Holy Shit

I don’t know if it’s because I walk around in a bubble of blissful unawareness or I’m just plain stupid, but holy shit, I honestly didn’t see what happened today coming. Its now 2am and I’m packing my bags. In just under 2 hours I’ll be doing a moonlit flit. I really don’t want to leave Mysore. But frankly, I don’t think I have any other choice.

Let me explain…

Since meeting Sammy 5 days ago, I’ve been catapulted into a jet stream of activity. I’ve seen every sight this vibrant city has to offer, including a Sandelwood factory where I discovered how essential oils and inscence sticks are made; a “Bidi” cigarette factory – where I got to hand-roll a few smokes of my own; and countless palaces, temples, museums and lakes. Mysore has made a huge impression on me. And thanks to the rickshaw driver that Sammy fixed me up with, I’ve managed to make a pretty big impact on Mysore…as it turned out Master Blaster was so-called for very good reason. With a ridiculously oversized sound system wired into his rickshaw, he’d blare the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” at full pelt, while delighting in all the distress this caused the locals. It was his clarion call and I have to say, I did come to enjoy the layer of absurdity this bubble gum pop song added to our adventures.

I had really struck gold with Master Blaster and Sammy. These two crazy blokes not only brought a sense of fun and mischief to all my exploits, they also gave me a fantastic entree into Mysore’s throbbing social scene and before long I found myself ensconced in a great circle of new friends. Among them was a guy called Sayed. He was swarthy and subdued, but also really smart. We had loads in common – not least a passion for yoga, so we started going to classes together twice a day. They were sheer torture and we quickly bonded over a mutual dislike for Jai, our masochistic Ashtanga instructor. We spent loads of time together – taking long rides out into the countryside on his bike to watch the sunset; or wiling our afternoons away sprawled out on hammocks, chatting conspiratorially as we sipped coconut juice out of the husk. I liked Sayed…but what I didn’t realise was he really liked me…a lot…and this would soon become a bit of a problem.

I’d established a great routine for myself. Mind, body and soul were being equally spoilt rotten, thanks to all the sightseeing, socialising and sun salutations I was doing. I felt happy and relaxed for the first time since arriving in India. In fact, I was planning to extend my stay in Mysore and enrol on an intensive programme to improve my yoga. I’d even found a great house share near the school and was looking forward to moving into a proper home where I could cook and chill-out amongst a small community of like-minded students. But it was around this point that I began to notice a curious shift in Sayed’s behaviour.

It was a subtle change at first and it only became apparent when we were around other people, when a dark veil of sullenness would descend on him and he’d become unusually aloof. It was almost as if he resented anyone else interacting with me. I found it a little intense but assumed that if I didn’t pay it much attention his mood would just evaporate. But it didn’t. In fact, as the days rolled by Sayed underwent a full-blown personality transplant. The meek, mellow man whose company I’d initially wallowed in had morphed into a passive aggressive control freak and it was all getting just a little bit claustrophobic for my liking.

So today, I decided I needed some time out. Waking just before sunrise, I headed 13km out of Mysore to nose around Chamundi, one of India’s most sacred Hindu temples. Situated on a steep hill, some 3,500 feet above sea level, this magnificent 16^th century shrine presides serenely over the city and offers some seriously stunning views. So rather than drive up in a rickshaw, I opted to climb the 2000 near vertical steps to the top instead…a decision I came to regret when about halfway up I found myself coated in a thick film of sweat and on the verge of a cardiac arrest. Nevertheless, the panoramic vista really was to die for, as too was the self-congratulatory cigarette I smoked when I finally reached the summit.

I don’t know if it was the high altitude, the breath-taking scenery or some kind of spontaneous outbreak of religiosity, but within minutes of arriving, I managed to transform myself into a total temple tourist twat. Shrouded in a wreath of saffron flowers, with a blotch of red dye planted on the centre of my forehead and wrists covered in symbolic woven bracelets, it was like a Hindu bomb had been detonated and I was ground zero. And the amount of money I shelled out for all this holy shit was astonishing. Still, it made me feel tons better and I returned to the city with a renewed spring in my step.

Had I known that a few hours later I was to find myself in one major shit sandwich situation, I might very well have remained at that temple on the hill permanently. Instead, like a grief- seeking missile on a trajectory bound for trouble, I headed off to meet Sammy and the gang for dinner.   

We were dining at Sammy’s favourite bolthole, a multi-cuisine rooftop restaurant just a short walk away from my hotel. I’d been there a few times, it was always really buzzy and I liked the food - they served the best dosas I’d ever tasted. I was really looking forward to basking in the company of my colourful friends after a day of self-imposed exile and I felt a warm rush of excitement when I arrived to find that a large group of them were already there. I spotted a spare seat next to Sayed, so I took up my position and joined in with the banter. They were in jovial spirits and I was tickled to see that Sammy had really pushed the boat out with his wardrobe - teaming a shiny, white satin shirt with a pair of purple harem pants, which he’d offset with a yellow bandana across his head. He looked like the illegitimate love child of Omar Sharif and Captain Pugwash, and his mood was equally as flamboyant. He held fort for most of the night, keeping us entertained with highly improbable stories of excess and iniquity as a guest at some Maharaja or another’s palace in Bombay.

Unfortunately, Sayed’s mood wasn’t quite as ebullient. While the rest of the table was chatting and snacking hungrily, Sayed refused to eat and barely uttered a word. In fact, he just sat there staring at me. I found the whole thing very disconcerting. Even when I asked if anything was wrong, I didn’t get much more than a grunt out of him. So I decided to enlist Sammy’s help and excused myself from the table so the two men could talk. When I returned, I sensed something very strange had gone down – now everyone at the table was staring at me and talking gingerly among themselves in Hindi. I had no idea what was going on. And that’s when the weird-o-meter cranked up yet another notch…suddenly and completely out of the blue Sayed sprang to life and started firing a volley of truly peculiar questions at me. “What’s my favourite pizza topping?” “What music do I like to dance to?” “Do I like poetry?” I was completely baffled!

And then the penny dropped…Sayed was trying to hit on me…albeit in a rather clumsy way. Worse still, I realised that everyone else at the table knew and had been egging him on. I was mortified. I spent the rest of the night trying to remain serene and unfazed by Sayed’s romantic overtures, but then Sammy stepped in and made things super-uncomfortable, not just for me, but for everyone at the table. On Sayed’s behalf, he declared love and then proceeded to discuss wedding plans for us both. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed, me or Sayed, but I knew I had to get out of there…get out of Mysore…

So now I’m getting ready to skulk out of town. Call me a coward, but I just don’t have the heart to tell Sayed I don’t fancy him. I know I’m going to miss my new friends, but I’ve learned one important lesson from all of this – sometimes it’s easier just going it alone.

Mum's the Word

When I first passed my driving test, my Mother told me to “always keep up with the car in front”. A week later, I wrote my car off by ploughing it straight through a car showroom window. Mum tends to be pretty lousy when it comes to life advice, but yesterday, in a dark and lonely moment, I threw caution to the wind and called her.  For once, she made total sense.

She said, “Darling, if you don’t change direction, you may end up where you’re heading”.

I’d travelled to India to find a small town called happy. But so far, no matter where I went, I kept ending up in a cul-de-sac of discontent. So I decided to do as Mum said and change track. It was time to turn the frown upside down.

Mysore is famed for its magnificent palaces, its sacred temples and for being the home of Ashtanga Yoga. It’s a place where “mind, body and soul can come to their senses” and it seemed like the perfect spot for me to knock all three of mine back in line. I decided to fuel my brain first. I was hungry for a bit of Indian history and culture, so I headed for the imposing 3-storied, marbled domed edifice that sat on the opposite side of the road to my hotel. Mysore Palace.

Given the proximity, I assumed getting there would be a synch. But yet again I’d forgotten…nothing in India is ever straightforward.  It turned out that the Palace – the third largest in the country – spanned no less than 8 blocks and you needed a PHD in Orienteering just to find the way in. Mercifully, a man called Sammy saved my day.

I was wrestling with an origami of map, trying to solve the “where the hell is the entrance” conundrum when Sammy bounced over and chivalrously offered to show me the way. I quickly discovered that like Nihal, my go-to guy from Mumbai, Sammy was an orifice of local knowledge and in the 10 minutes that we were together, he gave me the entire potted history of Mysore, along with a long list of sights for me to see. Sammy was an ebullient bundle of energy who talked without pause. But his warmth and generosity floored me.

As too did his sense of personal style. On the one hand he characterised all that was typically Indian – he sported a Bindu  (the dot of dye you see many Hindus wearing between their eyebrows) along with the obligatory bushy moustache, and he did that funny head wiggle thing that most people over here do; but he also wore a Nike baseball cap – back-to-front, low slung jeans and slogan t-shirt that read “I Do All My Own Stunts”. He was a kooky confusion of East and West. But I thought he was magic. In fact, I was really quite sad when we arrived at the gates and I had to say goodbye to him. His parting shot was to fix me up with Mustafa, Mysore’s “most legendary tour guide”.

Mustafa had been showing visitors around the Palace for eons and knew the place like the back of his hand. The only drawback was that, saving 2 upper incisors, he was totally toothless. So while I was completely bewitched by the grandeur of the Palace’s 19^th century architecture and its treasure trove of art, jewellery and costumes, I might have enjoyed it a little more had I been able to make sense of Mustafa’s running commentary…and spared the jet spray of saliva that accompanied it. Still, what he lacked in verbal dexterity, he certainly made up for in the way he manoeuvred his eyebrows. They operated almost independently of him and every twitch, flick and spasm conveyed a world of meaning. They alone built a bridge of understanding between us. In fact, these two animated tufts of unruly hair had me absolutely transfixed!

And I had to hand it to him - Mustafa was fastidiously thorough in his work. He wouldn’t rest until I had investigated every inch of the Palace and its surrounding 36 acres. He held me captive for the entire afternoon. But I relished every second. By the time I limped out of the gates, I was completely frazzled and desperate to zonk out in the air-conditioned splendour of my hotel room.

Sammy, however, had other ideas.

I can’t imagine how long he must have waited for me, but as I exited the Palace gates, there he was. He’d apparently spent the day phone bashing every contact in his address book and was now itching to reveal the various plans he’d made for me. I was gobsmacked. The man had gone into overdrive – he’d scored me a week’s worth of free Ashtanga yoga classes, secured private visits to both a silk and sandalwood factory, booked me a complimentary Ayurvedic consultation and now wanted to usher me over to meet a rickshaw driver who went by the name of “Master Blaster”.

So much for my quiet night in. My time in Mysore was about to get seriously mental. But it felt like it was a step in the right direction.