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.

49 Hours in Mysore - for Dasara (cont'd)

By Tory
Suddenly alone among the masses in front of Mysore Palace, I put Sharvan’s advice into practice, and saw that strangers’ often intimidating stares instantly gave way to deep smiles, and often led to such questions as “What is your good name?” and “Which is your place?” or alternatively, “Where is your house?” Eventually I got the hang of answering these questions without having to say “What?” too many times.  Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel The Namesake helped me with the good name part, as I remembered the struggle over the names Nikhil and Gogol.
Indeed, the only people I decided it would be wisest not to smile at were the hawkers who swarmed the palace entrance, flying plastic helicopters and playing the Titanic theme unremittingly on their recorders, insisting, “You don’t want, but someone will like!”
Unfortunately, during the three-hour wait in the palace entrance, I broke down and bought some bangles. Their price started at R$300, and I got them for R$100. I felt pretty good about this deal, until they began to break on my wrist in quick succession, and I realized I probably should not have paid more than R$20. I took this as a lesson in bargaining.
Most of the inquiries about my good name and where I stayed came from Keralans. I met a group of Keralan nursing students on a break from their studies in Mysore (and later heard that most nurses in the region are from Kerala); a little Keralan girl dressed like a princess who kindly gave me some peanuts; and finally, a group of friends from northern Kerala who now work in the IT sector in Bangalore. They immediately asked me whom I was staying with; I hesitated, reticent to lie, but then responded, “a friend of a friend,” remembering Sharvan’s unwillingness to broach couchsurfing.com with his friends.

Scenes from the ticket counter. The worst pushing began later, at the entrance to the palace.

Scenes from the ticket counter. The worst pushing began later, at the entrance to the palace.
My new acquaintances let me duck out of line to buy water, which may have saved me from ditching the visit to the palace altogether. They also got me a coveted Indian entrance fee (R$20, rather than R$200), and made me feel less alone in the mob that was pushing to get in the doors when the palace finally opened at 2 PM. In the chaos, I wondered if trampling would begin. Then I looked at who was shoved into me from all sides, and realized I should not worry about myself, but about the many 3- to 7-year-olds moaning on the floor around me. Babies wailed; bamboo batons swung; adults grabbed anyone they could get their hands on to pull themselves to the front; and finally, one of my new Keralan acquaintances, Sachin, pushed me through the entrance and I stumbled up the stairs into the palace. Phew. No trampling scene this time. I checked to see how badly my shirt had been ripped, and decided this was likely a relatively uneventful entrance scene for Mysore Palace at Dasara.
After a couple of hours in the palace and hundreds of photos outside of it, I went in search of a meal with Sachin et al. around 4 PM. Regrettably, the first apparently decent place we found was the rooftop restaurant at Hotel Roopa. The restaurant was overpriced and service was terrible, which seems to be the norm for many restaurants here. We ordered the buffet; most of the tin pots on the table were empty, and the food that remained was quite cold. As I tried to make myself eat some of this expensive but utterly unappetizing meal, I realized that Sharvan had been calling my phone incessantly for the past 15 minutes and I hadn’t heard. I called him and he was stressed out – a new couch surfer had arrived and he didn’t know what to do with her! I told him to bring her to the Hotel, and shortly thereafter, Kasia – a young Polish woman who had recently finished her studies in Liverpool – popped out of the elevator, sat down, and ordered a fish curry. It took an hour to come.
Kasia provided “joyful company,” as Sharvan later put it, and together with the Keralans we set out together to visit Mysore’s famous fruit and vegetable market, where I enjoyed seeing the colorful powders on sale for Dasara and the men lighting candles around their stalls as a prayer for improved business (or so I was told).  From there we went to see the palace lit up, which was a spectacular sight. We alternated between taking photos and people watching, as our fellow visitors struck interesting poses all around us. Indeed, multiple times during the weekend I felt like I was taking part in one giant photo shoot.

Finally we moved on to Mysore’s Beer Garden, a nearby restaurant with pleasant balcony seating where the crowd suddenly became decidedly blonder. We ordered some Kingfishers, and soon Sharvan – ever the conscientious host – began calling again, and arrived with a friend to take me and Kasia home.
To be continued next week!

48 Hours in Mysore - For Dasara

By Tory

Mysore at Dasara

After only 10 days in India, a weekend visit to Mysore for Dasara served as a bit of a crash course on life in India. It was the first time I was completely on my own, without the constant help and support of my gracious new coworkers and housemates. So, I thought I should write down what I saw.
Short on cash, and with hotels charging extra for the peak season, I decided to try out couch surfing – a site that connects travelers looking for a free place to stay with people who want to host them. Though I have been a member of the site for over a year, I had never “couch surfed” before. Unsure of what I was getting myself into, I reminded myself that at least it was free.
When I got to the Mysore Bus Station early Saturday afternoon, I called my soon-to-be host, Sharvan, a 23-year-old environmental engineer. Sharvan was clearly sleeping when I called, but he repeated that he would pick me up in “five to ten minutes, five to ten minutes”; I later recognized this as his default estimate of how long he would take, regardless of the situation. I wondered if India is like Brazil, where you can count on people drastically underestimating the time that they will take to meet you somewhere – if they meet you at all. Or, maybe Sharvan had just heard this phrase a lot in movies, and out of ease, repeated it. Regardless, it became endearing.
About an hour and a half later Sharvan showed up on his motorbike, and after a confusing fifteen minutes of misunderstandings over our mobile phones, we “converged” – Sharvan’s way of saying “meet up” – and motored off to his apartment in a residential area outside the city.
Along the way, Sharvan immediately proved himself to be an incredibly gracious and dedicated host. He was constantly pointing left and right and explaining the history of various places to me; in the meantime, I stared ahead, terrified of the oncoming traffic to which he seemed oblivious.
When we reached Sharvan’s apartment I took a moment to observe the living conditions and, seeing that there was no soap or water to be had, I realized I would have to get used to feeling dirty for a while.
After showing me some pictures from his “Motorcycle Diaries”-inspired bike trip to Leh, on the Chinese border, Sharvan, who currently seems to pass his days smoking, listening to Eddie Vedder and studying for the CAT (he nervously informed me that he needed to be in the top 99.9 percentile to gain admission), told me that he would call his best friends from his “gang,” and we would all go out. Then he began to hem. I wondered what was up. He said, “Well, these are friends but I am not very close to them,”  – but aren’t they from the “gang”? – “…So, I cannot tell them about couch surfing. So we will tell them we met at the beach some months ago.” He told me the beach name, but after asking him to repeat it ten times I gave up on remembering it. I had been wondering about how socially acceptable it would be here for a young man to host a hitherto unknown young woman in his home after getting in touch online. Sharvan’s beach story answered that question. Luckily, his friends did not interrogate me, so, I was spared the guaranteed awkwardness of attempting to repeat the name of the beach where we’d met many months ago and become fast friends.
I quickly realized how lucky I was to be with Sharvan and his gang, rather than in a hotel. They took me to a wonderful lunch “joint,” where in spite of my resolute insistence on paying, they treated me to a perfect lunch of idlies with sambar. “You are our guest,” they echoed. In India, I have realized that this seemingly limitless hospitality is common, at least in the South. I wonder if this is the same in the North, where I have heard the culture is quite different.
After lunch we scooted around the city, visiting the majestic (and they tell me affordable) Lalitha Mahal Palace Hotel, the kaleidoscopic musical fountain at Brindavan Gardens, and finally Chamundi Hill, where we got a beautiful view of the city all lit up for Dasara, and I watched the cows make a feast of the lavish floral arrangements on the cars in the parking lot.

Brindavan Gardens, and cows finishing up their dinner of Dasara wreaths on Chamundi Hill

My fellow visitors in all of these places were, in themselves, a delight to behold. Most families were quite done up; the colors of their outfits exquisitely complemented the colors of the fountains at Brindavan Gardens. To my surprise, some families asked to take pictures with me. My host explained that many people from rural south India only venture out of their tiny villages to celebrate Dasara in Mysore; the sight of a foreigner is therefore extremely rare for them.
Later, after a stop for a late night chicken-and-roti dinner at Café Biryani (a very good restaurant, with the fastest service I have had so far in India), Sharvan dropped me off at the room so that I could “take rest,” and he left to “booze with the gang.” I confirmed at this point that there was no water except some that was left over in a bucket. I gave a bucket bath my best effort, and slept.
The next morning Sharvan arrived around 9:30 AM. After he eagerly showed me a bit of “Into the Wild” – another inspirational movie, he said, except for the ending – he said we would “do one thing”: he would drop me off early at Mysore Palace, so that I could be a tourist and he could avoid the crowd. He informed me I would be the “perfect tourist, roaming around alone,” and therefore gave me a wonderful piece of advice: smile at everyone.
...To be continued next week!