Auroville is based on the concept of a community which is universal; belonging to no one and everyone. People who choose to (and are accepted) live here are committed to work and service for the divine spirit and must be wanting and willing to relinquish all egoistic ties to the world. To say the least it isn’t for many of today’s earthly inhabitants, which is unfortunate to say the least.
This is a visual concept from the reception center.
Auroville generates revenue through economic activities such as textile design, papermaking and pottery.
They then sell these items at shops located in their township as well as other places in India.
A side note here: I was first told about Auroville by Surnish’s cousin Benita who is a co-founder of Mercado Global. This is a very progressive organization, which is trying to pair small worker cooperatives of handicrafts and textiles, with international retailers.
After enjoying the presentations at the visitors center and picking up some paper items, we opted to call it a day. Much of the grounds were muddy puddles and ponds with rain showers intermittently breaking the constant downpour.
Despite this short visit, I felt much more inclined to come back and stay for an extended period of time to really get a feel for the atmosphere of the people and work of Auroville.
Heading Back to Chennai
As the weather would have it, we weren’t destined for 3-days, so we settled for 1 whole and 2 halves. Driving out from Auroville I watched images of village life pass by that were the same and different from what I’d seen in northern India.
As the weather would have it, we weren’t destined for 3-days, so we settled for 1 whole and 2 halves. Driving out from Auroville I watched images of village life pass by that were the same and different from what I’d seen in northern India.
The vividness of the landscape inspired the following:
Driving out of Auroville…
The rains are resting for the moment as I watched the passing scene.
With window rolled down I am able to clearly see the one hundred thousand shades of green glowing under heavy drops of water.
The wind gently pushes leaves on leaves on branches on twigs. The water rains from one surface to the next.
A thousand different kinds of leaves in millions of shapes and form. The brightest still not as bright as the blades I’ve seen in the rice fields; but they try.
Tall and thin and short and squat are the cacti I don’t expect to see.
Dense are the mangrove and their limbs, which bow down to the commune with the earth on which they rely.
The road is lined by red clay waiting for hands to form it and fences so alive with creeper growth one cannot be sure that each vertical piece isn’t rooted to the ground. My eyes strain to see the connection, but the truth cannot be revealed.
The road begins to smoothen as more and more earth alone is seen. Small tidy piles of garbage breech the scene.
With a final turn and length, the road empties out past buildings of red brick and merges with the expressway.
The ocean is just then there across the way. Blue, green and gray in its calmness today, for now. It colors the sky it meets with in the horizon. And for a moment the white sand of beach appears before it all disappears behind the buildings and huts and landscape.
Again we’ve met the rain.
We drove right into it.
Driving out of Auroville…
The rains are resting for the moment as I watched the passing scene.
With window rolled down I am able to clearly see the one hundred thousand shades of green glowing under heavy drops of water.
The wind gently pushes leaves on leaves on branches on twigs. The water rains from one surface to the next.
A thousand different kinds of leaves in millions of shapes and form. The brightest still not as bright as the blades I’ve seen in the rice fields; but they try.
Tall and thin and short and squat are the cacti I don’t expect to see.
Dense are the mangrove and their limbs, which bow down to the commune with the earth on which they rely.
The road is lined by red clay waiting for hands to form it and fences so alive with creeper growth one cannot be sure that each vertical piece isn’t rooted to the ground. My eyes strain to see the connection, but the truth cannot be revealed.
The road begins to smoothen as more and more earth alone is seen. Small tidy piles of garbage breech the scene.
With a final turn and length, the road empties out past buildings of red brick and merges with the expressway.
The ocean is just then there across the way. Blue, green and gray in its calmness today, for now. It colors the sky it meets with in the horizon. And for a moment the white sand of beach appears before it all disappears behind the buildings and huts and landscape.
Again we’ve met the rain.
We drove right into it.
And as we continued on we drove passed many acres of salt flats where workers collected and moved this vital element.
I wondered if there was greater satisfaction or sense of dignity in working with this material as it was the very one that is eternally tied with the final throws of struggle for India’s freedom? More likely this is simply the fanciful thinking of a Westerner…a simple Pink American.
Peace,
A Pink American
Peace,
A Pink American
