In Mysore for Dussera

Sometimes locational proximity to a place of importance acts as a deterrent to undertake a visit. “It is close by, we can go any time,” tells our mind, but we never make it.

Taj Mahal is just three-hour drive from Delhi.  But it took me my silver jubilee year of marriage to take Aunty there. That too not to celebrate it per se, but a Mumbai party visiting us wanted to go there and Aunty joined.

Also, we have been in Bangalore for fifteen years and we never made it to Mysore, specifically to witness the Dussera festivity. Of course we had gone there, but more often it coincided not with Dusserra but with 25-30% discount on Mysore Silk sarees at their factory outlet.

One fine morning fortified with coffee I said, “Come, we will go to Mysore for Dussera this year.” “But SFV is so vibrant with ladies groups visiting each other’s house. The hostess-list, as also the dress code for all the ten evenings, is already out. Also, I have all my Kanjeevaram, Mysore, Banaras silk sarees already dry-cleaned. Let’s postpone the visit to it another year,” Aunty said.  “But this situation will repeat itself every year, dear. So let’s make it,” I said. She agreed. We contacted N&S, our junior elder couple friends in Hebbal, our abode before SFV.

“Oh, for Mysore, any day, any time,” they said, their infectious smile resurfacing. “I will respect your wishes  - no same old restaurants en route. Also the emphasis will be to explore temples not visited hitherto,” he reassured.

I rang up the driver agency with clear instructions not to repeat the likes of Schumacher for Kerala, at 140/160 km per hour, but one whom we would allow a max of 100 km - while overtaking, that is.

N, with his Mysore upbringing, narrated the significance of each place. “That shop over there,” he pointed out, is the birth-place of Mysore Pak”. The great- or great-great grandfather of Srikanthadutta Wadiyar, faced with an unexpected guest at night for dinner, sent word to this shop owner to prepare some sweets urgently when he was all set to close shop. He didn’t have much raw material at hand. So he prepared something with the available items. It turned out to be an instant hit. And the Maharaja asked him, ”What is this sweet? The shopkeeper did not know what to answer. He had made with Pak (syrup) and so named it impromptu Mysore Pak. The story could be true, I felt, given the taste of the small quantity we bought.  

After a long wait hoping the palace gate would open we walked back disappointed. Just when we had reached the tail end of the crowd, the gate opened. We didn’t give up, joined the stampede, and just managed to get in, luckily in one piece. We took an extensive round of the permitted areas.

The Pageant was slated for the next evening. All that we could see on arrival was a sea of human heads in front, some with lustrous hair, some receding hairline, and others’ shining in the sun. A wise few held their tiny tots on their shoulder to let them at least have a better view. As for us, we could see the top layer anything of the pageant that was six feet above the ground. Luckily, we could get a full view of the star attraction, the idol of Goddess Chamundi being taken around kept inside a small puja temple, made of 750 kg of gold. mounted on a elephant.

As though to compensate for the lacklustre view of the pageant, we decided to take a horse-ride of the palace. We spotted a reasonably clean jutka with a well-bred white horse. The keeper was inviting customers. We enquired. “Rs 3000.” He quoted. “Not for GoAir or Indigo, just a Jutka ride,” we said. He never bothered, and went about soliciting willing customers.

Despite good planning, we could not cover two places. I felt sorry I couldn’t make it to RK Narayan’s museum. I could have checked what pen or typewriter he used. As for Aunty, she missed the Karnataka Silk Industries Corporation – the Mysore Silk shop.

SFV Onam – Another Round of Applause, please

If last year’s Onam reminded you of a Bollywood big-budget multi-starrer like Sholay, this year’s was like a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film, Anand, simple, straightforward, and no less entertaining, bringing home that Small is Beautiful. Kudos to the organizers.

As a curtain raiser to the event, in the morning the SFVians were first invited to the Club House where a work of art, Pookalam. It turned out to be an artistic splendour – a magnificent floral carpet that would make Persian carpets run for their money. Thank you, the untiring team of ladies and gents for burning midnight oil to this end.

Much to the joy of the waiting audience, five young boys, in their early twenties, swung into the amphitheatre, the venue, carrying Chendai. At first we wondered if they were carrying Chendai or Chendai was carrying them - too heavy for their body. “They must be apprentices. We will encourage them, regardless,” we swore, on seeing the young boys. But alas! How mistaken we were as we heard their brief introductory drum beat. They seemed nearly well qualified to be part of the Trissur Puram Chendai contingent given the chance, as we watched their Chendamelam with open-mouthed admiration. Yes, it carried that money-back tag to elevate the mood of even those unaccustomed to the art.

This was followed by a pageant representative of Kerala culture – King Mahabali, the Kathakali dancer, the Mohini Attam dancer, the Kalari payat warriors; Vela kali, the martial dance performed during temple festivals, the two attired as tigers to represent Puli Kali, the Hindu, Muslim and Christian ladies in their respective costumes, the cute little ‘Muslim’ boys with broad green belt around waist and cap on head, ready to sing and dance with their Dandiya for the Muslim wedding in the adjacent hall.

The pageant accompanied by Chendamelam and the entire audience went around the complex as though to permit those who could not make it to the venue to peep through their apartment windows and partly compensate for their loss. At each block, Cedar, Ebony, Oak and Pine, the Chendai troupe showcased what they were capable of, much to the merriment of audience.

Back in the amphitheatre, it was time for lighting the lamp and set in motion the cultural show. My friend Col Paddy and I were given this honour along with the chief architect of this Onam show. Then began a feast for the eyes, what with young children from the multi-cultural SFV society dancing with gay abandon with no clue to the meaning of the lyrics but enjoying no less their footsteps and action and entertaining the audience simultaneously; the near-professional Tiruvathira dance by the SFVian ladies; the all-male adult Christian dance from the multicultural SFVians, attracting a ‘once more’ thunderous demand…

This was followed by tug of war, a precursor to the Onam Sadya (a three-course lunch with 20-odd items) that awaited them at the Club House.

Now the question arises: who steals the show? The lively compering of the event by the duo?  The pageant showcasing the varied culture of Kerala? The dances of the cute little boys and girls? The excellent Tiruvathira dance by the SFVian ladies? The all-male adult dance attracting a ‘once more’ thunderous demand? The impromptu tug of war? The well-organized Onam Sadya in select batches – 12 to 12.45, 12.45 to 1.30 etc. that witnessed no gatecrash whatsoever? Or, more importantly, the Onam Sadya itself?  

To be honest, naming one will be doing injustice to the other. Each had its own entity. That said I would give full marks to one event: the amount of community living par excellence feeling that this meet gave.

As we headed towards the lift my friend who enjoyed the event in full asked, “Does Onam happen only once a year?” “Sadly, yes. But luckily in SFV it happens twice; once on the due date in every household, and second, when the SFV Malayalee group hosts it, more as a community celebration. “Too bad, just twice,” he said. “Don’t worry, we have a series of festivities lined up. It’s Diwali next week, then Kannada Rajyotsava on 9 November, Ekatva in December, Christmas at the end of the year…” Life is what you make of it, isn’t it?”

Aah, To be back in one’s village (Concluding Part 2)

The light drizzle in the morning and the overhanging cloud signaled that it could prove a spoilsport any time. We stuffed the bags in the dickey and kept knick-knacks in the backseat, suspending diet restrictions till return.

Starting off the trip with playing Maha Ganapathe… of Maharajapuram Santhanam, Ragu unleashed his collection of assorted Carnatic classical, Tamil and Hindi film music, vocal and instrumental. Nice to be transported to the 1960s/70s and to Kannadasan’s  meaningful lyrics set to haunting music by the one and only Viswanathan-Ramamurthy duo. Madan Mohan took charge of Hindi melodies.

With a brief stop over in Krishnagiri for breakfast, it was a non-stop drive to Coimbatore. The touchdown was an hour earlier with the young driver maintaining an average of 130-140 kmph. “Best suited for young-generation travellers,” we whispered.

A quick lunch and a power nap in the hotel, we drove to Sri Satguru Jaggi Vasudev’s Isha Foundation campus (a nice experience), Siruvani waterfalls, and the centuries old Perur temple.

Early next morning we left for Guruvayoor. As the driver waited at a signal, I realized we were passing through Alathur, famous for banana chips. We invaded the shop for full forty minutes trying out all samples that were offered and ending up buying them all - two sets.

At five next morning we positioned ourselves in the Senior Citizens’ queue. We had very good darshan, not once but twice. We could have had more till 8 am. But we had other programmes. We covered adjoining temples like Mammiyoor before rushing to Trissur.

In Trissur, we had breakfast at Pathans Hotel, and then darshan at a few temples. Both Ragu and Padma, hailing from Kumbakonam, were thrilled to watch in Tiruvambadi Krishna temple the young caparisoned elephant doing a baby-elephant walk, swinging ears in unison  - either to the accompaniment of foot-tapping Chendai beat, or to ward off flies.

At the Palakkad guesthouse we took a short break before heading to Kalpathy – declared a UNESCO heritage village. Adjoining the Shiva temple is the Kalpathy river, in full flow. The ladies got busy buying homemade pickles, savouries, and a few other items.

Though it was getting dark we rushed to Pallassena temple, our adima kavu, the Devi temple to which our family owes allegiance. Utterly tired, we hit the bed early promising to rush through the itinerary the next morning before heading back to Bangalore.

Next morning we drove first to my ancestral house in Vadakkanthara village, now owned by my aunt. We took Ragu and Padma inside the house. My aunt’s more-than-willing d-i-l took charge of the conducted tour: granary on the left, the two first floors in different rooms, the store-room and the deep-store underneath, which had all family’s gold, silver and other valuables, the well with crystal clear water, the kitchen to cater to 30-odd members, the massive Idli grinding stone fixed to the floor…

If Vadakkanthara was vibrant with rich cloth merchants, Ramanathapuram, my mother’s village, was inhabited by school teachers, learned purohits and clerks in Taluk office or court, and remained a sleepy village. A few yards before the village stood Lord Ganesha’s temple to protect one from any Obstruction, as Lord Mahavishnu, the preserver, presided over at the entrance. At the far end is Lord Shiva, the destroyer, with a Departure lounge (read: cremation ground) 1000 yards away, with the village-pond in between. ”What made you not settle down in Palakkad?” asked Ragu seeing me brimming with joy. I had no answer.

When we reached Ramanathapuram, Uncha Vrithi had just started off from the Veda Pathashala with the young boys, the purohits in the making, with an elderly person at the centre, going around the village merrily singing bhajan with  mridangam and harmonium elevating the enchanting level. Nice to get a feel of the good old days.,

The driver was getting restless; he must reach Bangalore before sunset to get an assignment for the morrow. So we just drove past my school and college buildings, skipping the scenic Malampuza dam, Madapulli Devi temple, Ramassery Idli… 

“Yet another meticulous planning turned into a rat race,” we concluded at our doorstep as we dipped our hands into our respective bags for the keys. “I gave them to you,” I said, unable to find them in mine.. “No, I distinctly remember I entrusted them to you,” she asserted, both displaying signs of back to basics.