Mysore and a Month

Received an email from my grandma this past weekend, saying she was very happy to know one of six months done, that I would be home soon. A month already! Just last week I finally emptied one of the luggage bags.

In a month here, it took me only a week to find my corner bar, its like nothing I have ever seen back home. I can’t begin to describe it. But its just my kind of place. In a month I have managed to improve my negotiation skills with autorickshaw drivers, so as to avoid what happened in the first week when they promised to show me some sites, only to drive me around in circles to their friends’ shops where other Westerners happily opened their wallets for trinkets, while their drivers waited patiently outside over tea for you and his commission. And in a month I have gotten better at ordering food, detecting counterfeit rupees and crossing streets without jumping up in the air at every honk or running like a madman.

Before I came to India, my Indian friend warned me I would see stray dogs. He did so because I am a dog lover so as to prepare me. When I first heard this from him I shuddered, knowing this would be a constant source of pain. When I first saw these dogs, I averted my eyes and was heartbroken. Now, far from indifferent, I see it as part of the many layers of the daily life here I must navigate. To obsess over anything would lead to a point of immobilization, the antithesis of India. I offer snacks if I have anything on me, on a hot day tried to offer one water but he was too skittish, and whistle and talk to them in a loving voice when I pass by. When I do this some even wag their tails, and follow me for a block or two. When I lock eyes with some they will keep them locked until I break it. Some roam in packs, others tend to a litter off the main road, and I can only assume under their caked dirt, scars and scruff, all are tough.  And all are capable lovers. With a nice groom and overfed diet, some could even pass as suburban house pets back home. At night when I return from work, down a dark street lit only by a few street lamps you will see a pack circling about. Sometimes they are fighters. I can hear dog fights at night and one unlucky one yelping. Other times they are playmates, like once in the park when I saw a young puppy running up to other dogs jumping in the grass, leaping on them and disturbing the balance. When a monsoon rolls in, the streets will clear and the dogs, with their tails low and blinking from the rain drops hitting their eyes, disperse down alleys, under stalls and onto porches. This past weekend while at a bus stand, a woman offered a dog a crackle. The dog happily followed her at a distance of five feet, upright and wagging its tail. For the next half hour, as I saw the lady traverse the busy platform back and forth about her duties, the loyal dog was never far behind, never nudging the woman or barking. She acknowledged him at times and eventually when it came time for her to board her bus, amidst the dozen or so other buses zooming in and out of the stand and throngs of people, the dog followed her to the door and sat down loyally as she boarded. He stayed there for some time and I can only assume eventually went on his way.

I had my first getaway from the city this past weekend, to a town called Mysore, my visit coinciding with the Mysore Dasara, known as the festival of lights that started in this town and spread throughout the country. It honors the goddess Chamundeshwar or Chaimundi who killed the demon Mahishasura in battle. Dasara was first commemorated by the Wodeyar Kingdom of Mysore 404 years ago, a kingdom which reigned unbroken up till today, but for a brief military rule during in a power vacuum. The Wodeyar’s were later restored to the thrown by the British and Mysore remained the center of the namesake state until Independence, when Bangalore, a concentrated and developed British outpost, became the capital and the state was renamed Karnataka. This year’s Dasara will be unique given the passing of the king last year, who normally partakes of the annual precession on the final day. Traditionally the king would ride on the back of an elephant past the crowd and before his subjects, but this has long since been replaced with the golden sword of the warrior goddess Chaimundi, adorned in a gold chassis hauled by an elephant.

I caught a bus to Mysore with a coworker who was heading home for the weekend. We were the last ones on the 6 am bus and sat in the row of seats in the back, myself in the middle with a clear view down the length of the bus and driver window. I tried to get some sleep, only to awake midair as the backend hit a bump several times. Other times, the bus’s overtakes of rickshaws and motorcycles and its following yank of the wheel and acceleration to get me and the backend of the bus back into the correct lane before an oncoming semi, somehow didn’t induce the desired sleep I needed.

Managed to take a quick nap that morning in the room I rented, which came out to 8 dollars a night. Normally I assume it would go for less, but it was the first weekend of the 10 day festival. A 6 x 8 room with a bed, ceiling fan and adjoining squatting toilet. I toured most of the city on foot (it is a lot more manageable than Bangalore) and after a day of walking, laid down in the garden grass of the annual Dassara flower show. Later I met up with a coworker who took me through Devaraja Market, a centuries old bazaar selling vegetables, oils, colorful kumkum, the powder placed on the forehead marking the holiest of holy energy spots, or chakras, on the human body. The third eye, which humans see the divine.

That evening after pineapple dosas and tea, I walked along the Mysore palace walls trying to find my way back to my hotel down streets I think I had walked earlier in the day but didn’t recognize. I could see over the walls the palace’s decorative lights and entered through an unassuming entrance that was unlit, past armed guards and smoking men. Unsure what was off limits or not after previously believing it wasn’t open to the public, I followed a family 50 feet ahead, and just when my eyes were adjusting to the darkness, we turned a corner and were in the front of the palace grounds, lit up in celebration of the festival. Thousands lay in the grass watching a play staged at the base of the palace. My manager asked that I text him that evening, it was the Indian way he said, to make sure their guests are safe. As I was texting him about what I stumbled upon, I noticed a large object to my left loom up and obstruct the palace lights, and it was getting closer. I jumped up at the sight of an elephant being paraded down the lawn, right towards me. I reacted with a smile, stupefied shake of the head and a “shit!”

On my last night in Mysore, another coworker said he wanted to take me to the top of Chimandi hills to see the decorated lights of the old city below. We were met by my coworker’s hometown friends in their bikes. The hill is said to resemble the body of a beheaded man at rest, the body of Mahishasura, the evil demon that the warrior goddess Chimandi kills and from whom Mysore derives its name. We briefly stopped to see the palace below and continued up to the top of the mountain to Chimandi temple, were performers we gathered outside. Its pyramid tower jutting up into the sky was illuminated by lights cast on its face, allowing you to see the clouds splitting on either side and monkeys scaling up the temple. I had left my camera behind and was initially pissed as I tried to make do to encapsulate that image, complete with a serendipitous sacred cow that walked in front of my view, knowing I would not have language to write about it later as I am failing now. I resigned myself to the fact that this image would never fade in my memory and was the exact reason why I travel. Soon after 9 pm the lights on the celebratory lights on the city below were turned off and immediately a monsoon, that previously operated as nothing but silent lightening, unaccompanied by thunder, behind distant clouds that obscured any bolts but instead illuminated the clouds, moved in. Now it was heading for the hill. As people we vacating the hill, we stopped outside to enjoy the street stalls that catered to the temple pilgrims. Just as we were finishing our snacks, it began to pour and we made our way under the awnings of vendors. The lightening that was previously silent and hidden behind clouds, was coming down right above us and the empty lot we looked out on. Now not just the celebratory lights, but all the lights were out.  Over tea and cigarettes and bouts of laughs, the ten of the friends or so educated me on Bollywood actresses as I fielded their questions on Vegas.

On the way down the hill, the rain was bouncing off streets and the ones bouncing sideways were dozens and dozens of frogs. I got dropped off by the hotel but before entering, rounded the corner to the small bar I had visited last night. Without even a word the bartender gave me the beer I had liked the night before and I paid, turning to walk out the door down narrow alley road to my hotel. It was almost 11, the rain was still pouring down and the streets were empty. The police would be doing their rounds for the Dasara curfew and I had to get back before the hotel locked its door. As I lay in bed listening to the rain and thunder, I fell fast asleep.