Journey pt2.

Traversing airports at great speed is not something I like to make a habit of. Leaving the first flight with a 30min window to get to the gate for the second I was something akin to a woman on a mission. Part of that mission became helping a woman travelling alone with a tempestuous toddler and an unruly suitcase, entertaining a hyperactive child who was only a small part into an epic half way round the world trip to New Zealand from Europe, and talking about the dispersal of the Tibetan people through south India with a young woman who was stood behind me in the security line (she noted that I had a prayer to the Green Tara as one of my tattoos).

These interactions with strangers are part of the magic of travelling for me. Humans brought together with a common goal (in this case to get from a to b safely) can be such a force for positive feelings. Possibly because of the vulnerability of not being in control of the journey some of us become softer and more receptive to helping each other, to small kindnesses and to meeting each other as we are.

I arrived in Bengaluru at 03.05 am I left my home at 05.15 am. I was tired.

Passing immigration feels like the last hoop to hop through for me. In my head there is always the chance, however slim and for no reason at all, that one might not be granted entry to a country.

“hm, where in Mysore is she staying?” said one immigration officer to the other.

“The Green Hotel” I answered, hopefully with a soft tone and a please let me in, I’m very nice when I haven’t been awake for 20hrs smile.

“Oh very good, Jayalaxmipuram, yes” came the reply. “I am from Mysuru.”

Approval granted, off I went.

One joy of returning to a place I know well, making a trip I have made many times before, is that I know what is waiting at the other end. Fly Bus or taxi? I normally get the Fly Bus, for anyone travelling from Bangalore airport to Mysore I really recommend the Fly Bus, it’s clean, comfortable and around 800INR. You pick it up just outside the terminal, and even when I couldn’t book in advance I have always got a seat. But, This time I had booked a taxi. Another joy of going back somewhere is you know who to ask to come and get you. He’s very reliable, an excellent driver and I will happily pass his number on to anyone who wants to finish their journey in a car rather than a bus – it’s actually only more convenient if you don’t want the hassle of getting a rickshaw to your lodgings once you get to town.

I am ten years older now than when I first came to Mysore. In those days I was of no fixed abode, living between India and the UK, working bank shifts in a busy London maternity unit to earn enough money to keep up the nomadic lifestyle. The last few years of being in one place, nurturing a community, have changed me. Apart from being physically older I am also a little less hasty, I make decisions differently, I have different priorities. I like to observe these changes, nothing stays the same. When we can mark change and note evolution it can support us in how we live. Where are you now? How did you get there? Is it where you want to be? These are questions we can always ask ourselves, sometimes I find it easier to ask them when I am outside of my normal routine.

Why am I coming to Mysore again? To see Dr Jayashree. Because it is somewhere I feel safe and comfortable. Because for me it has the right balance of different and familiar. Why have I chosen to stay in The Green Hotel? Because from the first time I saw the building in 2015 I knew I wanted to stay here one day and now after years of hard work I am in a financial position not to have to slum it. (I will write a post about the hotel with pictures and history so you can see how lovely it is)

We arrived at the hotel at about 7am. After unpacking I immediately went to the supermarket for supplies (have areopress + immersion heater rod will travel – by the way to get an immersion heater rod I had to google “UK Nescafe advert 1980’s woman drinks coffee in car heating up from the cigarette lighter socket”). Before sleeping I wanted to sit for a little in the garden of the hotel.

As I was sitting I saw two women eating breakfast, we had greeted each other earlier and in the spirit of positive interactions with strangers that began this post we made conversation. They were from Switzerland, one of them was born in Bern. Oh Universe you amazing funny thing. It was their first time in Mysore. I asked if they were interested in my two top things to do here? Luckily they said yes. I love sharing the things that bring me joy, I think that is quite human, this desire to share happiness. We want to enrich each others lives. Think of a piece of music you love or an artist or a book, we often want to give these to our friends. And in the giving we also receive, the things that make us happy are often parts of who we think we are, when we share we can feel validated.

What are my two top tips for Mysore? Well, I am glad you asked 😉

Firstly a true hidden treasure is in the Folklore museum. Below is an extract describing my first experience of  the museum from “Mysore to the Mountains”.

And second is Chamundi Temple, and this I will write about in a further post (I’ve been there today so I will describe that adventure shortly).

Having dispensed my advice I went to bed, to sleep, some 30 ish hours after I woke up.

From “Mysore to the Mountains”.

Jaya Lakshmi Vilas mansion was built at the beginning of the twentieth century for the daughter of the maharaja of Mysore. By the early twenty first century when it was acquired by the University it had fallen into disrepair. Although renovations to secure the buildings have been carried out by the University it is still a ghost of a building. Approaching from the pseudo English gardens of this grand but tired mansion, I was overwhelmed by a sense of strangeness, that there should be a building like this, gardens like these, here in this climate and environment felt odd. It emphasised for me that so often we place value on the appearances of things, of imitation rather than authenticity, but it also made me wonder if there comes a time when imitation develops its own authenticity.  The building is painted a pale yellow with grand columns at almost every entrance. It is a collection of buildings built around a small courtyard. There is a quiet to the buildings, a sense that they have ceased to serve their purpose and are waiting to be put to use again. The current use for these Greco-Roman shadows of an age now past is housing the Folklore and Folk art museum. 

One of the nice things about having no expectations is being constantly surprised and rarely disappointed. As a child I had spent many hours in the British Museum and Natural History Museum. As an adult these were still sanctuaries I return to, to see beauty and experience contrast, to contemplate the stories we tell and the ways we tell them.

I entered through a small door into the great interior of the buildings. It felt like stepping into a shell. The emptiness and vast space of the rooms making a greater impression than the cabinets filled with, I have no idea what; cabinet upon cabinet of artefacts and not a label to be seen; rows and rows of pieces of pottery, or rooms full of paintings and no indication of when they were painted by whom, no information about why or the context of these pieces. It was a wunderkammer of India. I walked from exhibit to exhibit, yearning for knowledge. What was I looking at? Who made these things? What were they for? My imagination exploded with possibilities. My critical mind was incredulous that I could be assaulted by so much history and know nothing about it. In one building I walked through I found myself in a small room full of shadow puppets and carnival stick puppets. Cases lining the walls filled with brightly coloured figures just waiting for their stories to be told again, and what stories I’m sure they are. I just don’t know them. I hope someone still does. I would like to imagine these puppets at night, lighting the old lamps in the windows of the mansion, and dancing their tales to the statues of Gods and the pigeons.

The second building across the courtyard was equally baffling with as little description of the contents. As I walked towards the back of this building I came into the old dancing hall, not quite big enough to be called a ballroom but broad and high with a gallery around. In this room I found three women mopping the floor. Before these three I had had the whole of the museum to myself, I’m not sure who was more shocked them or me. I had almost forgotten where I was so immersed had I become in the random collection.

At the far end of the dancing hall stood an immense statue of Durga, bright, bold, red and black. Trident in hand, sat on her tiger, she presides over this empty room so incongruous and yet so perfect. Here in the midst of a shambles, ramshackle building reflecting a time of borrowed grace is the Goddess in all her perfection, protecting me and challenging me to challenge myself. I stood in awe. How is it possible that a sculpture of such beauty in such a fantastically evocative setting could be so secret? The sacred and the profane; something I was going to become accustomed to.

For a moment my mind danced with those who had practised their waltz and tea dance in this space I imagined their perfect precise dresses, overseen by this awesome force of the sacred feminine. It amused me to imagine that past in this present space.

Further into the warren of the museum there was a small room with a section about Kuvempu. Kuvempu was the nom de plume of Kuppali Venkatappa Puttappa, a Kannada poet, playwright and critical thinker born in the early twentieth century. His great message was one of universal humanism, arguing against the caste system, and meaningless religious practices. On the wall, displayed in Hindi, Kannada, and English was this.

“Every soul is an enduring start of the cosmos. It is believed that the soul outlives the physical body. Therefore the soul is said to be immortal.”

The following poem depicts the obstacles that the soul has to cross and the shackles it has to break to obtain immortality. The poem speaks of ideals which can make one happy and attain spiritual upliftment.

Be unhoused, oh my soul

only the infinite is your goal.

Leave those myriad forms behind

Leave the million names that bind

A flash will pierce your heart and mind

and unhouse you my soul

Winnow the chaff of a hundred creeds.

Beyond the systems, hollow as reeds,

turn unhorizoned where truth leads,

to be unhoused my soul.

Stop not on the unending way.

Never build a house of clay.

The quest is endless. Night and day?

There can be no end to your play

when you are unhoused o my soul.

The infinite’s Yoga knows no end.

Endless the quest you apprehend.

You’ll grow infinite and ascend,

when you are unhoused, o my soul.”

Translation by V.K Gokak.