Mysore Matinee

- Aparna Pednekar

My five-hour road trip from Bengaluru to Mysuru is a hoot. Thanks to Honey Singh, Badshah, and a gent called Ikka, who raps so:Tere naam ka peg bana liya DJ se sad song lagwa liya... All I need is, daaru, DJ, dance floor Daaru, DJ, dance floor

My driver for the day, Manohar—a clean-shaven, decent South Indian boy—loves Punjabi rap. This makes me wonder if Mysoreans lead double lives—as the sweet, cultured populace from the memories of my childhood travels and as newly debauched daaru, DJ, dance floor-fiends. Before observing the evolving Mysoorinavaru, there’s the city itself that I appear to have nurtured faulty memories of. The Mysuru I recall had the giant statue of the buffalo demon, Mahishasura, in the middle of the city. I still have a picture of my sister and me posing with masala cucumbers at the feet of that looming demon with a snake in one hand and a sword in the other. I am determined to click a ‘same location, 20 years later’ selfie, but it turns out that the idol of Mahishasura is, and always was, atop Chamundi Hills, 13 km from the city centre.

WILD THINGS

I head there immediately, a bad decision on a Saturday. The hill is packed with local tourists. There’s a motorable road going right up to the Dravidian-style temple, but we park on the other side of the hill, in a throng of humanity that is trudging up the tougher route—1,000 steps—to pay their respects to Mahishasuramardini, the avatar of Parvati who killed Mahishasura, thus giving the city its name and a reason to celebrate the 10-day nada habba or Dasara festival.