48 Hours in Mysore - For Dasara (cont'd)

By Tory
The next morning Sharvan brought me to the city first, and told me he would be back with Kasia in “five to ten minutes.” Luckily by this point I knew his apartment was 45 minutes away, so he would be at least an hour and a half. I sat down, ready for a long wait. Finally, after about two hours, I called Sharvan, and he said Kasia was sick – undoubtedly from the fish curry at Hotel Roopa, I thought – and she would not be coming to the procession. At this point it was around 10 AM and families with small children were already sitting under the hot sun along the parade route, marking their places more than four hours ahead of time. I was resting on the steps of KR Hospital when a worker from the hospital began to ask me about the United States and then invited me to watch the procession from the hospital balcony, an offer I recognized as priceless only too late. He warned me about the “five lakh people” who would be watching with me later. “What is lakh again…” I thought to myself. And again, I was taken aback by another stranger’s kindness and curiosity.
Just as I was wondering how to pass the time until the procession, my Keralan acquaintances from the day before showed up and shuttled me to the zoo in an auto. The zoo was crowded but still impressive, and highlights included a performing gorilla, which drew many cheers and whistles. Some of the signs were also entertaining.

Scenes from Mysore Zoo

Leaving the zoo we struggled to find an auto driver offering less than 200% of what we had paid coming out; finally we settled on one who offered about 150%, and brought us back to KR Hospital. The crowd at 1:45 PM was enormous. I maintained my futile hope that the procession would be mostly floats, so that I could see them over the heads of the hundreds of people directly in front of me. We managed to make our way closer to the front, but as I saw the mob quickly forming behind us I requested to move to the back again, wary of the inevitable pushing that would soon follow. And indeed, from the sidelines I watched as those where I had been were nearly pushed over during the entire procession. For my part, I managed to see almost none of the procession itself.

The elephants were the highlight of the procession, and the only part I could (sort of) see.

After the elephants passed by and more ground level performances began, and I began to feel people pulling on me from every direction in the crowd, I decided it was not worth it anymore, and jetted down the street to the bus station. Alone again, I immediately noticed the difference from being with a group of Indians. Suddenly the number of people calling to me, running up and poking me, and otherwise heckling grew noticeably, and I could not make it to the bus station fast enough.
When I got there, an AC bus to Bangalore was pulling out. I asked if I could get on, and the employee said, “Yes, you are who we have been waiting for! Go on!” Encouraged, I confirmed that the bus would go to Majestic Station, and climbed aboard. I fell asleep immediately.
Suddenly I woke up and realized that despite the bus being AC, I was sweating, and everyone around me was fanning themselves. Still half asleep I asked the boy beside me to open the window. Politely, he feigned an attempt, and then informed me that the windows do not open on the AC buses.  I checked my watch and it had been only a half an hour since we left Mysore.
Shortly thereafter, the sweltering bus stopped at a rest stop and most people got off. After about twenty minutes, a crowd formed around the bus and everyone began to argue. I asked one Western-looking Indian in the crowd what was going on. He answered me in perfect English: “I have no idea.” It turned out he was an Indian-Canadian working on a two-month project in Bangalore; in the same breath, he told me “I cannot wait to go home.” I then turned to my seatmate, who was standing nearby, and looking involved. He said, more timidly, “I don’t know. I am from Kerala. I don’t understand their language.” Suddenly I realized that likely far more people than I had imagined were in my position. This highlighted for me the frustrations attendant to living in a country with so many different languages.
Eventually the driver herded us all back on the bus and the fanning again commenced. I wished I had bought a non-AC ticket. When we finally reached Majestic Station another kind stranger helped me buy a pre-paid auto to Double Road, Indira Nagar. Immediately the auto driver became belligerent, asking me things I wished I could understand. The woman in the pre-paid auto office prodded him on, however, and he pulled out of the station. As he recklessly plowed down the road, I wondered if he was still drunk from earlier Dasara celebrations.
An hour later we arrived somewhere on 2nd Stage, Indira Nagar, and my auto driver repeated “Ok, Double Road, Double Road.” I insisted that he take me to the real Double Road, and he grudgingly began to ask everyone around how to get there. When we finally found my place he wanted R$100 extra, on top of the agreed upon R$85 for the pre-paid auto. I gave him a R$100 bill and walked inside as he yelled things at me that I was happy I did not understand.
Despite the frustrations, the trip was absolutely worthwhile. The weekend was full of moments when I thought to myself that I could not be luckier, seeing such breathtaking sights as Mysore Palace at night and the Brindavan Gardens, and meeting wonderful people. But there were also quite a few moments when I felt absolutely exasperated. From what I hear, such drastic contrasts are common to many foreigners’ experiences in India.