Sunday in Mysore

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Sunday morning. David is still recovering from Everton’s loss to Arsenal in the FA Cup. Continuing to meet our craving to eat something different, we reverse yesterday’s move from Indian to European food, and swap out the toast and omelette breakfast of the last ten days for an Indian breakfast of wada, sambur, yoghurt and lassi.

Mr Ali, reliable as ever, collects us at 9am and we head to the Chamundi Hills which overlook Mysore. At the top is an old temple, still in use and absolutely heaving with people as today is Sunday and hence a day off. Mr Ali informs us that people start arriving at 5am. We decide not to join the queue, but instead wander back to the car through the numerous stalls selling trays of fruit and flowers for temple offerings and a range of cheap plastic toys and souvenirs. Next stop is yet another Nandi bull temple, and then we go to the Lalitha Palace.

This is now a hotel, and if you just read their website you’d be very tempted to stay there and enjoy the experience of staying in a palace. Sadly, this one is run by the Indian government and not the Taj group. The money available for restoration was clearly inadequate and the place presents a picture of faded grandeur, heavily scuffed around the edges. It boasts an ancient lift with an opulent sofa for important people and a grand dining room (once the ballroom). We wander upstairs and a cleaner offers to show us the Viceroy suite where, he claims, Prince Charles and Lady Diana once stayed. It costs £500/night now and definitely did not look worth it. Our 100 rupee entrance fee included a cup of coffee, so we sat in the deserted coffee lounge and were served in solitary splendour. There was no sight of even a single guest.

In the afternoon we headed for Mysore Palace, built at the start of the 20th century after the previous palace burnt down. It’s a hugely imposing building from the outside, but visiting proved a trial. We were elbowed aside brutally in the queue to buy a ticket, and even our finely honed London bus stop skills failed to solve the problem. Once in, we found it was necessary to remove our shoes and check them in. Next stop was the security gate, where we were told we could not take our cameras in. They were supposed to left by the main entrance thought there was nothing to tell us this was the case. By now we were barefoot and a fair distance from the main entrance. The security guard suggested that for 40 rupees (the fee for checking in the cameras, he assured us) we could take them in if they were in a bag. We had no bag. After much discussion, he vanished and reappeared with a small flimsy black plastic bag into which we gingerly placed our two large Canon cameras, topped by a hat. The bag was clearly not going to bear the weight of the cameras for more than 20 seconds, so Sara had to clutch it to her body, holding it from the underside.

Once in the palace, we joined a long winding queue of visitors. The main attraction is the three large durbar halls, decorated in a bizarre mix of English art deco (the architect was British) and ancient Hindi and Islamic designs. Most of the rooms had turquoise as their main colour theme, and were impressive if not exactly tasteful. In the second hall, we became aware of a security guard calling after us. Oh no, we thought, he’s realised we have cameras in the bag and is about to expel us or extort more money. We ignored him and marched on, pointing with feigned interest at things – anything – in the opposite direction. All was in vain as he caught up with and grabbed David’s arm. ‘Have you seen the elephants over there?’ he asked? Bewildered, we said no. 'Maharajah's personal elephants you want see I take you'. He had flagged us as foreigners with no guide, and was seeking to offer his services as a guide no doubt for an outrageous fee. We escaped.



Once out of the palace, we headed for our shoes, only to find we were required to walk all the way round the outside of the palace – still barefoot, on a very hot surface – in order to be funnelled past the elephant and camel ride options (treading carefully around the piles of camel and elephant poo, both of which are found in significant sized deposits). Nice. Finally reunited with our footwear, ignoring the abuse of the shoe man claiming money while standing in front of a sign 3ft high saying it was a free service, we relocated Mr Ali and returned to the hotel to cool down and take advantage of happy hour.

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