The sweetness of strangers
Friendly faces in faraway places can make one feel at home
IGRABBED an oily samosa from my bag and took in the view. I was on the train from Bangalore to Mysore, at the start of my last full day in India. My plan was to spend eight hours in Mysore and catch the train back to Bangalore that evening, in time for my morning flight.
On arrival at Mysore station, I ignored the countless rickshaw drivers and opted for walking. There were clear and regular signs to Mysore Palace. With no itinerary, I followed them, all the while wondering whether it wasn’t worth saving the palace for last.
I was alone for the first time in my trip — my travel companion had left that morning — and so I was rather pleased when Ravi introduced himself to me somewhere along Sayyaji Rao Road. He obviously had something to sell, but the conversation was pleasant and so I entertained the companionship. We talked cricket and politics through the quieter, smaller roads of Mysore. They were atmospheric and I was happy to be led.
We eventually reached that pause in the conversation before which he was inevitably going to ask me to go to his shop. He had invested almost an hour in me and I felt that it was the least I could do. Conveniently, his shop was around the corner. I was offered tea (which I accepted) and led to a back room full of beanbags (which I sat on). I was then left alone while, I presumed, the proprietors collected whatever it was they were intending to sell me. I sipped my tea and read messages written in pen on the wall. One was from somebody I knew back home. Small world, I thought, as Ravi and his brother returned to sell me incense. I left having spent far too much, but arguably better for the experience.
Following loose directions, I found myself near the palace, but needed to eat first. At a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant, I sat at a table with Samir, a rickshaw driver with zero agenda. He was as unenthusiastic about taking me anywhere in the midday heat as I was about going anywhere.
Once our meals had been finished and our mutual intentions (or lack thereof) established, he offered to “give me a lift” up the Chamundi Hills to see the view over Mysore — for free, of course. He was going there anyway.
I took some mandatory pictures at the top (Mysore is no eyesore), but preferred Samir’s stories about foreigners who had come to attend week-long yoga courses in Mysore only to leave two years later.
It was getting dark and rapidly approaching the time I had anticipated that I would head back to Bangalore. There was just one problem: I hadn’t seen the palace yet. So I asked Samir to drop me off and ended up paying him for his time. He was reluctant to accept but was left no choice when I shoved money into his hand and ran off in the direction of the palace.
Entrance to the palace grounds was free thanks to Mysore Dasara, Karnataka’s 10-day state festival.
It was dark by this stage but the palace was illuminated by literally thousands of lights and there was an exuberant crowd on the palace grounds, enjoying an evening out.
The weather had cooled, there were ceremonial elephants lumbering around and flash photography splashed onto a stage of dancers. While chatting to a local university lecturer, I could see how easy it was to get stuck in Mysore for two years.
I did eventually get on my train back to Bangalore, but only at about midnight.
I sat in the vicinity of a particularly short Tamil gentleman named Ahilan, who was chaperoning a group of elderly women to Chennai. He was soon enough my chaperon, making sure that he didn’t fall asleep so that he could tell me when we reached Bangalore station. The train stopped inexplicably for two hours or so, which put strain on a very tired Ahilan. I implored him to sleep, but he would have none of it.
Finally moving again and heading into Bangalore, I had a chance to say farewell to Ahilan and did so with Ravi, Samir and everybody else I had met on this trip in mind. It was a quick goodbye, for I had a flight to catch in a disconcertingly short amount of time. —
Nick Piper is a freelance writer