and a Sun with a beard
with thanks to Desai Somesh, Rita’s dad who took the photographs.
Three Princesses
Category: Life in India
It’s quite a different time
A week after Manjula’s birthday celebration (which I recognise is actually a bit weird) I’m in one of the strangest periods I’ve ever had in ten years living in Mysore. …. and I’ve had some seriously off times. Maybe more than in the previous fifty years (I’m now 64) before moving to India.
I’ve shared some of my most challenging times as they related to losing Manjula. This one is about engaging with the unforgiving unfathomable system.
I’ll have to get out of this particular dark tunnel where there is no light before I’m able to share much more.
….. other things, today.
I’m just back from yoga class where I’d hoped for a bit more distraction.
Next, Lucie and I go out for a walk. I completely failed her yesterday with just one short joint walk late in the day as I was dealing with a whirlpool of mayhem. Thankfully Sowbaghya was here to help and both Satish and Vasanth took her rides in their autos.
Nicely arranged with flowers and plants and on top of grinding stone from the village.
My new daily ritual is to reach into Manjula’s Claris (gift from a guest, maybe Christine) bag of coins for ten rupees to pay for this morning chai.
Thoughtful as ever Manjula provides my morning tea.
Celebrating Manjula
With friends (where are the women?) photo album, portrait, garden and cut out board.
Thank you to Karan, Anjali and with help from Aaditya and other students at CAVA Art College.
Did you spot the two women? Our commemoration will continue and more will visit this week.
Remembering Manjula.
It’s all go..
We use any and every opportunity to recognise and remember, what would have been Manjula’s 48th Birthday is extra special.
On monday afternoon, 23rd August (postponed from Saturday due to a curfew) we have open-house for friends to drop-in for a drink and cake or sweets, to visit the garden we’ve just planted, see Manjula’s two painted portraits and have a chat.
Just in case 
the party girls get everywhere
Yet another day in the park
Creating a garden for MAnjula
There’s been two sorts of reactions to the garden which might provide some insights into people’s view of life, more later.
Independence Weekend
I’m meandering locally.
These guys will have bought their flowers but you can begin to realise why people scour the area to nick flowers in the morning.
Shopping with a purpose
Don’t consider Tanuja and I to be sensible shoppers.
If our trip to the nursery is anything to go by, we’re the sort to go to the supermarket for staples and come back with puddings, the exotic rather than the plain, the icing while neglecting the cake.
We’ve got a great selection of flowers but our eyes were distracted by the shapely coloured and aromatic roses.
The problem is, as we knew, but didn’t care, they’re not a lot of use for the new Manjula’s garden in the park.
Why? you might ask.
Because people pick the flowers in the morning for their puja rituals.
So I thought I’d create a mini rose garden inside our gate.
I wish I’d done it for Manjula a few years ago as she would have loved it.
I started writing this post in a light-hearted jokiness way, only to realise this…..
Clearly these people haven’t any thought that the flowers are there for the enjoyment of all, rather than the selfish ritualistic needs of a few.
We’ve yet to plant out our flowers in Manjula’s garden and I seriously wonder if any of the flowers will survive, if I don’t employ a 24/7 guard.
It’s even worse with the roses in the next park. They are carefully nurtured by the gardeners but people go in and steal the whole plant.
We need some English old fashioned park signs ‘don’t pick the flowers.’
Another case for the missing dharma detective.
Mysore meandering again
Mysore’s magic continues to show itself in special ways.
lunch in Indra Paras Hotel where the owners and staff were happy to see me and surprised I’d been in Mysore all this time.
The hotel owner thought I’d put on weight, so I blamed the pandemic and not the cream cakes from Sapa. Might have to hit that on the head though.
MAnjula’ bench (no 4) at my favourite museum in the old House used by the British after the fourth war of Mysore in 1799. It’s-now complete with sleeping Buddha.
Our local shopkeeper wondered why I was so red, it’s hanging out in the park vaguely directing the garden creation, with very little actual work.
Another day in the park
Englishman and auto rickshaw drivers?
getting back into the vibe
today was a day of contrasts
I’d gone into the city for one of the endless visits to the city corporation (more of that later) then diverted to buy flowers in the Market. These will traditionally float in water in the brass Urli bowl beneath Madam’s photo and garland to go the photos themselves in each of our two halls (aka lounge or living room).
In the city were so many local women in sari’s going about their business, it reminded me of Manjula and how she connected me to so many aspects of life here. It brought a tear to my eye, not that that’s unusual.
I’d passed the iconic Lansdown building that has now been waiting years for a decision of whether they will renovate or demolish and rebuild. There’s no prize for guessing which the politicians in cahoots with the developers would prefer and why.
Then the day began to turn.
I went to a favourite ‘hotel’ (aka cafe) the Indra Paras, the owners son, manning the cash desk and the waiters all recognised and acknowledged me, creating a good feeling as I ate my Masala Dosa and Sev Dahi Potato Puri (crispy hollow puri balls, filled with a mix of crunchy, yoghurt, potato and a tinge of sweet) another favourite.
Then I squeezed past the guys selling clothing and material on the pavement and round the corner to the fruit salad, ice cream and traditional juices shop for my regular sarsaparilla and soda. Again the guys at the shop all asked how I’d been and wondered if I’d just come back. No I’ve been at home here in Mysore for two years, gifting me another warm vibe.
Then the usual, trying to find an auto with a working meter, after rejecting one and hanging about aimlessly by the roadside a guy hailed my as his friend stepped out from sharing the front bench seat.
The driver knew me, and Vasanth, and had taken many of our guests back home to the BnB. He’s friend couldn’t quite place me.
“It’s the cycle man”
So I pulled down my mask and he remembered me from nine years before when Vinay and I had started the cycle tours and he knew of our base at the Palace Plaza Hotel.
So a bittersweet mix, of missing Manjula and realising how she critically helped me adjust to my adopted city through re-connecting with people and sharing memories.
Next: More drinks to try are here
