Mysore: Princely Estates, Extortion and the Infallible Logic of Shopkeepers

Mysore is about 100 km (4 hours by bus) from Bangalore and is the ancestral home of the Wodeyar dynasty that ruled the area almost uninterrupted from 1399 till unification in 1947.  As a local put it, it’s best known for its palace, its sandal wood and its marijuana. 

On the day I arrived I climbed (i.e. took a Rickshaw up) Chamundi hill in the morning, went into the enormous temple, enjoyed the view from the top and met a nice French couple.  After walking the 1000+ steps down (actually walking and prompting the purchase of a knee brace later) we had a traditional South Indian Thaly lunch served on a Banana leaf and then went our separate ways.  From there I headed over to the Maharaja’s Summer Palace to take in India’s version of Versailles and Peterhof.  The building sported a nice blend of Dravidian, Colonial and traditional Islamic architecture.  While not as large and extravagant as its European equivalents, I have to admit that they did a wonderful job incorporating all three styles.  On my way in there were several large signs noting the prohibition on photography inside the palace… Really India? Really? So I go inside and I’m walking through the palace enjoying the audio guide when I come to the Royal Wedding Hall.  This spectacular area was filled with stained glass, carved Teak wood, colorfully painted cast iron columns and an elegant chandelier.  As I looked around taking in the room I noticed that there were many people, tourists and locals alike, taking pictures.  The police officer in the corner was obviously aware of what was going on and didn’t seem to care, so I discreetly took my camera out and snapped a few photos for myself.  A few seconds later the police officer and a man in plain clothes accosted me.  They notified me that taking pictures in the palace is strictly forbidden and they asked for my camera.  I played the dumb tourist claiming that I was oblivious to the signs and apologized profusely saying that would delete the pictures and wouldn’t do it again.  The police officer in uniform insisted on having my camera and I gave it to him.  Then the other man in plain clothes (who I assume was there because he spoke more English) told me that there was a 500 rs (about $10) fine for using the camera inside.  I countered by pulling out all the stops and saying that I was a poor student volunteering and travelling around on a very tight budget and that I couldn’t pay the 500 rs fine.  The man then told me that 200 rs would do as long as I didn’t take any more pictures.  I paid the man the “fine” and went on my way glad that I survived my first experience being extorted only $4 worse off because of it. 

On the second day I walked over to the Devaraja Market and on the way started talking with a local who I had asked for directions (yes, I know, I gave in and I concede a few man points for the indiscretion).  He asked me what I was doing in India and when I told him about the volunteering he was so impressed that he became my tour guide for the next hour or so.  He showed me a local food market and an incense/oil shop where they produce all the goods they sell.  After that he pointed me in the direction of the Market and thanked me again for the work I did in his country.  After a nice 20 minute walk through Mysore peaking down side streets and checking out the small hole in the wall shops I arrived the Devaraja Market.  The roughly five acre market basically only had five types of shops selling pretty much the same goods at the same prices (fruit, vegetable, grain, household goods and religious accoutrements).  Of course there were a few odd balls and those tended to be the most interesting.  One of the ones I walked up to was filled with household goods made entirely of recycled metal that the shops proprietor had produced himself.  As I was looking at his wares we engaged briefly in conversation:

Me: This is pretty cool, do you make everything yourself?

Shopkeeper: Yes, it’s all from recycled metal.  Can I help you find anything or can I make something for you?

Me: No thank you, I’m just looking. 

Shopkeeper: (seeing me check out all of the keys hanging) do you need a key?

Me: No.

Shopkeeper: (gesturing towards the wall to his left and a smile on his face) Then you need a lock!

I was almost temped to buy something just because he was clever, but ended up walking away before I gave myself the chance.  I then headed to the Mysore Train museum where I was again disappointed by Indian museums but happened upon a German couple that was also leaving that night for Hampi.  We exchanged contact info and went our separate ways.  One hour later… Goodbye Mysore!

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Holi Sh*t

I woke up this morning to find that my skin is still very stained from the massive amounts of industrial, heavy metal based, powder pigments that we spent hours yesterday throwing at, smearing on and drenching each other with.  My clothes are now nothing more than souvenirs of my first Holi experience and the plastic Ziploc bags that dutifully protected my valuables throughout the day were all but destroyed. 

When I arrived at the first Couch Surfing Holi party in Koramangala I was clean as a whistle in my white undershirt and khaki pants.  As I walked up the last set of stairs one brave soul who had wrapped up his camera in enough saran wrap to protect it from a small nuke took a “before” picture of me; only when I reached the top of the stairs did I realize why as I was mulled by at least 7 people with handfuls of color.  After that was I introduced to everyone. 

An hour or so later after being picked up by all four limbs and being held in a big puddle of discolored water and having water balloons thrown at us by the kids on the roof across the street I walked home with a friend who lived near there and received some good old Indian hospitality in the form of a shower, a change of clothes and a meal.  After a few hours of R & R at the friend’s house we went out to another Couch Surfing Holi party in Indiranagar.  Very little of this experience should ever be published on the web, so I’ll leave it at, I enjoyed myself.   

All in all my first Holi experience was fantastic and even if the memories fade, I know for sure that one thing won’t… the heavy metal poisoning!

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A Jew in Asia (part 2): Shabbat in Bangalore

After much ado finding the address of the Chabad center (in this case, a Rabbi’s house), mostly due to a pervasive lack of street signs, I was directed up stairs in the apartment building.  When I reached the appropriate floor I looked around for a sign with the Rabbi’s name on it, it was nowhere to be found.  Then I realized I was looking for the wrong type of sign and a few moments later I found the only door on the floor with a Mezuzah on it. 

After a quick knock I was ushered inside to an all too familiar sight.  The tile floor was the same color as Jerusalem stone (though ceramic); the smell of countless old and several new books; the portrait of a Rabbi; the plastic covered, embroidered, white linen table cloth; several small children running around playing; the Israeli accent; the smell of good humus and fresh Challah; the black hats and the sound of Hebrew all greeted me at once saying, “Welcome home.” 

The only notable contrast between the little piece of Jerusalem that apartment represented and the place itself was the noise of the city outside.  The noise of Bangalore is a far cry from the silence of Jerusalem on a Friday evening.

The guests in attendance were two business travelers named Daniel and David, an Israeli named Yuval and a northeast Indian named Ruth.  Yuval was a dead ringer for the Zohan (from the Adam Sandler movie, Don’t Mess with the Zohan); only 50% in the looks category, but close to 100% in terms of personality.  I played Jewish Geography with the two business travelers to some avail.  And then there was Ruth.  Ruth Manahem is from a small village north of Kolkata near the Bangladesh border.  She looks more like a mix between a Chinese person and a Thai person (a.k.a. Bangladeshi) than Indian.  Her village has always been Jewish, even though over the years many of the traditions have been lost.  A few years ago they were declared one of the lost tribes by Shavei Israel and she has become a Baal Teshuvah (someone raised not observant but has chosen to become more religious).  She is currently waiting for her papers to come through so she can make Aliah (immigrate to Israel).  I’ve never met a Jew from this far east before!

This takes Jewish Geography to a whole new level.