Bright lights and Big Headaches
Trip Start
Jun 06, 2009
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38
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Trip End
Ongoing
Mysore, Karnataka, India
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Mysore Dasara processionMysore Dasara is the Nadahabba (state-festival) of the state of Karnataka. It is also called as Navaratri (Nava-ratri = nine-nights) and is a 10-day festival with the last day being Vijayadashami, the most auspicious day of Dasara. Dasara usually falls in the month of September or October. According to a legend, Vijayadashami denotes the victory of truth over evil and was the day when the Hindu Goddess Chamundeshwari killed the demon Mahishasura. Mahishasura is the demon from whose name; the name Mysore has been derived. The city of Mysore has a long tradition of celebrating the Dasara festival and the festivities here are an elaborate affair and attract a large audience including foreigners. Wikipedia.
We had timed our visit to Mysore to coincide with the festivities and were very much looking forward to experiencing the atmosphere of a large Indian celebration. A friendly auto driver took us from the bus station to the Hotel Siddharta where we had booked to stay three nights and we arranged with him to take us on a short city tour that afternoon. Mysore Palace is the epicentre of the Dasara celebrations and it is the only time of the year when the royal throne can be seen by the public. Unfortunatley it is also the time of year that the 'public' increase by 2 million people, so the prospect of queuing for 3 hours to see a throne that does not hold any significance to us was not favoured and instead we took to the balcony of a rather well stocked bar.
For the rest of the year the Palace is lit up every Sunday evening by 27,000 lights but during the month of Dasara that increases to 96,000 bulbs lit up every evening at 7pm to an audience of thousands.
The city itself was typically Indian. Shops of gold, silk and sandalwood, streets of defacation, lifeless bodies and stench. Touts that had travelled hundreds of miles in rickety buses to sell their wooden chess boards, whistles and fabrics to the visiting millions. A walk to the Muslim quarter and we were shown into the dark hovel of the beedie makers, where five elderly men have sat cross legged since the age of 6 filling and rolling the traditional Indian cigarette. Their only perk being that they can smoke as many as they like during their working day. Then we were bought to a traditional Indian oils shop where after 5 cups of tea and much limb massaging Mum came away nearly one hundred pounds lighter.
Monday evening marked the crescendo of the 10 days of festival. Two thousand rupees had bought us 2 seats inside the palace with prime views of the elephant procession. The night before a kind old man of 83 (whom on later inspection turned out to be a money grabbing swindler of a pensioner) advised us to arrive at the gates a whole two hours before opening. So at 10am we took our places in the queue that had already built outside Gate Number 1, as per our ticket. The security presence was high and canes were already being unnecessarily waved as a means of prevention. Mysore Dasara happens around the same time every year, in the same Palace, is expected to attract the same uncontrollable crowds and the days events follow a rountine pattern. However the disorganised chaos of an Indian festival was to now really prove itself. The gate number on our ticket was completely wrong. The end of one queue led to the start of another and as the sun rose high in the sky so to did the aggrevation and restlessness of the crowd.
Upon finally getting through to the Palace entrance we calmy walked to the raised seated area, assuming that we were in no rush as the number printed on our ticket would coincide with two seats waiting for us. How naive. As the sea of saris and suits ran past us on all sides we realised that it was a free for all with the seats. We were directed to our corresponding section and sat waiting for the procession to begin. Within ten minutes of us sitting down every seat on the platform was taken, yet still hundreds of people climbed on to the fragile scaffolding in the hope of finding a clear space. Elbows were flying, voices were being raised and bodies were being pushed full force into spaces unfit for the smallest of household pets. Children were being sent up ahead to crawl through forests of legs to obtain space for their size hindered parents. Mum and I sat there trying to take it all in, knowing that they'd sold five times the amount of tickets than there were seats available. The situation was already making us feel uncomfortable and we felt with the continual push of people and over filling off stands that it may have only have been a matter of time before someting went seriously wrong.
As the crowds got worse and the tensions higher we made the decision to abort the Dasara procession and head to our now favourite bar for a well earned pint. Our exit had to be planned like a military exercise. If people saw we were getting off our seats the resulting crush to claim them would have sent us further into the chaos with no easy way of escape. We were also aware that with no side railings if we were shoved in the opposite direction we'd be meeting with the cemented ground in split seconds. We eased our way forward on our seat trying to show no obvious movements. In unison we raised ourselves, held out our palms in a slightly authoritive way and shouted as loud as we could the words "NO" and "WAIT". Holding each others hands tightly we struggled to make our way to the edge of the platform. The two minutes of battle felt like twenty but at last we were off the stand and able to take in a full lungful of air.
Our next oppositon were the gun weilding security men guarding every exit and entrance as if their life depended on it. They could not understand that we wanted to get out of the Palace grounds and ordered us back in the direction we had come from. Upon approaching the fith guard we had finally been understood and against the flow of the sweaty mass of bodies we were able to get back to the street and headed straight for the direction of the bar.
The conversation that nursed our pints was that of unbelievable chaos, fear and relief. We both agreed that the Indian festival experience should be left to the Indians and us Westeners should stay the hell away. Well, from this one at least!
That evening we watched the torchlight procession on the TV screen in our hotel room. It was only slightly more organised than the mornings events with the finale fireworks melting away into the crowds seated below, having them run for cover and safety.
Our three days in Mysore were certainly unforgettable. The Palace was breathtaking when lit, three local men are especially remembered fondly, without their help we would not have seen or experienced all that was good in Mysore. But unfortunatley it was the chaos, confusion, desperation and stress of our festival experience and the total lack of organisation and severe incapability of the organisers that will be held most firm in our minds.
Comments
hello lis,
you do know how to cheer us westerners up on a sunday afternoon! nan has said so often how reading your tales really cheer her up and you have a wonderful way of describing the most fearful experiences so that somehow they still seem to have been enjoyable in oneway or another.
i spent yesterday pm with your mum and nick and kimberley instockport, nick was snookering and so far has done well there today. we enjoyed a meal and natter and glass or two and kim and i were able to stay over so a good time was had by all. mum is well and told us many tales of india. she certainly lived the experience.
i hopeyou are doing okay in africa and so look forward to readingabout it all a bit later.
take care lis,lots of love to you, see you next year.
viv and girls xxxx
thanks viv, lovely x11
lis, did i ever contribute to you being lost?