I'm up early, cannot wait to leave Ooty. An English girl I got to know on yesterday's trek joins me. Together we climb the bus, a little encouraging piece of construction on four wheels. But it is better than feared. I do not look back to Ooty, forward is the motto.
On the way to Mysore
The road is bad, as experienced in days gone by. Certain things do not change, forget Bangalore as a state-of-the-art city. This is the real India. Our driver is young and masters his profession. He cruises the other vehicles with millimetre precision, sometimes I hold involuntarily the breath. We cross a momentarily closed nature park, a group of elephants with several young animals passes us.
Eventually we cross the ominous border to Karnataka and nothing happens. Everything remains calm, no riots, no angry strikers throwing stones at the bus. Almost a bit disappointing. I have been told that the cause of the strike is not in Tamil Nadu but in Karnataka. But I don't care now.
Mysore
The suburbs of Mysore give a first impression of the city. And then we are in the middle of it, stopping right in front of our hotel. It is a nice friendly hotel, the "Roopa", from the outside it looks like a postmodern mix of old and new.
I am immediately caught in a mixture of well-being and curiosity. There are these cities, these strange places where you think you've been before. You feel far away from everything, from everything you know. But you have to approach the city slowly, carefully, with caution, with patience. We come from another world that seems to have no relation to it. Everything is strange and yet known. Madurai. Delhi. Mumbai. Varanasi. Different worlds than this one. The first time the thought appears (how strange) that I could live here. Whether it would succeed is of course a completely different question.
So I play the well-known game and let myself sink into the crowds of people, millions of cars, tukTuks, motorcycles, carts. As always, it is a balancing act between danger and foolhardiness. A very special borderline experience. And as I stroll around, I am once again struck by the realization that I know nothing about this strange country. The experiences in an earlier life are lost, forgotten, as if they had never existed. Here is South India. Within a strange world there is another strange world.
The palace
The Maharajah Palace as the attraction of Mysore is impressive from far away, just as it is written in the guidebook and promised by all the hymns of praise. But the former Grandezza has vanished. A little shy thought comes up, makes me realize that everything is a bit shabby.
You can imagine the former luxury, the wealth, the elephants, the white horses, the precious stones, the crowns, the brocade sofas, the carpets. Nevertheless, a peculiar feeling remains. Perhaps it is due to the last Maharajah, whose photos and paintings look out from all the walls. Somehow a sad little goblin, overwhelmed by his office. However, everything is long dead and past.
You enter another world, a bygone world. Everything emanates the breath of long faded glory. One strolls through the seemingly endless corridors, past the pictures of the former rulers. Bearded, serious and dignified looking gentlemen. Shy ladies of the house. Laughing faces of children.
It's a strange feeling. A mixture of melancholy and sadness. All this is dead in its own way. Disappeared forever. All that remains are whispering walls and lifeless spaces. I flee. The realization of one's own mortality in the face of this dead world becomes unbearable.
The little dog
So I escape back into the present, into the crowds of people in the streets and alleys. Here life is omnipresent. But also death and suffering before. In the evening a heartbreaking moment: a young, completely emaciated dog with his tail retracted and full of fear walks through the bustle of traffic. I go back to the hotel and realize that my diary has been lost for some unknown reason.
It is like when a vessel is slowly and steadily filled with good and bad things until it is filled to the brim and overflows. It is too much. So much beauty, but also so much sadness. The sight of this little dog is unbearable. I can understand Buddha when he looks for a way to escape it when he sees the terrible suffering in the world. The little dog as a symbol for all our lives. Full of fear, with his tail drawn in, wandering through the maze of life.
Mysore in the morning
Mysore in the morning - hot, noisy, alive. Slow walk through the streets, always along the shady part of the road. Countless shops, craftsmen, stalls. Colorful, shrill, without hectic.
I'm looking for postcards and I can't find any. In a moment that only happens every few years - when I voluntarily write cards - the objects of desire are untraceable. After a long search near the palace I buy four cards at a completely overpriced price. The problem of where to find a place to write cannot be solved so easily. At the end I find myself writing in a public park on a bench, surrounded by sleeping people lying stretched out in the grass.
Well-being on the roof terrace
Again one of those moments, those memorable moments, when the world is in perfect harmony, when everything is just right. Alone on a big roof terrace, above the hustle and bustle of the crowd, I just sit there and look. You want to stop this moment, let it freeze in time ...
And another Goodbye
I know this city or at least the part that I have walked along, like my trouser pocket, and I've come to love it. However, after dark the farewell approaches. I have a ticket for the night bus that will take me to Hospet in 10 hours. As the night train from Bangalore to Hospet is sold out, I have to take the bus.
So at nine o'clock I am standing at the bus station, saying goodbye to the hotel and the friendly employees who followed the lengthening of my trouser legs in amazement. It is still hot, a maze of people, buses, loud diesel engine noises, bluish smoke in the air. A young man, a tourist like me, takes care of my luggage while I take care of drinks and food for the long night.
Eventually one of the travelling monsters appears, a rather run-down bus, which provides the travellers with the special problem of having no room for their luggage. I'm the only one with a rucksack bag that just fits into the compartment above. Then the journey starts, of which I expect only the worst. After the young Indian next to me has stopped his mobile phone calls because of my outraged snorting, I surprisingly fall into a deep sleep after one or two hours, sitting, my head dangling on my chest, from which I wake up in the morning. A little miracle that I like to accept.
PS Matching song: Grinderman - Palaces of Montezuma
And here the journey continues ...
