The Backpacker

Part II continued....

An ancient car, once referred to as the Ambassador, whisked us away to the top. If I have forgotten to mention the Bull God made of black stone and the gallons of sugarcane juice, the man with the jingle-bells, flowers and the haggling over batteries, then blame it on the extreme exhaustion. Nevertheless, it was fun. FUN with a capital F.

Off we went in a cloud of smoke along with the dutiful Ganesha and the mother of the driver for company...and we paid the bill!! Anyway, one does not crib on occasions like these when there is much for the eys and mind to feast on. I have believed that nature can be partial and looking at the city spread out below from various vantage points on the hill, one is apt to believe in one's own theory. It was almost dream-like. I dont know how Ganesha felt, but for someone who has been in the thick of sand for sometime, trees, shrubs, monkeys, wayside footstuff, groaning motor cars, curious, grinning cops, the exhaustion, the altitude, the hustler bsutle, the cows and dogs, the smoke, jostling public, the conmen... everything holds an exotic appeal. It is a wonder how one's mother land suddenly changes the meaning of existence. Here, you realise, one LIVED!

Then just as suddenly we were facing a fierce warrior. (See pic). For Maya, it was love at first sight, the giant with his exotic mustache that would put the good Hercule Poirot to shame, a sword and a snake and adorned in a curious shade of green. I wondered why he was there. Anyway, our not to reason why!! We made our way around the temple street, with hawkers thrusting in our direction peacock feathers, bells, wooden boxes, CD's, statues of various Gods. Cows greeted us at every corner and monkeys did a jig on the roof tops.      

And the most beautiful sound caught my ears. "Om sri Lalitha Devi namaha....." 

I have been listenting to that particular chanting for sometime now. But to hear it right outside the temple on a hill top, surrounded by so many life species, with the wind blowing on our faces was magical. For a moment everything was alright with the world. With me, with Maya because her lips formed the words I could hardly utter (it being Sanskrit and all) and her eyes lit up. There was much power in those verses...A power to which I momentarily succumbed. I wished...I believed in that instant I could never fail...

To think, I have lived in these parts for so long and NEVER before attempted to climb a thousand steps in search of the temple on top. Leave the temple, any person with a grain of adventurous streak, would make a beeline for the Chamundi Hills,(Mysore) up the stone steps, past the lush vegetation, stop to look at the beautiful view of Mysore spread out below, bow to the black Bull God and finally, in a surge of passion, scamper up the last 400 or so steps to the flat mountian top that houses a nasty looking statue of Mahishasura with a sword and a snake in each hand, standing guard over the various temples spread around.

But I had none of that before. So when I finally made up my mind, (well, it was less of making up the mind and more of for want of a better alternative), I was not alone. Ha, my climbing partner was quite unlike any climbing partner I have had in the past. Maya, was, by no means a climber. But she had the grit. It was up or no where else. I am all for climbing mountains, but my mind and body are two different things. In the end, after trying to bribe an auto-driver into taking us up and failing because he was asking us the price of his ancient auto, we decided to walk.

It is remarkably easy for the body to follow when the mind is made up. One, two, three...on we went, more out of curiosity than with the actual intention of undertaking an exciting walk through sunlit steps and overhanging branches upon which huge spiders had spun their webs, bouncy monkeys chattering away without a care.

Whether it was a miracle or sheer coincidence I dont know, but after we met Ganesha, a tiny young fellow who materialised from nowhere suddenly, our walk became more bearable. Also, I seized the oppurtunity to brush up my Kannada, which, much to my relief and that if Ganesha, I am sure, had not suffered much in the hands of the ultra modern Middle East culture and much wandering about in foreign land. Ganesha hid his curiosity well. For a fellow not used to being around women accustomed to swearing at everything, he kept his head right and eyes fixed on the steps, and never for a moment letting his amusement get the better of him. He hid shock, surpirse, amusement and many other emotions well.

A handy fellow he was, making walking stick out of fallen branches, upon which I leaned heavily from time to time in order to catch my breath. Well, the less said of Maya's efforts in that quarter the better. I really didnt believe she would make it, and had she not, there was very little Ganesha and I could have done, but she was a chump alright. She plodded on like a good soldier and I kicked myself mentaly because, for all the climbing I had done in the past, I had let myself be taken over by the softness of the city life.

Then we sighted cucumbers. It must have been just as we were about to die at the top of 600 steps. There was a welcome party on the top. A policeman in Khaki uniform with a walkie-talkie had appeared on a motor bike and looked down upon us as we pushed ourself over the last few steps.

Nothing like cucumber sprinkeld with chilli and salt to revive a dying man, I say.

(Part II continued)

There was a time when I could not rightly spell ‘Onam,’ despite partly belonging to that part of India which celebrated Onam with great enthusiasm. Onam was always “the others’ festival. As far as I was concerned, festivals of any kind celebrated in whichever part of India, were not for me. Not even Christmas, or Diwali or Ramzan. My participation was restricted to partaking of any goodies that came my way or simply wishing friends. I stayed clear from celebrations, merry-making, cake cutting, sweet distributions, staying up late, busting balloons, or reveling in colours.

It was quite a task to change my schedule to fit in anything that I did not like. As far as Onam went, all I knew about it was the fabulous discounts that every shop in Kerala offered, that people visited family and friends and ate several varieties of vegetable preparations and sweets.  

I remember how the people of Kerala went about with a smile on their faces, in honour of the upcoming Onam. They bought flowers, and discussed menus. Children looked forward to getting new clothes or small gifts. The general air of light-hearted spirit was felt.

It was a time when I could not even spell Onam. Whenever I tried, it was all wrong. I separated the ‘O’ from the ‘nam’ and while the people of Kerala could not understand what I was trying to say, I am sure a Britisher would have found it easy to understand. He would interpret is as my heartfelt sympathy for a country that lost many lives in war…Oh, ‘Nam! Sigh.

I wondered how the Malayalees put so much of meaning in those four words. There was so much ‘metal’ in the ‘N’ that sort of sealed the essence of the season. Their tongue easily flowed over the four harmless words, not hesitating anywhere in their short journey beginning with a vowel and ending with a word so easily uttered even with the mouth closed. I was always shocked at how much they could pack into a simple four lettered word. Every one of them spelt it the same way. It must be something to do with the festival itself I guess, that no one digresses from the pronunciation or the commitment to the occasion.

This is the first time I am taking ‘Onam’ into my hands. I don’t see it as a way of connecting to half my roots (the other half is free-floating), but as a way of bonding. There is much pleasure in hunting for flowers in a city that has sprung out of sands, the smell of Indian flowers mixed with the spirit of the occasion, the lamps, little thoughtful gifts for the young, the idea of arranging flowers, wishing all of those away from home, missing home…I guess today I know a lot more of Onam than I did before. The pronunciation is still nothing to boast of, but the joy is endless. The hope for a new season grows stronger.

I wish, I only wish, next year, I will be able to get the “N” right!