9 April-Mysore, Mysore!

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.  



Saturday morning we woke up early to pack, shower and take an auto to the bus stop. Peer Khan drove us and Nani came along, which was a blessing because the bus stop was so unimaginably disorganized. We got out and Peer Khan asked the auto drivers standing nearby where our bus would be. They gestured vaguely off to the side and we set off in that general direction.

Our bus was supposed to be at platform 18 but the only platforms we could see were 5A, 1A, 1B and 16. We wandered in the heat through a honking mess of buses in the parking lot, and heard someone cry Mysore, Mysore! We stepped hopefully towards him, and then became aware that everyone was yelling Mysore, Mysore. There was a jumble of buses in one corner of a parking lot, well away from any sort of platform, and all of them with the same destination. Nani questioned a few different officials, emphasizing that we were looking for an Airavat (AC Volvo) bus that would take us via a city called Mandya.

Finally, we located our bus and boarded. We slept for a bit, and then while Joanna read A Fine Balance, Dimpy watched the countryside go by. The route from Bangalore to Mysore is predominantly rural and showcases small Karnatak villages between brief spurts of heavy traffic and crowded urban life. The road was paved and smooth, a product of one of the government schemes Dimpy has been researching for work. While we have seen instances of stark poverty within Bengaluru, there is something still more desperate about rural hardship. As the landscape became greener, with forests of palm trees and some rice fields, men’s loose button downs and frayed slacks were traded for turbans and lunghis (sort of a white towel wrapped around the waist, for South Indians). There were bullock carts, and men plowing the field with tools, or with starved bullocks. In several of the villages there were these long dwellings, just a triangular thatched roof on a few sticks, under which several families slept. It was literally the crudest dwelling you could imagine. We passed two men working to trade the thatched roof of one for sheets of corrugated aluminum- the only improvement imaginable.

One interesting thing about these tiny villages was the obvious strength of their community bonds. People were always gathered in common open spaces, talking or working side by side, and there was no quiet even as the population tapered off. Closer to Mysore we began to see more ‘institutional’ houses, standard size and all identical. These were again, the product of a government scheme to house the rural poor and every single house had an identical satellite dish on top, while the children in front roamed without shoes.

Nani thought the indication of Mandya as a halfway point meant the bus would stop for a chai break, and we were looking forward to this. Unfortunately, Mandya came and went with no pause for chai, and soon every billboard we passed mentioned Mysore. It was a little hard to figure out where the city actually started, but eventually we passed the official “Welcome to Mysore” sign.

As soon as we got to the outskirts of the city, people began getting up from their seats, pulling their bags out of the overhead compartments, crowding the aisles, hovering near the front of the bus. It was only 20 minutes later that we pulled into the bus stop. We couldn’t figure out why everyone was so impatient to get off the bus!

Dimpy called Reva Auntie, a faraway relative on her mom’s side who lives in Mysore and kindly offered to host us over the weekend. Reva Auntie was at work, and told us her husband would be at the bus stop to meet us. Neither one of us had any idea what he looked like, nor how he would find us, but as we stood in the heat by a crowded sweet shop, a man in a brightly coloured striped shirt approached us. He introduced himself and encouraged us to follow him to his car.

Crossing the busy street in front of the bus stop was difficult, and about halfway a tiny girl came up to Dimpy begging. Dimpy told her she didn’t have change, but the girl followed her all the way across the street tugging at her arm until she finally believed it. This is the first time since arriving that Dimpy had been approached by a child begging during this trip, and she found it heartbreaking.

On the drive to Reva Auntie’s house, we passed a complex of government buildings, including the Deputy Commissioner’s office, and finally got a glimpse of Mysore Palace. The city appeared less crowded than Bengaluru- less traffic and less pollution, but we weren’t sure how much of that could be attributed simply to weekend quiet. Mysore Palace looked beautiful, although there was a lot of construction surrounding. We wound through narrow streets in a well-kept neighborhood to arrive at their house, a pink building next to a boy’s hostel. 

Srinivas Uncle brought us upstairs and kindly offered us apple juice. We met Sapna, their daughter, who is just about to graduate from Engineering College and had not seen Dimpy in many years. She told us she was busy studying for her last exam (before finals) and assured us we could meet up later. They were in the process of redoing their house, and the new tile floors looked beautiful. Srinivas Uncle apologized for the ‘mess’ but we thought it looked great and super clean, especially in comparison to our room in Bengaluru after the chaos of packing.

Srinivas Uncle had made rice and bindi sabzi, which we usually love, but it was a little too spicy for Joanna, who managed to fill herself with rice and a banana. Dimpy tried to pretend it wasn’t spicy but finally succumbed to it and cooled her seared taste buds with a plate of curds and rice (Joanna does not like curds. This is the only thing distinguishing Joanna from a real Indian).

After lunch, Srinivas Uncle gave us a list of popular tourist spots in Mysore and urged us to visit the zoo first. We had actually thought the palace would be a good place to begin, but steady prompting encouraged us to change our minds. Our hosts had kindly arranged for an air-conditioned cab to take us around the city and it wasn’t long before the car arrived. Our handsome driver Kumar introduced himself and we proceeded to our first destination, St. Philomena Church.

Accustomed by now to traveling in autos, we weren’t expecting the luxury of the cab, and it seemed like it would detract from us really experiencing the city. For the time being, we were grateful for the air conditioning. 

The cathedral was absolutely beautiful, all colourful stained glass and pointed turrets. It was strange to see Western architecture in the middle of India. The majority of tourists were Indians, and all took family portraits in the same spot in front of the cathedral. We entered, and Dimpy could not figure out whether to take off her shoes or not. Some people had, and others had not. So Joanna kept them on, and Dimpy walked barefoot on the cool marble floors.  

The interior of the church was dark. Tourists sat in the wooden pews and took in the majestic altar and the stained glass windows. The church was constructed in 1936 in Neo Gothic style, but unlike other similarly influenced churches that we have seen in the West, St Philomena’s grace was overpowered by the somewhat flashy and decidedly tasteless decorations. But we’ll get to that once we go downstairs.

First we explored the first floor. Prostrate before the statue of Mary to the right of the main altar, was a woman praying in a sort of Pentecostal fashion. She wiggled and moaned and crawled closer and closer to Mary while her young child clung to her. We have never seen anyone pray like that before, and it was certainly different.

We loved seeing the birds that had made their nests by the stained glass windows high above us. 

Then, while Joanna sat for a while in the pews to absorb the beauty, Dimpy headed down a narrow flight of stairs in pursuit of adventure.

She emerged in a stone alcove. The stairwell was flanked by two paintings and there was faint writing on the walls. The catacombs of the church, where one would expect to find dark austere tombs, held instead a casket on top of which an 11 year old’s birthday party had exploded.

The casket housed a painted plaster figure, and the surroundings were festooned with feathery boas, glittery curtains and flashing lights.  Directly in front of this spiritual debacle was a pit full of money, covered by a mesh screen. Joanna joined Dimpy to gaze in bewilderment at this spectacle. We continued our exploration down narrow tunnels hoping to find a less gaudy and more spiritual haven to satisfy our tourist desires.

Instead, we emerged at the back of the church, facing a boy’s school. So, we asked Kumar to take the obligatory tourist snapshot of us in front of the church (note the man in the back posing for his), and then we headed to the zoo. 

The zoo was a madhouse. Used to our quiet routines as ‘Bengaluru locals’, we had not yet experienced India as tourists. The swarms of people coupled with the sweltering heat made for a chaotic and decidedly unpleasant beginning to any visit to a tourist attraction. We noticed immediately on the signboard that the fare for Indian adults was 20 Rs, while the fare for foreigners was 200. Rude.

So, we devised a plan. Joanna waited inconspicuously by the ice cream-wallah, while Dimpy fought to the front of the ticket line. She purchased two 20 Rs tickets and hoped for the best. When we got to the zoo gate, the ticket checker immediately stopped us. She told us Joanna would need a foreigner’s ticket, and when we protested, she summoned a guard. He demanded an explanation, and Dimpy cleverly ‘explained’ in Hindi that Joanna’s father worked for Sonata Software, and that she lived in Jayanagar 2^ND block. He apologized for the misunderstanding and let us through. Nice.

First, we saw giraffes. 

Then, the birds. 

There were flamingos and regal peacocks, as well as a variety of strange beaked winged things. At the tiger enclosure, the tiny dark prison-like cages distressed us. Reva Auntie called at this point, and we waited for her to join us.

When Reva Auntie arrived, she was jovial, friendly and spoke great English. We proceeded around the circuit of the zoo with her, impressed by the human-like gorilla 

and intimidating rhino. 

The most entertaining animal was the Hamadryas baboon. 

These are the most awkward creatures, with protruding buttocks of a bright pink fleshy colour. Totally hairless and squishy, these behinds are apparently nerveless as well and function as sitting cushions for the baboons. 

There was an entire baboon family- youngsters chasing each other around a tree, 

mother mediating conflicts, father climbing trees and wise old grandfather looking grumpy on the side. It was eerie how human-like their interactions were, and we watched for ages.

We finally tore our eyes away to go in search of the illustrious elephant. On the way, we stopped at the reptile center, where king cobras in various cages all seemed to be consuming other snakes while crowds of fascinated tourists gaped in horror.

The zoo was larger than we had anticipated, and it took a while before we reached an enclosure of Indian elephants. There were men maintaining the area and we were jealous that they had the opportunity to work in such close proximity to the animals. 

One elephant was slinging dirt up on its back with its trunk, while two others butted heads and entangled their trunks affectionately. 

The next enclosure housed a larger elephant; one we figured must be the African variety. This elephant was old, very wrinkly, and quite sad. He had remarkable control over his trunk and wrapped it around tiny clumps of grass, wrenching them loose and throwing them into his mouth. 

It had gotten very hot, and we passed a large coconut stand. 

The promise of cool juice tempted us, so we asked for three. 

With a few hacks from his machete, the man converted three green coconuts into little jugs, and inserted straws through the holes in the top. 

The flavour was surprisingly not coconut-y and definitely not our favourite. We threw the husks into a large pile, and Reva Auntie informed us they would be converted into fuel!

One of the most interesting parts of the zoo was the violence of the warning signs. ‘Do not enter the enclosure’ was graphically represented as a picture of a zebra ripping apart a man’s chest, blood gushing from the cartoon wounds. The same image was replicated elsewhere, only the offending animal substituted (a bear, a lion). 

There was a sign to warn tourists against feeding the wild bonnet monkeys. 

These monkeys roamed freely around the zoo, hopping from one enclosure to the next, scavenging for tourist trash and probably bothering the other animals. 

We saw the same type of monkey again at Chamundi Hills! It is weird to see wild monkeys, scampering across the paths just like the chipmunks. 

Exhausted from the walk around the perimeter in blazing heat, we suggested a trip to Coffee Day, our favourite Bengaluru coffee spot. We ordered a frappuccino type drink, cake with ice cream, bottled water, and a cappuccino for Reva Auntie. Joanna was very hungry after not having eaten much of the spicy lunch, so she ate a lot of sweets. At the Coffee Day was an Indian wedding magazine that we flipped through while eating. Its pages strongly emphasized a unity between Western and Indian styles, with women wrapping saris in Western ways, or pairing them with a blazer. It was a little strange. Overall, Indian magazines are more blunt and less politically correct- you may very well see a woman’s eyes described as small and beady, or her body type called ‘fat’. Such a magazine would never sell in the States!

From Coffee Day, we went to the engineering university to pick up Sapna from her exam so she could join us for Brindavan Gardens. The drive to Brindavan was surprisingly long, and we seemed to go quite a ways outside Mysore. Given the travel through pretty rural territory, we assumed the Gardens would not be crowded. But we were wrong.

The parking lot was jam-packed with vehicles, and before stepping out of the car, Reva Auntie firmly warned us to beware of the ‘bottom-pinchers’, lecherous men who would pinch any female bottom they saw. We couldn’t resist laughing, but to be safe, made sure we traveled together and kept an eye on each other. We paid the entrance fee and after Dimpy found herself unable to resist giving money to two young begging boys, we entered and were immediately ushered down specific paths by men controlling the crowds. It was off-putting after the serenity of Lalbagh, and we looked frantically around for a quiet wooded grove to escape people in favour of nature.

But Reva Auntie suggested instead that we walk to the musical fountains, the main attraction of the Brindavan Gardens. We passed through a random little market selling touristy knick-knacks and snacks, and followed the general flow of the crowd.

The crowd moved across a long bridge that ended near the fountain. While Reva Auntie and Sapna waited for us, we tried to get in a bit of nature, going off to the side to smell some flowers and admire the landscaping. 

Finally, we climbed a set of stone steps where several rows of stands were filled with people eager to see the dancing fountains. 

Twice every night, this fountain is illuminated and while music plays, bursts of water pulse rhythmically with the beat. The display was impressive, but what Dimpy found most impressive was how the spectacle entranced so many people into awed silence. The first song was a Kannada classic, and the next a cheesy Western song, providing a variety to theoretically appeal to any audience member.

We left the fountain early to avoid the mob, but instead faced more surges of people working their way towards the fountain for the next show, and we ended up fighting our way against the crowd and out of the garden. We drove home and then headed out again with Sapna to a nearby restaurant called Green Leaf for a hopefully less spicy dinner. 

We walked to a brightly lit recessed restaurant, down a small flight of steps. We opted to sit outside in the cool night air, and found the selection on the menu to be totally satisfying.  Joanna ordered paneer manchurian, a new favorite. It is fried Indian cheese (paneer) in a sweet sauce, and goes perfectly with naan. Dimpy had an excessively spicy but totally delicious baby corn manchurian that forced her to order two dishes of curds to save her mouth from erupting in flames.

After a very pleasant meal, we walked home. Sapna’s father rode up beside us on his motorbike at one point, evidently checking to make sure we were safe walking in the dark. We fell asleep prepared to wake up early for more sightseeing…