“Suggest where I can take him around in Paris?” I asked my colleagues in office. With the city shut for tourists, it is a real (albeit unheard of) struggle to take someone around Paris. “There are only three words!” one remarked mockingly. “Please don’t say La Tour Eiffel,” another followed. “Oh, no. GARE DU NORD!” retorted the first one. (Yes, we were all Indian colleagues discussing our very own Disneyland in Paris.

As an Indian, living in Paris for about 7 months now, it came as a surprise to me that I myself had not visited the Indian neighborhood thus far. From day one in Indian circles, you hear the magic words of ‘Gare Du Nord’ – the cash & carry, the supply stores selling Indian masalas, cereals and spices and the famous Saravana Bhavan – in short, the go to place for all things Indian. 

So, I decided to make the pilgrimage to this revered neighborhood. I remember all the lines of caution that had invariably followed a discussion on the place. Be careful. Keep your wallet and mobile close. Don’t carry too much cash. Somehow, now after having my phone stolen in the ‘safer’ part of Paris 6e, I have stopped paying heed to these stereotypical words of wisdom. 

Now, Gare Du Nord station is a MASSIVE train junction. On the inside, it’s a maze of local, regional and international trains. The station seems to bear the burden of lugging not just people, but hopes, aspirations and disappointments for centuries on its shoulders. While the interiors are somewhat underwhelming, the moment you step out, the magnificent bâtimentde la gare (station building) will leave you awestruck. The old-world charm of the building instantly took me down memory lane to how I had felt at Grand Central in New York way back in 2014. Iconic as Grand Central is (courtesy Bollywood especially), its ability to hypnotize is to be seen to be believed. Gare Du Nord comes close…well, somewhat. But it’s amazing how railway stations around the world encapsulate the strides of mankind and enthrall every successive generations…(I could go on and on for I am the granddaughter of a railway man)

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But coming back to the purpose of the visit, I weaned my gaze off the station and looked around to get a sense of the neighborhood. The signboard of ‘25 Hours Hotel Terminus Nord’ written across a Haussmannian building caught my eye. Somehow that sign resonated (probably not intended) as a word of welcome into the neighborhood. An immigrant neighborhood. For don’t immigrants make every minute count and optimize, sometimes taking from the day more hours than it actually offers? The struggle, the sweat, the hard work is all in the air. 

The next two hours, I walked aimlessly through the streets of the Indian (locals in Paris will qualify it further and say Tamilian) area. To me, it simply was a familiar neighborhood, not because I had been there but because I felt I had seen it before. Jackson Heights. Queens. New York. Much like in New York, the splash of color was smeared across a very Parisien beige-stone backdrop. Stores selling glitzy Indian sarees, sparkling gold, aromatic spices and lively curry abound. You know you are in a South Asian neighborhood when women adorning bindis and sarees become the dominant force as against the manteaux et talons (coats and heels) of high street Paris.

The excitement of entering the stores is almost like getting onto a ride in Disneyland. Somethings just strike home. Maggi, Parle-G and namkeen. However old you might be, when you see a packet of these items in a foreign land, the child in you comes rushing back. And so, while I did not ‘need’ anything, I found myself lined up at the cashier to buy banana chips, paneer, green chilies and what not. Momentary dissonance hit as I stepped out of the store. I don’t know why, but the Indian neighborhoods (both in Paris and New York) have as many small electronics-cum-repairs stores as there are grocery stores. It was almost like I was back in Khanna Market in Delhi. 

After the retail therapy, the tourist in me searched the area of ‘places to visit’. A Ganesha Temple in the vicinity popped up. I would’ve crossed it, if it were not for the crowd outside wanting to enter. Housed in a nondescript building, it’s easy to miss. But once inside, you might as well be in Coimbatore. With the pantheon of our gods (being a north Indian, I myself was oblivious to many) on all three walls and the sanctum sanctorum dedicated to Ganeshi ji, the sense of affiliation was present, but hesitant. I realized how temples are also an experience we are accustomed to in a certain fashion. 

It wasn’t just the temple, but the neighborhood at large. There was this sense of being lost in translation. For example, in the grocery store, the packaging of many items was from the middle east. So, while I recognized the content, it was still alien. Similarly, the vegetables were too homogeneous and big in size to be really how they are back home (Bhindi (Okra) is sturdy enough to qualify as green carrots!). And lastly, the posters of Bipasha Basu and Aishwarya Rai plastered on beauty salons are anachronistic in the times of Alia Bhat and Deepika Padukone.

I realized that this Little India, tucked away in the 10e arrondisement of Paris, straddles not just continents but generations and eras. Immigrant neighborhoods emerge often from the first generation of settlers. They bring with them not only their skills and material belongings, but are also living time capsules of culture and heritage. And as they settle down, what emerges is a blended culture of their ‘version’ of India and their ‘reality’ of France. So, for a ‘fresh off the boat’ like myself – this India in Paris is lost in translation. Or maybe, I am yet to discover this interpretation…