Life of Pi

I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It’s one big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fans whirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. The place is furnished to capacity with identical square tables, each with its complement of four chairs. You sit where you can, with whoever is at a table. The coffee is good and they serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by. And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man with great shocks of pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to him that Canada was cold and that French was indeed spoken in parts of it and that I liked India and so on and so forth—the usual light talk between friendly, curious Indians and foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work with a widening of the eyes and a nodding of the head. It was time to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiters eye to get the bill.

Then the elderly man said, “I have a story that will make you believe in God.”

I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Was this a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at my door? “Does your story take place two thousand years ago in a remote corner of the Roman Empire?” I asked.

“No.”

Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? “Does it take place in seventh-century Arabia?”

“No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a few years back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in the very country you come from.”

“And it will make me believe in God?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“Not so tall that you can’t reach.”

My waiter appeared. I hesitated for a moment. I ordered two coffees. We introduced ourselves. His name was Francis Adirubasamy. “Please tell me your story,” I said.

“You must pay proper attention,” he replied.

“I will.” I brought out pen and notepad.

“Tell me, have you been to the botanical garden?” he asked.

“I went yesterday.”

“Didyou notice the toy train tracks?”

“Yes, I did.”

“A train still runs on Sundays for the amusement of the children. But it used to run twice an hour every day. Did you take note of the names of the stations?”

“One is called Roseville. It’s right next to the rose garden.”

“That’s right. And the other?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The sign was taken down. The other station was once called Zootown. The toy train had two stops: Roseville and

Zootown. Once upon a time there was a zoo in the Pondicherry Botanical Garden.“