Mysore Palace, Mother India :: Life Lessons

At breakfast the other day ---a western spot where many of the yogis hang out to enjoy foods they are familiar with, be waited on by westerners and spend generally triple the cost they would on Indian foods. Eggs, shakes, fresh fruit bowls, and hummus sandwiches are offered.  I participate in part because this is where my friends here go. But, I would be lying if I said I don’t enjoy the food. It’s especially delicious when I consider the alternative is to eat idli (Indian breakfast food which I don’t like) or to cook for myself which I often don’t feel like doing. However, it’s indulgent, and a little silly that we all gather segregated like this. This restaurant in particular has wireless access and several areas to sit including both a front and back yard and a living room with large pillows and couches that are really best described as twin beds with big pillows.--- Anyway, at breakfast some friends mentioned they wanted to inside the Mysore Palace. Although I am not a big museum person, my friend A. and I agreed to go with them. 

We took off on 2 scooters through the city. If you have ever been on a scooter in India before you know that no matter what your religion you find yourself praying at some point during the ride. It's involuntary. I often repeat the mantra, "brakes, brakes, Oh My God, brakes" in my head as we weave in and out of the honking traffic. This ride was no exception. It takes a certain kind of fearlessness to drive a motorbike on Indian city streets. One I do not have. So, bar my 1 very short trip as the driver (in Goa) I am always a passenger.

We get to the palace unscathed and park our bikes. We look around and the first thing I notice is that there are no people. Well, it's India so of course there are people; some beggars in front of a temple, a few lonely stall workers watching us, other random Indians milling about a temple admittance desk and a few more stragglers but, in general, it looks strangely desolate. We understand why when we see a large sign indicating, in English, that the palace entrance is at the other side. So, we hop back on our scooters and ride around the palace to the entrance where admission is possible.

Ahhh, this is more like it. Throngs of people are walking through the street. There is a band, a banner in celebration of, something, several motorbikes parked on the sidewalk, a row of busy stalls selling sunglasses, wooden trinkets, shoes, fans, bracelets, etc. We haul the scooters up on the sidewalk. A few touts approach us and offer us some sandalwood fans. The method of selling in this type of situation is what I’d call aggressive/annoyance selling. "Fan Madam? Sandalwood! Good Price! Best Price" is said while vigorously waving the fan in the potential customers face. Of course we decline but any acknowledgement at all is taken as a sign of encouragement and the touts follow us for awhile trying to entice us with their street wares. They ask, "Which country Madam?" and continue on with their sales pitch undeterred by the no thank yous, and hand gestures of no. My friends are a bit more gracious than I am. Even answering some of their questions. Perhaps they are better people than me? I find it rather obnoxious and continue along my way ignoring the desperate pleas--which they have now become.

The day before I broke my sunglasses, a happy accident since actually I hated them but refused to purchase more as they were perfectly functioning just, ugly. So I head over to the sunglasses stalls along route to the palace to purchase another pair. I steel myself as we walk over since bargaining is still an interaction I would prefer to avoid. I look one place and don't like any so I move on to another place. "Elephant Madam!” he says as I pick up a pair of sunglasses. I smile as I try on a few pair. Instantly there is a mirror and hands passing me more styles to try on. "Designer Madam". I find a pair that conceal my eyes (a necessary feature in my opinion) and that aren't crooked and ask the price. "650 Rupees". I laugh and shake my head, "ridiculous" I say and begin to walk away. Walking away is the only bargaining tool I really have. In India I have learned that if you want something too badly it is obvious so your best bet is to go into a transaction with the possibility of coming away empty handed. He stops me and says, "Name your price Madam". I say, "100 Rupees." He says, "No Madam, very nice, DESIGNER." (They are not designer of course, but they do bare a label Lovely Ladies, which is why he keeps saying this.) He begins to show me glasses he deems worthy of 100 Rupees. They are metal and bent and generally banjaxed. Nothing I want. No, I say and begin to walk away again. "Name your best price" he shouts after me. "150" I say out of the side of my mouth, my body turned totally in the other direction. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the infamous Indian head bob. In this case I understand it as, okay. So, I walk back over to pay my 150 Rupees. A bag appears and the glasses are slipped into it. He leans into me as I'm reaching for my money and says, "250". “No I shout more loudly then I intended. You agreed to 150. I'm not paying anymore than that.” I thrust the bag back at him and huff as I turn to go. "Okay, okay, Madam but this is very good price. Only because you are first customer today. Designer! Not the price for everyone." I realize I am shaking. 

14 weeks in India and still I am angry at the simplest of frustrations. I am shaking my head as I begin to pull my money out again. Fishing for 50 Rupees change, muttering to myself and holding a 100 note in my hand. He sees me struggling and says, “change Madam, I will give it. 50 Rupees, I have.” He can tell I’m hesitant and don’t trust him. “Yes Madam, change I have” I hand him 200 Rupees. He gives me my change. I’m walking away now and he says, “Are you happy Madam?” “Yes, but you should not try to change the price after we have agreed… it is not right. Thank you.” I smile at him. 

As I go, I am feeling dejected. I am still angry I think. So much anger is still inside me. Right there. Just under the surface waiting to come out. I try to make myself feel better. More meditation is needed I tell myself. More breathings. (pranayama) 

My friends seem not to notice or they are polite enough not to mention my little outburst. I tell one of them that I’m disappointed that I shouted. He says, “Sometimes this happens here. It’s okay.” For a minute I feel better but I know that it’s not really okay. It’s not okay with me.

We move towards the line, that’s really not representative of a line at all since the only uniform aspect of it is that we’re all facing the same way. Truly it’s a cluster of people pushing towards the front of the payment box money in hand. A big sign above the booth reads, Indians: 20 Rupees. Foreigners: 200 Rupees. I hand over my money and we walk through security. There is a small section off to the left where the sign points us to go if we carry a bag. Only westerners are there, us and one other couple. I guess they are German. (later that night I realize I’m terrible at this guessing game when I peg two Israelis as Russians even after hearing them speak in their mother tongue—Persian.) The probably not German woman looks hot, exhausted and has that stare you get when traveling in India. It is easily recognizable. In fact Hunnie and I have joked about it many times. The look says, I am SCREAMING inside. Our bags are scanned and we head over to a temple on the palace grounds. As we enter the threshold a man takes our shoes and hands us a battered ticket. I know this is a gimmick. I try to put my shoes in my bag. He gives me a look of disgust and gives the head bob. This time it indicates no. So, I put my shoes down along side my friends and we enter the temple. It is decaying. Paint is chipped. There is a coconut tree growing out of the floor, the signs are faded, nearly illegible. Yet, it is still beautiful. The intricate carving of stone and the beautiful gods they are representing make up for the poor attention to the temple itself. We wander inside. I am uncomfortable. This is not my religion; this is not my place of worship. I don’t like being a spectator to people praying. I recognize that it’s expected when visiting this temple and we are welcome but still I step outside to wait for my friends. 

We gather our shoes and a hand is outstretched in front of us. He is requesting 10 Rupees. No, I’m not paying you ten Rupees. A. and I exchange glances with each other. Understanding that this is not actually necessary we each give 5 Rupees, take our shoes and go. As we exit the temple entryway a large sign across the way displays clearly, “Leave Shoes Here. FREE.” I laugh to myself and go to deposit my shoes.

Next we head inside the actual palace. Many signs in English tell us no photos are allowed. We come through another security point. Our bags are scanned for a second time and our cameras our identified. The woman behind the scanner hits the end of the belt with a long stick and says something to one of the guards in Kannada. He comes over and asks if we have cameras. We look confused and shake our heads no. We don’t intend to disobey the rules and take pictures but we also don’t intend to leave our cameras with them. As with many rules in India, it is forgotten and we enter the palace. A man rips the top of our tickets and we head through ropes pushing us into the first exhibit like cattle.

The palace is amazing really. The teak carvings on the doorways, the beautifully painted ceilings, the walls decorated with hand painted art work, the chairs designed in gold and silver, marble floors, wide open expansive halls without one speck of bare wall or ceiling space. Everything is decorated with statues, paint, carvings. But, it is dusty. There are cobwebs everywhere. It smells like must and mold. Pigeons rest along the beams above our heads. The exhibit windows are filthy, covered in finger prints and face smudges. People pick at the walls with their fingernails, disturbing the paint. I am amazed at the beauty and confused by the lack of care for this precious space. Clearly the Indian sightseers are impressed. They do not seem to notice the lack of upkeep. Maybe I am failing to see the beauty in its entirety? Maybe there is something wrong with my desire for pristine conditions? I think about this as we leave the palace dancing on the stone which is so hot it burns our bare feet. We fetch our shoes and along the exit route I purchase a peeled cucumber with a spicy masala powder smeared over the center. It’s delicious and refreshing. My lips burn as we maneuver the scooters back into the busy street towards home.