I woke up this morning around six, and decided to catch a sunrise. I passed a restaurant the previous day called "Sunrise cafe" so I thought I would get a cup of coffee and watch the golden orb arise. False advertising, the place was well-locked and closed at that hour. Instead, I viewed it rise over the Bay of Bengal from the beach, sitting on a rickety old boat that was docked on the sand. Breakfast was a masala omellette, too yummy.
I left Mamallampuram on a uber-packed bus to Pondicherry. The bus had sixty seats, and there were eighty people. I spent the first half standing, then luckily some people got off, and I could sit the rest of the way.
I arrived to Pondicherry, and into a world of French colonial memories. I walked barefoot on the cool pavement of the wide-tree lined boulevards of forgotten tricolore dreams. Past pastel colonial houses, the hue of peach, lavender, tangerine and lime that have faded like the empire that built them. There was a time, but it is no more. All that is left is pink and blue bougainvillea that adorn the crumbling walls of a forgotten French corner of the world.