‘Walking is the best way to go more slowly than any other method that has ever been found,’ says the French philosopher Frédéric Gros. And in Mysore, you can really walk. Compared to many other cities in India, I’m convinced there is less of a chance that you’ll be mowed down by a speeding rickshaw, tumble into an open manhole or tread all over the wares of a street vendor. I’m not sure there is any statistical proof for this, but who has time for hard evidence when there’s ambling to be done?

You can choose the time and place of your stroll, based on what you would like to hear: in the mornings the demented birdsong in the gardens of Lakshmipuram; a few hours later the rumble of shutters being lowered in Lashkar Mohalla as shops close for the afternoon; and once the schools have let out, the soft pock of shuttlecocks sent sailing through the lanes of Gokulam. And if you linger long enough, someone somewhere will soon be bellowing for coffee, and you will probably be offered a lota too, out of a sense of hospitality, obligation or in the fervent hope that you will soon put an end to your loitering.

Today I’m on 6th Main, the hub of Paduvarahalli (its official name is Vinayaka Nagar but no one here seems to care). To the south, across the busy Hunsur Road, there are clear signs that the Karnataka State Open University has received generous funding recently. A new building with a gleaming white dome and pillars has appeared on its campus. Next to it there rises a mysterious circular structure with a few small windows studding its high walls. Perhaps, this is where the English Literature PhD students will be sequestered for their own safety.

To the west of Paduvarahalli, fat labradors pant on the lawns of Jayalakshmipuram, trying to avoid the jets from the sprinklers. The new organic shop is open on Sundays and doing a busy trade. Just down the road from there, not far from the Alliance Française, I’m told that two houses now have remote-controlled gates.

But there is no call for gates of that kind in Paduvarahalli. Houses and flats are crammed into the grid of narrow lanes that lead off the main road — man and nature have to make their peace with that. A goat is tethered to a motorbike; a balcony encloses a coconut tree.

A group congregates on the stone benches outside the Ganesh temple. Old towels and lungis have been laid across the hard surface to accommodate the behinds of this seemingly close-knit group of men. The most prominent member is a large man in a half-sleeved white shirt, crisp and spotless, in spite of the heat. His glasses are a little lopsided, giving him a slight air of unpredictability. He also seems a man accustomed to deference and likes to punctuate his conversation with a wagging finger. Let’s call him the Leader.

“I told you this would happen,” says the Leader, “ten times I must have told you.”

Also seated on the benches — a tall man, a short man, and a man who looks like he might be dozing. On the other side, positioned a little too close to the Leader, is the Acolyte. He shakes his head in vigorous agreement to the Leader’s pronouncements and looks like he is operating a hand pump with his chin. I wonder if the Acolyte owes the Leader a significant sum of money.

“The man has a face like a horse,” says the Leader, “will you take advice from a man who looks like a horse?”

On the other side of the Leader are the Twins. Of course I have no idea if they really are twins but they do look remarkably similar, right down to their moustaches: both suffer a slight sparseness of growth on the left side. The Twins don’t say much but occasionally move their heads together for a private conference in Telugu. The Kannada speakers in the group regard this with a practised indulgence, as if the men are children who have retreated into their usual fantasy world and are now babbling about spaceships.

“Very poor mileage,” says the Leader, “very poor.”

There is a woman in a yellow sari on the periphery of this group, listening to every word. The Lady in Yellow is of course all too aware that she is not a member of the group but seems determined not to let this fact discourage her. She seems particularly interested in what the Leader has to say, but not because she finds his words particularly edifying; in fact, quite the contrary. She rewards even his most meagre utterances with an eye roll. I fear that in a few minutes she will resort to a loud snort. The Lady in Yellow definitely does not owe the Leader money; she would not allow herself to owe money to this man.

The Leader yawns — a prolonged affair.

I can see the setting sun through the chink between Praise Beauty Parlour and Shiva Medicals. I feel that I am beginning to outstay my welcome so I finish my coffee, thank the group and leave. Outside Friendly Chickens, a hen gives its companion a vicious peck. As I make my way down the street, a girl throws up a bunch of coriander to an old lady leaning out of the first floor window; from the window above a boy drops a scooter helmet to his friend waiting on the road. Around the corner, clothes have been hung out to dry on a high wall. The slogan on one of the T-shirts says: ‘Live Life Mysore Size.’ I couldn’t agree more.

(In this monthly series, authors chronicle the cities they call home.)

Mahesh Rao is the author of The Smoke is Rising

Related Topics
comment COMMENT NOW