The largest Tibetan settlement outside Tibet, is a good 120 kms off Mysore, and simply sounded fascinating. A nagging throat ache was fast proving to be a dampener in my plans for the day, but my spirits perked up at the sight of a couple of Tibetan monks at the bus station, all set to leave for Kushal Nagar along with me.
Barely three hours later, I get off beside a sturdy road sign that proudly proclaims Byle Kuppe. An elderly woman from a local pan shop is quick to ward me off with a ‘No English, No Hindi’ warning. One of her customers however, turns out to be more forthcoming, and suggests that I should visit the Golden Temple for sure. The auto speeds past narrow streets where maroon and yellow colors have spread a magnificent hue. And then the landscape all around me, which is astonishingly Tibetan all the way. Ayub is my guide cum driver for the day, and quite abruptly stuns me with a few Malayalam queries that he confesses to have learned from Mallu roommates, while working somewhere in the Middle East. The Golden Temple expectedly turns out to be a visual extravaganza. Unbelievably gigantic idols of the Buddha greet the visitor inside the temple that mesmerizes you with a unique alloy of the best and worst of colors strewn together to create a divine arena of worship. The Tibetan children roaming around with tonsured heads and the most endearing of smiles, the noon prayer with the chanting of hymns and the loud bellowing of horns and drums, the incredible fragrance of incense and the seemingly forever bowed devotees, the delectable Tibetan food, the local school, court and hospital that have been dabbed in a singular Tibetan tang, the prayer hall inaugurated by none other than the Holy Dalai Lama and the monks riding about on motor bikes; you could be in Lhasa, for all you care. Ayub gracefully agrees to have lunch with me, and offers to take me up to Nisargadhama, a forest resort near the Tibetan settlement.
The resort visit over, back on the bus to Mysore, I feel my throat ache hassling me again; but I resign to a peaceful sleep with a deep sigh. I dream of a distant land where time stands still and raindrops hang around in the midst of the air. A canoe drifts about in a blue lake, the waters of which lie placid. As I jadedly open my eyes, I faintly sense the heady scent of an unknown charm that has undeniably cast a spell over me.
Wayfarers.
" Wayfarers
Thursday, May 18, 2006 ||
1:13 PM ||
Nayana
The searing passenger train from Bangalore to Mysore jadedly puffs and pants, and its a sweaty smelly afternoon. The crowded compartment makes me feel dizzy and I resignedly hang on to the heavy metal door, and lean out once in a while, frantically drawing in fresh breaths of the hot air that blows across my face. People everywhere; on the seats, on the shabby floor, on each others laps and up the bag shacks , its sheer dissonance at its worst. The Coffeewaala fervently tries to find some space between entangled legs and strewn about chappals. And then I lock horns with her eyes for the first time. Shes beautiful; must be around nineteen; standing hardly a foot away, her blue dupatta thrown over her head, covering up her hair. The next time our eyes flittingly cross their paths, I notice a faint defiance that amuses me; she starts babbling about in halting English into her cellphone, breaking into an infectious giggle every now and then. She leans against a passenger seat, turning away from me; and brazenly flirts with my attention as the dupatta falls off her shoulders revealing her curly, unwashed hair for a sec. I notice her unkempt nails that have been bitten off without a second thought and a trace of indifference that runs down along the nape of her neck. I fall in love with her this moment; and despise her with an equal passion, the next.
Ratna
Its a three hour journey that seems longer than usual, to Kushal Nagar from Mysore. At somewhere called Periyapatna I see her clumsily clambering up the creaking steps of the fidgety bus that trudges uphill like an old steed. Around twenty two, shes a tribal; her eyes are a rustic brown, the color of freshly unearthed earth that has fresh mulberry sprouts coming up on either side of the road. She holds on to the railing and refuses to take a seat even as many lie vacant. Her crouching stance retells a story so oft told; of timeless oppression and smothered hurt. She dares not look at anyone, and is fiercely repentant for her unseemly presence. She looks penitently lean to be alive, her collar bones jutting out from beneath her shoulders, her cheeks drawn into two appalling hollows. Shes fearful and apprehensive of the moment that she lives in, and timidly anticipates the next with even more dread.Wrapped around in a drab rag that had long lost its glimmer, shes unambiguously apologetic; for every breath, for being alive.
Mallika
Shes about twenty; dons a chunky khaki overcoat and is sans smiles. We are on a KSRTC express that should hopefully take me to Mysore from Byle Kuppe. Everything about her is pleasantly sober; be it her curious smirk or the listless shrug that she indulges in every now and then. Her fingers animatedly move over the ticket vending machine with a vengeance that finds fulfillment as she sloppily rips the paper strip off. She vigorously fishes around her pockets amidst the clanging of coins and looks exasperated when someone hands over a thousand rupee note. Shes charmingly dark, and pretty. Her earnest attempts to make the broken down DVD player work bite the dust, and she resigns to the hapless condition with a sheepish grin. She finally takes a seat beside the driver, staring at the long, seemingly endless highway that lies ahead. And then it drizzles and the smell of dampened earth brings about a smile on her face...
So I sent across an SMS to several of my friends that went somewhat like this: If I had 15 seconds left to live, and you could tell me one sentence, what would that be? Here are a few gems that I got as responses: