On the road in southern India

---

I fell out of love with India.

Temporarily, anyway.

In Bangalore.

Bangalore was my first stop in a fleeting trip around the south-western state of Karnataka. The irony of visiting this capital of outsourcing more than three years after I resigned my job as an outsourcing lawyer initially amused me, particularly as it wasn’t out of choice, but necessity: being also the state capital, it’s the easiest place in the state to fly to from Mumbai and a good starting point for exploring some of the variety that the south of Karnataka has to offer. But it has an ugly side. It seems to have more numerous, more aggressive touts than anywhere else I’ve ever been. Or maybe I didn’t yet have my “India head” screwed on.

Initially, the city bemused me. From the road into town, it seemed most un-Indian: smart, new, tidy; no beggars or slums to be seen. If it wasn’t for the style of driving - aren’t the white lines on the road for decoration? Or to show where I should centre my vehicle? - and for the permanent setting of all headlights on glaringly high beam, I would have checked with the taxi driver where exactly we were.

The next morning, I pottered out intent on a mixture of necessity-shopping and sightseeing… and, to cut a very long story short, found myself at the mercy of a taxi driver’s relentless quest for commissions. While I’ve encountered the ruse - take your customer to an expensive souvenir/silk/jewellery/carpet shop en route to their requested destination because of the pay-offs you will receive from the shops’ owners - many times and in many places before, I have never found it completely impossible to counter. The sweet-talking Kumar managed to convince me to go into four shops in the course of a couple of hours, while singly failing to take me anywhere I actually wanted to go. None of the standard weapons in my arsenal - refusal, persuasion, anger, money - worked. Having exhausted his supply of local sources of remuneration, he finally resisted all further pretence of taking me to the temples I’d hoped to visit, whining, “But they’re nine kilometres away, madam.” I’ll be paying you, Kumar. “But it’s too hot, madam.” Livid, I stormed off, ignoring his audacious “Something for me, madam?”. The encounter had not only made me cross (not least at my own inability to see the ruse coming and to argue successfully against it), but it made me snap at anyone else trying to approach me for several hours. I try at least to keep a sense of humour in dismissing offers of rickshaws, T-shirts, bangles, “antiques”, postcards, hash… whatever it might be, but this encounter had made me into a snappy, rude person, someone I didn’t like. I stomped off back to my hotel to try and re-group myself mentally, before having another “go” at Bangalore.

Bangalore is not a walk-able city, as I found out after trudging my way warmly through Cubbon Park - “where the city breathes”, according to the Lonely Planet - and emerged back into traffic, not entirely sure where I was. Negotiations with a rickshaw driver were more successful this time, and he took me the remaining distance to the market I was seeking. Once again, I wasn’t exactly sure where I had been dropped, and I mooched disconsolately around the side streets. This was certainly a lot more like the kind of Indian city I’ve experienced to date: street-side vendors selling anything and everything, crowds, colour, smells agreeably and otherwise, rubbish, pollution… and, of course, a few cows. Taking my life into my hands, I crossed the main drag, all six, eight, ten (depending which kind of vehicles were there at the time) lanes of it, and wandered up a side street… and tripped over my intended destination: all the colour, smell, noise and chaos of Krishnarajendra Market, a panoply of stalls in and around a large old open-plan, multi-storey building. Mountains of bananas and coconuts. Carefully constructed pyramids of potatoes, onions, apples, oranges and anything else even potentially pyramid-able, all the fruit and vegetables of a quality that would put British supermarkets to shame. Beautiful cones of the lusciously-coloured kumkum powder used in puja and to create bindis on women’s foreheads. And the wonderfully fragrant chaos of the basement flower market where blossoms are bought by weight for puja and other ceremonies and festivities, glorious wreaths hang on stalls for best viewing, long ropes of entwined flowers lie coiled into baskets. The smells - frangipani, rose, jasmine, and a curry of others - were intoxicating. I grinned happily at stall-owners bemused by this Westerner caught up in the rush-hour-like crowds and taking photographs of their merchandise. One guy chivalrously presented me with a carnation. A young lad saw me at his brother’s stall and posed for a photograph. I fell back in love with India and treated myself to a celebratory chai or two from a passing wallah.

The next day I braved the inter-city bus service for the first time. My only previous experience of trying to book myself onto Indian public transport was a bewildering half-hour at Old Delhi’s train station in 1994 when, I’m ashamed to say, we gave up and relied on my friend’s staff to book the trains for us. But, as I kept telling myself this time, the daughter of an erstwhile colleague had got herself and her friends round India by bus when they were 18… How hard could it be? The answer for bus travel, on the basis of the last couple of weeks, is incredibly easy. For the sub-five-hour journeys where buses were supposed to be relatively numerous, I discovered I possessed a sixth sense for arriving minutes (if not seconds) before my bus departed. It didn’t seem necessary to find out when the bus was scheduled to leave: too much of a technicality, and possibly an irrelevance, in the chaotic world of Indian bus stations. In Karnataka, most of the departure boards are in Kannada, one of the state’s three main languages, and the only time I did find a board with the destination I wanted, it turned out that my bus went from the other side of the bus station… obviously. Therefore, rather than worry about finding the right bus-stand, I adopted the approach of looking for nice khaki-uniformed gentlemen/ladies (the uniform of the Karnataka State Road Transport Authority), and saying, “Excuse me, Hassan?” (or Halebid, or Belur, or Mysore, or wherever I might be wanting to go). The trickiest was the bus to Ooty - this was the first time I was travelling inter-state which, I thought, might be a complication, and I was travelling from Mysore whose bus station was operating from two different areas a hundred metres apart during extensive redevelopment - when I had to ask a succession of people, and received conflicting answers. Nevertheless, I managed to appear at the door of the right bus (it even said “OOTY” in English on the front, always a plus point), just as it was pulling out of the station.

The comfort level on Karnataka and Tamil Nadu buses was reasonably good, and my backside only went numb once, and that was about seven hours into the Ooty-Bangalore journey when the bus was running late. It’s a laissez-faire mode of transport. You want/need to stop? Ask the ticket inspector, and the bus driver will pull over when he can. Otherwise, we tended to get a “Ten minutes!” pause approximately every three hours when we could scamper out to relieve bladders, stock up on munchies, improve caffeine levels, or simply stretch legs. On longer journeys, there was a longer stop for lunch. A degree of camaraderie developed, even across language barriers. My neighbours would check I knew the length of the stop, and where to find refreshments, or offer to share their own. Sometimes, when we picked up more passengers, a snack-wallah would nip onto the bus and wander down the isle looking for custom. Air conditioning is of the open-window variety which was perfectly sufficient at this time of year, and I tended to make a beeline for the window seat. All in all, I was an instant convert to this mode of travel. Mind you, I recommend not sitting with a view of the road ahead. Overtaking is effected with a little more “panache”, cutting things a little finer perhaps, than might be acceptable back home, and this is one of those occasions when too much information is definitely not a good idea.

In the interests of conserving funds but also to find more characterful “local” places, I stay in hotels at the cheaper end of the range. I strongly resist staying at “Hotel Anywhere”, except when necessitated by an excessively early departure or late arrival in a new city. However, I make three concessions to my advancing age: a room on my own, an en suite bathroom if possible, and the basics for a good night’s sleep - at least a moderately comfortable bed and a fan. In this part of the world, I can achieve my objectives for between Rs.270 and Rs.500 (£3.70-6.80, US$5.30-10). Ironically, I find the best shower at the cheapest hotel, although the room comes with an Asian toilet and a small resident insect population. Still, if I don’t bring food back to my room, the ants limit their vigil to the edge of the floor by the far wall. The solitary cockroach and I reach a bathroom-sharing agreement. If I’m in there, it waits in the door-frame until I have vacated the premises; I agree not to step on it on my way in or out. Rs.400 gets me an enchanting room in Mysore, recently refurbished and decorated in sunny colours. The shower doesn’t work, but the standard Indian provision of a bucket and jug ensure that I can have a far more efficient wash than a substandard shower would provide. Rs.500 in Ooty gives me a room with a veranda, and a lake and mountain view. Hot water is only on in the morning, but that suits me fine, and the bed is generously provisioned with blankets and eiderdowns against the night’s chill.

Food I approach in the same manner. I tend to eat only one substantial meal a day, and that is in the evenings. The heat reduces my appetite, and I can survive perfectly happily during the day on drinks and nibbles from street vendors, occasionally supplemented by a more substantial breakfast. The mithai (freshly-made sweets) in Mysore are legendary, and I sample a variety during my few days there. Scruffy little bakeries have chai and coffee facilities: a guy at the back of the shop heats sweetened milk on a single gas ring, and uses it to top up the ongoing flask of chai (ginger and cardamom-flavoured tea) or to make coffee on demand. Both drinks are served in small shot-sized glasses. I’ll order several first thing in the morning, and the occasional further one during the day. (If I have to pay more than Rs.5 for a glass, I joke with the owner that he has the most expensive shop in southern India.) The biscuits are fresh, although the flavour can be a little pot-luck, from bland to butter to coconut. Cold drinks, including freshly machete-opened young coconuts, are regularly available and provide a welcome change from the increasingly warm water in my flask.

In the evening, I consult The Book or follow my nose. Most of India is a vegetarian’s paradise. Only here have I found menus that list “veg” options first; “non-veg” being many pages later, relegated to the back. South India is even more so, the home of dosas and thalis. I am in seventh heaven. In Mysore, I find a restaurant serving vegetarian thalis for Rs.15. I pay at the front counter and take my ticket to a table. There, in exchange for my ticket, I am provided with a metal plate piled high with rice in the centre and with dal and vegetable curry around it; sambar (thin, spicy South Indian dal) and chutney are served in small bowls on the side. Cutlery is fingers, but I’m used to this. (In Ooty, I went to a restaurant that provided forks - I couldn’t actually remember when I had last used one.) As soon as I have dented one or more of the dishes, I am offered a refill. This is the original all-you-can-eat experience. For a change I order a dosa: masala dosa has historically been my favourite, but I branch out this time, and develop a liking for onion rava dosa. The original dosa is a huge, thin, crispy pancake, the “masala” is a spicy potato filling. The onion rava dosa is more like an omelette in consistency, the dosa batter being made of semolina and containing chopped up onions. Both are served with sambar and coconut chutney, my favourite. Again, the meal usually comes to well under Rs.50. If I have a long journey ahead, I might have a South Indian breakfast of idlis, small cakes made of ground rice and lentils, which are also served with sambar and coconut chutney.

I am often asked whether I mind travelling on my own. In fact, in many ways, I find it preferable. Apart from the obvious, selfish advantage - I can do what I want when I want, “no compromise tourism” - I find that I meet many more people this way. No, I don’t go out of my way, deliberately soliciting company or conversation; I tend to find that people approach me and, except when scarred, briefly, by Bangalore touts, I’ll happily reply. Sometimes this kind of approach can be less agreeable: the untoward attention, the persistent solicitation “But madam…”. On the whole, however, it leads to some fascinating interactions. Sitting in the corner of a courtyard at a “sight” or on a bench in a chai/coffee shop scribbling my diary or reading The Book, I would look up to find myself the subject of harmless, but intently focussed, curiosity. My scribbles invariably attracted attention: the fascination of seeing someone write in an unaccustomed script. My diary would be borrowed, the pages flipped over in bemusement. (I can sympathise: I watch the waitresses at my favourite Thai restaurant in London noting down the order in pretty, curly Thai writing.) Equally, The Book. People are bemused by the size of the tome (the India Lonely Planet is a decent-sized door-stop) and are understandably interested in seeing what is said or pictured about their particular locale.

But this has had one unintended effect: I’ve become “married”. No, your invitation hasn’t got lost in the post. You haven’t missed the party and my brothers’ speeches (yes, guys, in the absence of Dad, I’d ask you to do a double-act, please). It’s simply an easy way out to the inevitable question - usually about third on the list after “Where you from?” and “What is your good name?” (I love the adjective in this part of India: in one case it was “your sweet name”) - as to my marital status. Now, I believe in telling the truth and in being honest in a meeting of different cultures, but, as I’ve discovered in the last three years, answering this one truthfully simply leads to a minefield in countries where I would be regarded as having been “on the shelf” for the last fifteen years. Hardest to answer is the inevitable follow-up question, “Why not?”. Ummm… “No-one’s asked me”, “Haven’t found the right person”, let alone “I don’t want to get married”, simply exacerbate my questioner’s incredulity. Yeshey, the Adha school headmaster whom I met in Bhutan, was a case in point. He kept repeating “But I am thirty-five. I have been married for ten years. I have three children.”, as if reinforcing his own adherence to the social norm would somehow lessen the incomprehensibility of my situation. Now “my husband” is either “in London” because “he doesn’t get as much holiday as I do”, or he is “back in the hotel” because “he’s not feeling well” , as the particular situation requires. Do I have children? “No”, shrugging and looking down sorrowfully (the gods have willed it so). Saying otherwise on this one is beyond my powers of invention: there would be too many follow-up questions to answer, and the chance of maintaining consistency in my responses is low. The little packet of white lies is tripping more easily off my tongue with every repetition, and, superstitiously, irrationally, I cross my fingers against possible cosmic repercussions for telling such lies.

In the meantime…

…I chat cricket (a frequent topic in India, as you might imagine), tennis, the economy, and national and international politics with Vijay Kumar, a coffee-grower, in the ill-lit Hassan bar, Cocktail (the name is a little ambitious, I fear). His views on Pakistan are, understandably, very negative. The US is currently in the news as appearing to take that country’s side in the simmering conflict with India, urging India to take steps towards some degree of reconciliation. India resents that stance…

…a gang of young boys dare each other to talk to me as I sit waiting for the Chamundi Hill bus to leave Mysore’s city bus station. They push the most daring of their friends forward to make the approach, and giggle when he plucks up courage to question me. To their vast amusement, I bring out my camera and take some pictures, teasing individual lads about the faces they are pulling…

…with Adil, a stall-holder in Mysore’s Devaraja Market, I discuss touts and tourists, incense and oils, silks and alternative therapies…

…the guy who runs the internet café in Mysore updates me each day on the likely venue for cricket’s forthcoming Indian Premiere League competition. Speculation is rife at the time as to where it will be held given current security concerns and its coinciding with the forthcoming Indian elections…

…in the shadow of the 17.5m monolithic Jain deity, Bahubali, at Sravanabelagola, a couple of off-duty soldiers chat with me about their families, my travelling and the forthcoming IPL. One son points his camera in my direction; another hides behind his mother’s sari…

…uniformed college girls in Belur’s Channekeshava Temple ask me about myself, my background, my thoughts on their country…

…Sureta, a beggar-girl in the Colaba area, describes her experience of the events of 26/11, the terror attacks on Mumbai...

…a group of young lads talk football with me while I sip sweet, strong, milky South Indian coffee in Belur...

…I am mobbed by fifty or sixty school kids in Ooty’s Botanical Gardens when a chat with four of the girls turns into a photo-shoot: everyone wants to be in on the action. Their English teacher introduces himself and co-ordinates the kids. Later, I meet more of the teachers and am quizzed about my background. We exchange photos; they teach me my one word of Tamil, “nanri” (thank you), and it is chorused around the Gardens as we part company.

I am warmed by the attention and the interaction. For me, this is a big part of what travelling is all about. I don’t go to meet other Westerners; I don’t hang out in backpacker colonies. While I don’t solicit contact with the locals, notebook and pen in hand, I hugely relish the voluntary spontaneity. I am struck, once again, by how little language matters in such situations. Receptive body language and a smile go a long way.

---

Photos

the ugliest baby on the planet?
Bonnet macaques on temple duty, Mysore

Nandi, Chamundi Hill, Mysore
the third largest in India, I'm told...

Australia in India
walking through the gum trees in the Ooty area

Comments

[joe thadani]

Great Pictures