing about when I reached the window, I was directed to the lady who totally ignored me and started talking to the guy behind me. On persisting, she indicated I was in the wrong place and needed to go to a police station on Rue de whatever. Trudge trudge trudge. I saw a police van, which directed me after much gesticulation. I walked and walked and reached a building where steps went down to a hallway whose door was closed. A notice, which I deciphered with one word from here and there told me this was the employment agency for immigrants!

I trudged back down and spied a police vehicle with the cops lolling about. They were least interested in some brown harried woman. I now told them I need to go to the police headquarters as my passport required some correction.  After pretending to listen carefully they pointed to a building. I retraced my steps. I was finally going to the headquarters of the Parisian police.

I walked in and found it was a liquor shop. They even had cigars. A grey-haired gentleman looked at me curiously. Maybe it’s the secret police and they are camouflaged. Hercule Poirot could be lurking about. I showed him the piece of paper I had been showing all day long on which police headquarters was scribbled by the woman who had ignored me. “Oh, no problem” he walked me to the door and pointed in the direction of those lolling cops, and explained where to turn. This time I walked past them and right into the building outside which they were lolling about!

At the reception, a cop with a gun just simply pointed me towards a staircase. I climbed the stairs. Four stories later with just that damned croissant and black coffee inside me I walked through a long corridor till I came to a door, which said “Chief of Police.” I knocked and walked in. An elegant man looked up. I explained in English and he said no problem and took my passport looked at it and stamped a transit visa. What a bloody relief! As I turned to leave, I looked at the picture on his wall. The Taj Mahal looked right back at me!

A month later as the sleek Eurail streaked through the night returning through France, I waited for the immigration officer to ask me for my passport so I could triumphantly wave the Police Chief’s stamp at him. No one even asked for it. No one cared about my expired visa. I had wasted a day in Paris, trudging about for a transit stamp!  When I left The Return of the Pink Panther was showing on the flight, and Peter Sellers’ portrayal of the bumbling, lackadaisical French Policeman was causing much laughter. Then I thought his humour was a trifle racist. The portrayal of the Indian Doctor in The Millionaires’ had annoyed us Indians.

Peter Sellers I now realised was a genius. 

When I arrived in London across the English Channel again on that sleepy bus which luckily didn’t have a groper, I heard the thespian had crossed the rainbow. Peter Sellers’ death brought an end to an era of Inspector Clouseau. But goodness, gracious me! I haven’t forgotten those Clouseau clones I had met in Paris!

Visuals by Different Truths

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur is a poet, travel writer, and social justice activist. A former professor of English Literature at Delhi University, and a creative writing professor at IGNOU, she is a widely published academic and creative writer. Her book Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature, is a seminal text on women’s socio-political empowerment. In 2020-21, she co-edited two poetry anthologies – In All the Spaces: Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, and Earth Fire Water Wind.

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