This post was jointly written by Joanna and I, extensively chronicling our weekend adventures in Mysore, Karnataka! The pictures are all Jo's, as my camera died ON the bus ride over...tragic. All photographic genius is credited to her! :)
EXPLANATION: WE USED 'WE', BUT SPECIFIED 'DIMPY' or 'JOANNA' OTHERWISE. APOLOGIES IF IT IS CONFUSING.
Kumar pointed out the racetrack and the distant turrets of Mysore palace. The city looked sprawling and peaceful, and the view was a definite highlight of an otherwise fruitless excursion. At the viewpoint, there were several wild bonnet monkeys scavenging through the trash, one happily devouring a watermelon slice. They were fearless, and while Dimpy sat on the stone wall, one even ran across her legs!
We next visited another bull statue, the third largest. It seemed smaller than the one in the Bull Temple in Bengaluru, but was still impressive.
Dimpy and Sapna walked around it once and drank the obligatory holy water. They then explored higher, where there was a cave Shiva temple. The shrine was inside a cave with an opening so small that only one person could crawl through at a time. This was Dimpy’s favourite because it reminded her of another cave temple in Goa, and because the prasad given (the food given by the Priest ‘from God’) was cachita (little sugar cubes). Dimpy and Sapna climbed still higher, and Dimpy finally climbed on top of a large rock, a vantage point from which she could see the entire area.
The palace grounds were immense and beautiful, but not all was available for viewing because the king still resides in the building. We visited the temple associated with the palace and then, again exhausted by the heat, sought a fruit juice stand. We ordered fruit juices without ice or water, and then tried sugarcane juice from the stand next door, which had an extractor. Long stalks of sugarcane are fed through two rollers of a steel machine, and the juice is squeezed out from the stalks into a bucket with ice in it, and then served in a tall glass. It was sickly sweet with a strange aftertaste, but quite good.
EXPLANATION: WE USED 'WE', BUT SPECIFIED 'DIMPY' or 'JOANNA' OTHERWISE. APOLOGIES IF IT IS CONFUSING.
Chamundi Hills was our first visit for Sunday, and we set out around 7:15 am after a nice cup of chai. Dimpy’s parents have often called her Chamundi or Chamundeshwari when she misbehaved, and she was excited to see the hills dedicated to the goddess by this name. There is a temple on top of the hill with 1000 granite steps leading to it, but we drove up the winding roads instead (in the interest of time, avoiding the heat, and sparing Reva Auntie’s leg!).
At the top of the hill there were a few tourist stalls. Joanna bought some bangles, and we took a picture in front of a painted statue of a demon.
We walked barefoot (having left our shoes in the car) through dark narrow alleys lined with tourist stalls, and emerged to see crowds and crowds of people at the temple.
The wait to go in was more than an hour long, so we decided it wouldn’t be worthwhile. Salespeople berated us to buy pictures of Gods, bracelets and fans while hungry cows looked balefully around for grass. Not our kind of scene, and we were glad to leave.
We walked barefoot (having left our shoes in the car) through dark narrow alleys lined with tourist stalls, and emerged to see crowds and crowds of people at the temple.
The wait to go in was more than an hour long, so we decided it wouldn’t be worthwhile. Salespeople berated us to buy pictures of Gods, bracelets and fans while hungry cows looked balefully around for grass. Not our kind of scene, and we were glad to leave.
On the way down we stopped at a viewpoint to take in Mysore from an aerial perspective.
Kumar pointed out the racetrack and the distant turrets of Mysore palace. The city looked sprawling and peaceful, and the view was a definite highlight of an otherwise fruitless excursion. At the viewpoint, there were several wild bonnet monkeys scavenging through the trash, one happily devouring a watermelon slice. They were fearless, and while Dimpy sat on the stone wall, one even ran across her legs!
We next visited another bull statue, the third largest. It seemed smaller than the one in the Bull Temple in Bengaluru, but was still impressive.
Dimpy and Sapna walked around it once and drank the obligatory holy water. They then explored higher, where there was a cave Shiva temple. The shrine was inside a cave with an opening so small that only one person could crawl through at a time. This was Dimpy’s favourite because it reminded her of another cave temple in Goa, and because the prasad given (the food given by the Priest ‘from God’) was cachita (little sugar cubes). Dimpy and Sapna climbed still higher, and Dimpy finally climbed on top of a large rock, a vantage point from which she could see the entire area.
The next stop was breakfast. Reva Auntie invited the driver to eat as well, and when Dimpy asked if we needed another chair, Reva Auntie explained that all of the drivers usually ate together at another table. Dimpy could not get used to this idea, and insisted that Kumar eat with us, ignoring the driver’s hesitation.
Our final major stop before the bus stop was Mysore Palace, where again we met different fares for Indians and foreign tourists.
A man selling payal (anklets) outside the gate warned us that there would be three separate checkpoints inside the gate and that if we wanted to claim Jo as a resident of India, we would have to provide evidence. This man then badgered us until Dimpy agreed to buy a pair of anklets (after negotiating the price down). It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, as she had wanted a pair anyways. So, after some hesitation, we decided we would have to deal with the unequal prices because it wasn’t worth missing out. It was searing hot again, and we had to leave our shoes in a locker area because they weren’t allowed in the palace. Neither were cameras. We opted against a tour guide, and just appreciated the beauty of each room we walked through, consulting the informational TV screens placed throughout for relevant facts.
A man selling payal (anklets) outside the gate warned us that there would be three separate checkpoints inside the gate and that if we wanted to claim Jo as a resident of India, we would have to provide evidence. This man then badgered us until Dimpy agreed to buy a pair of anklets (after negotiating the price down). It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, as she had wanted a pair anyways. So, after some hesitation, we decided we would have to deal with the unequal prices because it wasn’t worth missing out. It was searing hot again, and we had to leave our shoes in a locker area because they weren’t allowed in the palace. Neither were cameras. We opted against a tour guide, and just appreciated the beauty of each room we walked through, consulting the informational TV screens placed throughout for relevant facts.
The building displayed clear Hindu, Muslim and Christian influences at once, ceilings painted with obviously Hindu warrior angels shooting arrows through the clouds- a simultaneous Cupid and Kshatriya (warrior). Everything was ornate and very colourful- lots of light and dark greens and pinks.
The palace grounds were immense and beautiful, but not all was available for viewing because the king still resides in the building. We visited the temple associated with the palace and then, again exhausted by the heat, sought a fruit juice stand. We ordered fruit juices without ice or water, and then tried sugarcane juice from the stand next door, which had an extractor. Long stalks of sugarcane are fed through two rollers of a steel machine, and the juice is squeezed out from the stalks into a bucket with ice in it, and then served in a tall glass. It was sickly sweet with a strange aftertaste, but quite good.
At this point we were still trying to kill time before going to the bus stop, so we went to a nearby sweet shop to hopefully pick out some snacks for our journey. Joanna sampled a delicious coconut sugar treat, a disgustingly orange colour. She bought one of those and an extremely appetizing chocolate cake. The chocolate cake turned out to be a weird fruit cake that taste rotten. As we were leaving the sweet shop, a fight broke out. A man, his wife and their two kids got into some sort of altercation with one of the sweet shop workers. We couldn’t understand a word, since all words exchanged were in Kannada, but it certainly looked dramatic. The man and the employee traded some very nasty sounding words and shoved each other around while a curious crowd gathered. Then just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The man and his family walked away, and the glowering employee served his next customers.
From the sweet shop we went to another temple, where after walking around the deity we were caught unawares, and the priest threw water all over us. Reva Auntie explained it was a tactic to ward off the evil spirits and regardless; it was a nice way to cool off, albeit unexpected. Then while Reva Auntie and Sapna visited yet another temple, we gave up and sat on a bench.
At last, we went to the bus station. The Mysore side of things was just as disorganized as the Bengaluru side had been, and we could not figure out what bus we should board. Reva Auntie gave our ticket (one ticket for the two of us together) to a ticket checker, who darted off through the crowds, nearly giving Dimpy a heart attack as she thought she would never see the ticket again. But he returned with 10 minutes to spare and we boarded, thanking Reva Auntie and Sapna for their hospitality.
When we reached Bengaluru, we hailed an auto to take us home. The first driver promised to take us for 150 rupees, about thrice the appropriate fare. So, Dimpy laughed and we tried again. It took four attempts before we found an auto that was willing to take us for 70 (still more than appropriate). We bumped through the familiar Bengaluru streets with Kannada music blaring in our ears. The driver had fitted his rickshaw with large speakers behind the heads of passengers! A pleasant touch.
We were tired from our long weekend and glad to be home with Nani and chai and our familiar routines.
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