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Madras Central Station train platform, 6:30 am, awaiting departure for Bangalore, human excrement on tracks, flower salesman with bright pannier of jasmine passing. Seats of author’s car but 20 per cent filled, a group of dark-brown-faced pre-teen girls regarding him from window, he seated on stitched burlap bale, marked “INDIA” (black), “Delhi” (mauve). Another platform rumbling with exit activity. Flower seller passes again. North Indian women arrive for departure, tops of saris over their heads. A middle-aged man in black plastic glasses, his 8-year-old daughter in western dress holding his hand. The pre-teens lean languorously against the railing of their window, all 3 gorgeous, all 3 with jasmine in their hair.
Platform traffic on the increase. The characterization of Sita might well serve to illustrate the poet’s genius for dramatic depiction. Single men in white shirts, gray pants, briefcases, carry-all bags. Introduced to the reader as a charming maiden on the eve of marriage. Before author, marked in red on white: “FRAGILE / HANDLE WITH / CARE.” Sita matures in dignity and power, as she moves from crisis to crisis. More middle-class, nondescript passengers boarding: The transformation is gradual. A man in white pants, white shirt, bald head. But steady and unmistakable. A family of 4, the baby, its head shaven, a gold earring through right earlobe. The wedding is described thus:
A mother in pink choli, emerald sari, her daughter in yellow kurta, blue pajama. “In robes of silk and jewels rare she entered.” Two Malwari women pass. “Led by Janaka.” Their faces set in ancient fatalism. “The wide-eyed Sita dazzled.” An old man with a white handlebar moustache. “Like lightning in the sky.” A short, heavy-set woman, pleasant of mien, waddles past in a new blue silk sari. “Her head was gently bent.” A red-shirted porter, 2 suitcases atop his head. “Lo! the charming bride.”
Passengers, second-class compartment, getting settled, father in large beige glasses organizing seat assignments. “Face to face with Rama.” Apparent tones of Kannada ─ not Tamil, certainly not an Aryan language. “By the holy fire she stood.” The aunt, in green sari, flesh-folds showing at midriff, has the ends of all 10 fingers painted with the dark brown dye. She and her eldest nephew, seated across aisle in author’s compartment, discuss the desirability of getting the overhead fans to go on. “The father spoke to Rama, Kausalya’s son so dear:” The 3 dark-faced girls with jasmine in their hair. “‘Place thy hand on hers!’” Settle into their own space. “‘And take to wife.’” Along with the grandfather who accompanies them. “‘This my daughter.’” He now reading a Tamil-language paper without opening it.
“‘God be with thee.’” The 2 Kannarese youths opposite author inspect him, their older sister arriving in aisle to begin the organization of ticket-holding. “‘She shall tread with thee the path of virtue true.’” The father now standing outside on the platform. Train on adjacent track begins its departure. Much trading of places among boys in Kannarese family, as daughter takes seat next to mother. “‘She is of rare and noble nature.’” Seat opposite author now occupied by 12-year-old boy, 3-year-old baby, 9-year-old girl in vertically half-red, half-yellow kurta pajama, 5-year-old girl. “‘Which will make her worship whom she weds.’” As author writes, all the children up and off. “‘Verily.’” Now 2 new figures appear, 6-year-old cousins, from a family group that appears to number about a dozen. “‘She shall follow thee like a shadow.’” Finally. “‘Ever.’” A single, unrelated man appears with daughter. “‘My Sita true.’” And son, to occupy seat opposite.
“So he said.” First track vacant. “And sprinkled the holy water.” View across it to bare gray platform, bare white wall, scuffed gray to height of 4 feet. “Those in the hall.” Train horn sounds to signal 7:10 departure. “Men of learning and nobility alike.” Coach jolts slightly, passengers taking seats. “All together chimed:” Train begins its Bangaloreward motion. “‘May it be thus.’” Through stench of tracks, subdued conversation. “And blessed the couple.” Past group of red-shirted, red-turbaned porters seated on platform. (Quotations in italics from K.S. Srinivasan.) Past last of blue-painted shed-supporting poles. (Valmiki: the Father of Indian Literature.) Past more congregated porters seated atop wooden crates. (“Sita” ─ Balakanda 33.) Past piles of burlap-encased cargo. (Rasika Trust Publication.) Out past end of platform. (New Delhi.) Past warehouse with more stacked cargo. (“The Rasika Trust invites active participation and support.”) Past “MOTOR CUM PARCEL VAN.” (“Of likeminded persons in India.”) One of many parked on siding. (“And abroad.”)
As train begins to pick up speed, writing begins to get more difficult. The clanking, jousting rhythms increase. Janaka’s pointed reference is to the qualities of the bride. Then inexplicably subside. It becomes meaningful. The horn sounds again. As the story develops. With a melancholy resonance. We pass over canal, a herd of water buffalo visible beside it, their backs bathed in the early sunlight. “A.C. SLEEPER CAR,” read the yellow letters of maroon passenger car on siding. Valmiki’s focus. A commuter train entering station yard passes us, packed with passengers. Is on personality. “WELCOME TO MADRAS,” says the sign on a large shed. Not appearance. Accompanied by furniture ad. The rhythm now picks up in earnest, accompanied by repeated moans of the horn. We are passing through Basin Bridge Junction. On out into Northeastern Madras outskirts, view again obscured by entering commuter train. Trackside boulevard traffic becomes visible; we pass a large field with a dozen men squatting to defecate.
The first crisis in Sita’s life occurs soon after marriage. Suburban pause along still-unawakened avenue, stores unopened, traffic sparse. When Rama is banished from Ayodhya. Trackside workmen shoveling rocks to adjust rail bed, most in bathing-suit-sized trunks only. Instinctively. All sweating in the sun already. She acts with maturity. “Peranaur” entrance, workers leaning with one hand on shovels as train passes. In deciding. A line of vacant pink-painted concrete benches, as train moves slowly through station. To go back with him to the forest. Over a high wall the affluent structures of middle-class dwellings, office buildings, people emerging into the streets. Though he advises her to stay back. A man on a bike, 3 mattresses folded on his rear fender: Kaikeyi’s bond was only for Rama’s exit. Beige, dark green, emerald. Yet Sita voluntarily seeks to go. A passage into trackside shanty town, concrete houses giving way to vacant brick structures, they in turn to thatched huts. To obtain her husband’s consent. An opening up onto more spacious expanses, lower-middle-class houses, stuccoed, painted pale yellow. She uses all the devices known to women. Ocher, green with rust-colored trim. Including taunt: Separated by fields.
“‘If thou wilt not let me go with thee.’” Then a passage of more tightly clustered dwellings. “‘While thou must needs depart.’” We are picking up speed and hurtle through a station, leaving it quickly behind for a grove of palm trees, a village, a herd of buffalo. “‘I shall in grief seek my end in fire.’” Things are becoming more rural, as we pass under the last of the urban overpasses. “‘Or poison.’” A large white hammer-and-sickle, outlined in pale red, emblazoned on its brick surface. “‘Or waters deep.’” On out into the plain, where villages more distant from the tracks can be seen whole, analyzed by dwelling type.
“Trembling, Sita said in feigned anger, mixt with love, ‘What will father, King of Mithila, think of thee, Rama, effeminate spouse of mine in man-like form? Why are thou afraid, or in grief, that thou shouldst thus desert thy wife so constant? Fruits and leaves, or roots of plants, plentiful or less, that which thou shalt bring with thine own hands shall be my nectar true. I shall not think of home, nor father, nor mother, sure. O, let me go with thee.’”
Jolarpettai Junction. “He took her in his arms.” Two-thirds of the way to Bangalore. “And said these words of cheer:” For 2 hours we have been traveling on a gradual incline, mountain emerging first as rock outcrop, then as hillocks, hills, small ridges, only to decline again into a flat plain. “‘I shall not want Heaven if that must come through grief of thine. Thou art born for forest-life; thou shalt go with me, my dear, like fame that goes with noble person’” (Ayodhyakanda 24). The landscape, incredibly dry at the outset, begins to show signs of irrigation: rice growth, sorghum (pulse); if not grazing land, land where cattle and goats are grazing.
But she is also naïve. Village life seems rather grim, though now that we have begun to approach higher terrain, all-thatch huts give way to tiled huts, purely rural occupation to semi-industrial. While the coarse flaxen cloth is handed to her, as they prepare to go. At the three-quarter point in the journey, the activity of food sellers, up and down aisle (we have stopped at a station), along the platforms, along the track. She asks Rama in wonder: A sign on the platform reads, “ONE VEGETARIAN MEAL ─ 7 RUPEES.” “‘How do the Rishis wear this my lord?’” A railway workers’ poster: And yet there is nobility in this. “We Demand The Catering Management of Southern Railway:” Her own suffering causes her. (Followed by a series of demands.) To reflect on that of others.
The children of the large family that occupies the bank of seats with us, having fallen into quarreling, are relieved by the stop, appeased by fresh bananas, water, more small treats. The 3 gorgeous Tamilian girls remain unrumpled, in their yellow, light blue, rust-and-violet kurta-pajamas, only the jasmines in their tightened, braided, perfect hair beginning to wilt. At 11:00 o’clock the light is bright and diffused, but the coach’s interior is still only moderately warm. A breeze flutters through the leaves of passing trees, broad-leafed.
It is this naïveté that makes her seek the golden deer, ignoring Lakshmana’s advice. Kuppan, 11:30 am, first signs of Karnataka landscape in terraces, as we continue to climb, huge boulders ejected from nowhere. It is naïveté turned to fear that makes her mistake Maricha’s voice for that of Rama. Sliced, precariously perched. (She should know!) Occupants of coach beginning to tire, baby crying, at mother’s breast. The most gorgeous of the 3 Tamilian girls strikes seductive poses, elbow on window frame, gold bangles gleaming, long fingers laid against the top of shapely head. And it is naïveté turned to rage that prompts her to say harsh things to Lakshmana (she even accuses him of incestuous intentions) and goad him to help Rama, rendering herself, in the process, helpless. Malformed urchin up and down aisle asking for change. For Ravana is round the corner. Well-to-do Hindu, diamond ring, arms clasped against chest, straightens top of leisure suit combination.
Out-window view of plain opening up in pale greens, cloud-shadow-dappled, aquamarine cacti, gently rolling hills denuded of all but their rocky outcrop. Random distribution of a wide variety of succulent and deciduous growth. The middle of the 3 Tamilian girls, a double skein of pearls about her neck, in animated discourse, illustrate a point with her hand, its palm turned upwards, downwards, upwards again. She is abducted. All 3 girls. And held captive. Have recently helped one another to arrange their metallic dots at the centers of their foreheads. Then, something remarkable happens to her. The youngest of the 3, 11 perhaps, looks pensively at author as he writes. The woman who trembled at the very sight of Ravana in Dandakaranya becomes a picture of courage in Lanka. Beautiful mother in light blue/dark blue sari succeeds at putting her baby to sleep, nursing her at both breasts. The prison itself serves to set her free from fear. A large pond ─ first such sighting ─ makes its appearance. She says to Ravana: Followed by another. “‘This body I do not seek to save.’” Followed by many small ponds. “‘Nor this life.’” An overflowing well. Nine-year-old girl across from author. It is honor which is at stake for her. Eyes puffy with innocent eagerness. Ravana’s advances. She dozes. And her retort. Head against painted nails. Reveal character.
Ravana: “‘Though you tremble, you’ve stolen my heart, like a vulture diving for the snake.’” Bangalore approach, 1:00 pm. “‘In my clan, we do but seek delight in arms of others’ wives.’” Temperature remaining constant as we continue to ascend. “‘It is common to take them home by force.’” Though we appear to have reached a plateau about an hour ago. “‘But you, I will not touch.’” Compartment mates in their elaborate preparations for departure. “‘Till your heart relents.’” Barred windows, peanut-shell-strewn floor, banana peel making our zone ever more resemble a monkey cage. “‘Do consent.’” On the outskirts of town an abundance of brick kilns, much larger than those seen in the countryside. “‘Then will passion flow.’” Before long. “‘Gushing like a spring.’” Long sheds in tiled roofs, under which the bricks are stored.
“‘You’re a gem of a woman.’” Industrial development commences: “‘Come, put on the silks and gold.’” Factories of corrugated metal, high concrete walls surrounding the sites. “‘Don’t be thus.’” “SRI KRISHNA EQUIPMENTS MANAGEMENT AND ENGINEERS.” The railway tracks widen. “‘How can you be dull and distrait in my palace, here?’” A wall with a faded hammer-and-sickle. A large pond, water buffalo bathing. “‘Do not waste your youth.’” A housing development about to get under way, stones for paving deposited at the curbsides of its empty streets. “‘Like the waters of the flood.’” A large industrial plant, carport for many vehicles in front. “‘It flows away.’” A North Indian woman in olive-colored sari. “‘Never to return.’” Pulls it over head in preparation to descend. “‘Be my wife, I beg of you.’” A water tower, another enormous 3-story plant, train spurs leading into it. “‘Give up this grief.’” The rail yards widen farther, as passengers crowd the aisles for exit. “‘Be the Chief among my queens.’” Indianoil storage tanks on a more distant horizon. “‘My wives, who hail from regions far and wide.’” The build-up of the city commences. “‘Shall become your maids.’” We are joined by a residential street parallel with the tracks: “‘In wealth or valor, might or magic.’” Middle-class, upper-middle-class houses. “‘Rama is no match for me.’” A slum of tents. “‘I wonder if he lives, feeble fellow.’” Multi-story buildings begin to appear. “‘Thrown out of home and kingdom!’” A television tower.
The North Indian woman. Sita: Holding one edge of her sari as a veil, looks from within its envelope at author. “‘I am not the kind for you.’” Then. “‘I am another’s wife, wedded and true.’” Recognizing his observation activity, modestly turns her back. The faces of the other passengers reflect a mild anxiety as well as a warm anticipation concerning the end of their journey. “‘Think of Dharma and set your conduct right.’” The tracks fall to below street level. “‘Not content with his own woman.’” More scenes of construction, roadwork, railway repair in this thriving metropolis. “‘Man is lured by lust.’” Ranks of middle-class apartment buildings, brightly colored wash hung out to dry. “‘Led by senses.’” The gorgeous mother. “‘Lost.’” Foot pulled up on seat. “‘Alien women.’” Hair now combed and held by a blue rubber band. “‘Do but lead to ruin.’” Baby still in her lap.
“‘O, tell me, are there no men of goodness here?’” A young man about to descend, stands in the aisle, an expensive travel bag in hand, an embroidered elephant on its facing. “‘Or is it that you do not heed their counsel?’” The North Indian woman, now visible through window, has descended and stands, in warm conversation, on the platform. “‘Thus I see your mind perverse.’” Family, preparing to leave, all in a lively group conversation. “‘It sneaks beyond the custom’s pale.’” We have made our last stop before Bangalore Center. On the opposite platform a man sits with his 4-year-old son, the latter in red tennis shoes, the former twirling a towel for relief from the rather mild heat. We are moving again.
“‘Status and wealth I do not want.’” The magenta-and-yellow-dressed 9-year-old Kannarese girl stands at author’s elbow. “‘As light to the sun so am I to Rama.’” Neither smiling. “‘Not apart.’” Nor not smiling. “‘Lead me to him.’” The train floats slowly stationward. Fancy residential construction in progress. Clean, well-paved streets, free of pedestrian traffic. We are heading downstreet. “‘Make friends with him.’” We are coasting into the station “‘If you care to live.’” To the sound of our own horn. (Sundarakanda 18, 19.)
Onward progress, Bangalore to Mysore, by state bus: remarkably efficient by Madrasi standards. We (Jacob and I) wait in line for tickets, are given a bus number, board and take our reserved seats. No standing allowed. No live animals, bags of rice; no farm implements as this largely middle-class clientele assembles for the non-stop run. Conducted by driver in clean, freshly-painted bus without the usual nightmare games of “chicken.” The Kannarese scrutinize the visitors. They are not nearly as warm as Tamilians, but they respond politely and intelligently to requests for information.
Once arrived in Mysore, past the touts, in and out of one or 2 rickshaws ─ drivers looking to scalp the tourists ─ we come across an almost scholarly, honest man, who takes us first to the post office ─ to verify the pin code of our address, then to the grounds of the university, where he thinks he knows our destination ─ an Institute of Indian Studies ─ then, under the direction of their personnel, on to Dhavanyaloka, where we are deposited and received.
On the porch of the Center’s guest house author now sits, in the cool of an evening breeze, the voices of children issuing from a nearby school or church as they practice hymns. Through tall trees a plain opens up to the east; a view all the way to a lovely mountain top. The sky is subtly vague, with grayish blues and pink diaphanous clouds. A gentle wind rustles the branches of a palm. Locusts buzz. A single truck lumbers past on the road overhead.
Kesava Temple outing, rural Somnathpur. State Bus Stand, Mysore, 11:00 am, platform #7 arrival, prospective passengers rushing forward, as bus turns, preparatory to backing in, 2 already climbing through windows. A crowd of 4, 5, 6 dozen women, many with babies, small children, pre-teens, forming a swarm at the only portal, author, son, joining them, pushing, shoving, along with everyone else.
“The construction of this temple was caused by Somanatha, a high officer under Hoysala King Narasimha in 1254-1291 AD.” Seats taken, aisles only moderately full, remaining seats saved for members of families still boarding. “It is a splendid example of the Hoysala Style.” Several banks designed for 3 occupied by 6. Conductor moves down aisle of yet-to-depart vehicle. “It stands on a raised platform in the center of a spacious enclosure having 64 cells.” At bus’s front, over driver’s head, an elaborate, single-bulb-illuminated display of the gods, wreathed in fresh jasmine: Sita, Lakshmi, Venkateswara. Aisle-standing passengers include old men and women, though most of the elderly hold seats ceded by younger passengers. Author, companion, in process of being inspected by swarthy, composed, polite faces. An air of expectancy pervades the quieted vehicle.
To author’s left, a 10-year-old in double pigtails, one festooned with floral braid, grandmother, seated alongside, inducing her to add a second skein to the second pigtail. She emphatically declines ─ in favor of watching author. Stares steadfastly as he writes, as he glances up/returns to notebook page. Her light blue, deeply saturated frock is stitched with black patches, in a central embroidery with a red bud in turn at its center. At last grandmother convinces her that she needs more work on her pigtails. But the little girl changes her mind, continues to regard author, who in turn studies the lovely pale cerulean spot affixed to her forehead.
Mysore to Banur, Banur transfer ─ to Somnathpur bus, second leg of the journey negotiated standing, pressed between 2 sensuous girls, author doing what he can to avoid physical contact. Engages them, however, in conversation, inquiring a dozen times as to whereabouts of Somnathpur stop (the town itself reportedly some distance from the road). Village signs are all in Kannada. Arrival indicated, author and son descend into what looks to be a small village (the town itself yet fully to appear). At roadside plaza the noise-level high: Brahma bull lowing, kids yammering, layabouts buzzing with conversation. Onward to the temple itself.
“This three-celled (trikutachala) structure consists of three garbhagrihas, three antaralas and a navaranga” (Tourist Service of India plaque). “It also has a mahadwara standing on the east. The images of Venugopala, Kesava and Janardhana are installed in the cells, which are surmounted by elegantly carved sikharas.”
Author seated, temple forecourt, stone rim surrounding huge tree, 2 local children observing him as he writes. Court sparsely occupied by Indian tourists, woman attendant from washroom, her daughter, latter striding across the square, preceded by black goat, to check out the action. A stately dog sits on the sandy floor, motionless. Raju (8th standard), Savithra (7th), now begin to interview author, S. looking into notebook to correct author’s spelling of her name. His name sought, spoken, inscribed in notebook, spelling revealed. Shoba, Manju arrival, Shoba in yellow dress, Manju in green shirt, matching skirt. All in attendance again inquire after author’s name. Written form once more displayed. Suddenly a conversation concerning nomenclature breaks out among them. Each vies with another to invent for him or her the most outrageous, comical nickname. Interchange far too lively for Kannada-less author.
Manjunat, attracted by lively discourse, merges into the conversation. Elder arrives, asks for money. Author declines. Manjunat, having asked what languages author speaks, is amazed to find that none are Indian. Inquires after name of son, who is off inspecting temple’s entranceway. Shoba, Manju, Raja leave to fetch him. “Jacob,” they say, “Come!” Savithra alone remains, looking again into author’s notebook. Elder, having offered author a 10-paise coin (declined), takes seat to regard him. Throng assembled, Jacob taking their picture. More kids arrive for photo opportunity. Seated, standing, all have their pictures taken several times.
“The basement of the outer wall is highly ornamented with friezes of elephants, scrolls, epic and puranic scenes, small images with intervening turrets and columns, figures in between.” Author to temple interior, seated on portico. “Numbers of gods and goddesses adorn the walls.” View past attendant’s desk to another seated guard, in conversation with older peasant woman in yellow, purple, rust and blue. View of the temple itself, its bare courtyard, highly ornamented facades, passing in front of them: the colorful figures of half a dozen Kannarese women, trailed by their 6-, 4-, 2-year-old children. Together all enter the inner sanctum. Into the empty courtyard steps an Indian father, white longhi, electric-blue shirt, accompanied by his 2 sons. Lightly fluttering leaves overarch the gray-beige outer court, its devotional cells elaborated with sculpture. “The lathe-turned pillars and delicately carved, sixteen different kinds of ceiling, are characteristic features of Hoysala art.” Suddenly 2 boys from the earlier interview reappear. “Several of the sculptor’s names are known.” Joined by 2 of the girls, each in her westernized dress. “Mallithamma, Masanathamma, Chameya, Bhameya, their names carved on the pedestals of the images.” From the inner sanctum re-emerge the colorful women. Interview kids now also exit, leaving behind only the colorless stones of the temple. “It is observed that Mallithamma has not only carved the maximum number of images but also the northern sikhara and the Janardhana cell.” A fly buzzes, settling on author’s nose; 2 birds chirp; a tall-legged ant races across the stone floor.
Tourist Home lunchroom scene, Somnathpur. “The following extracts entered in the Consultation book of January 1679, respecting the army of Mysore.” Three Indians, a moment ago ironically commentating double blond entrance. “Will suffice to indicate the savage character of Native warfare:” Quickly cooled down by author activity-initiation. “Their custom is not to kill.” All 3 stare, increasingly aware of their weakened position. “But to cut off the noses with the upper lips of their enemies.” Seated at table, yellow towel-like sash, thrown over shoulder, one tries to discuss the problem away. “For which they carry an instrument and do it very dexterously.” Without success. “They carry off all the noses and lips they despoyle their enemys of.” Leaning back on one hand, he talks to a formerly sneering colleague, whose cigarette has nearly burnt down to his fingers. “For which the Naik of Mysore rewards them according to the number.” The third of the colleagues stares out even more sullenly. “The reward is the greater, if the beard appear upon the upper lip.” In hopes that his attitude will cause author to stop writing. “This way of warfare is very terrible to all that these people engage with, so that none care to meddle with them.” Now he wipes his forehead with an ineffectual hand. “For though they kill them not outright.” Touches his nose with 2 fingers. “Yet they die by lingering deaths.” Strokes his upper lip. “If they make not themselves away sooner” (quotations from J. Talboys Wheeler).
6:00 pm Dhavanyaloka bungalow porch. “Jawaharlal Nehru Memorial Fund and Dhavanyaloka Conference on Nehru and the Youth of Today.” A black-jacketed motorcyclist. “B.K. Nehru, Jawaharlal Nehru Memorial Fund.” White besaried girl seated behind him. “C.D. Narasimhaiah, the Literary Criterion Center.” Making his way slowly across plain-like field that stretches above horizon between author’s vantage and buildings nestled in dell.
“Dear Vice-Chancellor/Director.” Beyond: “While the nation is celebrating this year’s Jawaharlal Nehru Centenary.” The green-clad form of gray Chamundeswari Hill. “We thought our young people from select universities and institutes should acquaint themselves with his major writings and speeches.” A cyclist. “This should enable students to shape their views on topics of wide-ranging interest.” Head bound in white turban. “Both to the country and humanity at large.” Progresses much more slowly from east to west, also negotiating the bumpy path. “Accordingly.” Two crows, separated from one another by 25 yards, overfly author, diagonally crossing his field of view from southwest to northeast. “We request you to nominate two outstanding students from your University/Institute.
“SUGGESTED TOPICS OF PAPER WRITING:” He sits immediately ─ having moved his chair forward ─ at the edge of a culvert, on whose other side a barb wire fence. “(1) What is your view of the value of An Autobiography?” The air is perfectly still. The buzz of locust constant, a whippoorwill makes its contralto melody, punctuated randomly by a crow’s signal. “(2) Early Letters from a Father to His Daughter. Would you recommend them to your younger brothers and sisters?” Moped now up grass, once, twice, to make its tedious way across the plain, passed in mid-course by an auto-rickshaw. “(3) Nehru’s portraits of the famous Men of History:” Both shadowed by the shape of the mountain. “Buddha, Asoka, Sankara; Alexander, Napoleon, Chengis Khan; Akbar, Aurangazeb, Ramanujan.” Which gracefully meanders to its summit, culminating in a pale water tower. “(4) The Discovery of India.” The light, in a flush that precedes its going, catches distinctly but mellowly the mocha-, coffee-, cream-, and milk-colored buildings in the valley. “Do you think, after reading the book, that Jawaharlal Nehru has truly discovered India, for himself, for you and for everyone?” Voices at the western edge of the scene. “Or are you prompted to discover it for yourself?” The drone of the 2 cycles to the east. “How would you proceed to do so?” Whippoorwill. “(5) Remaining books: Unity of India and Other Essays.” The more delicate chirps of smaller birds. “A Bunch of Old Letters.” A small truck’s horn on road above.
“Mysore, which literally means ‘Buffalo Village,’ gets its name from the legendary demon Mahishi, vanquished by the goddess Chamundeswari, who now dwells on the hill of that name ─ the temple tower, a King’s gesture to the goddess” (C.D. Narasimaiah, “Mysore: Where Fabled Past Is Lived Present”). Chamundi Hill steps-commencement early-morning sit, village termination. “If the hill radiates the primordial Energy grounded in spiritual principle, the quick-witted Tamilian from Madras thinks the people who live at the foot of the hill are dense like buffalo!” Well with electric pump, 3 kids waiting turns to fill water vessels. A 12-year-old girl, pale violet top, green floral-patterned skirt, mounts one ceramic jug atop her head, takes second on her hip, begins her graceful downhill sway, gathering up her skirt with free hand. A gorgeous 11-year-old looks deeply at author from across the way, her red floral skirt wrapped about her thin legs, her black braid pulled to one side, as she waits for her larger basin to fill. Silver anklets catch the sun as she crosses her feet, swings them together.
Motorcyclists, climbing the hill, arrive at the base of the steps, as early-morning affluent walkers pass them, descending in their tennis shoes. A priest in saffron top, saffron longhi, passing downhill, takes opportunity to ask alms of author, who declines in favor of present activity. Priest desists in his activity to order a cup of tea. The little girls’ 13-year-old brother, having filled his vessel, takes it indoors ─ a brick and stucco hut, thatched in long, brown palm branches. Alongside the way a brown dog, lounging, looks up at author. Priest departs, his locks mangy; enters courtyard of water well, deposits a dirty cup. Another dog, white and beige, makes her determined trot downhill, as a glorious girl of 16, maroon and turquoise shift, smiles broadly at author as she mounts the road, a stick carried on her shoulder. The woman of the water well house has emerged in pink sari, yellow choli, to wash her hands and feet.
Girl in violet top, green floral-patterned skirt, returns with ceramic vessels empty. “Small wonder it is Mysore’s most inescapable landmark.” Atop her head is the woven cloth used to support her burden. “It is the first thing that strikes the visitor’s eye.” Forced to wait in line behind the woman of the house. “Once in the City.” She discards the cloth, lets it unravel, drops it atop one of the vessels. “Gives him a sense of spiritual well-being.” With the younger girl in red dress she moves off together to take a seat on the gray/maroon benches which formally front a white house in blue enamel trim. “When he leaves, the hill is the last to recede from sight.” Two cows saunter by as author writes, passing within 3 or 4 feet. “He comes a casual tourist, returns a pilgrim.” They are really but calves. “Under the spell of its temperate climate.” Now their mother arrives to discipline them, batting one with her head. “The rather slow pace of life.” The woman of the house continues her chores, filling vessel after vessel with water. “And the gentle people.” Now she washes a piece of burlap. “Despite the professional man’s intrigues and pettinesses in office.” Having finished this stint, she summons violet-topped 13-year-old to fill her vessels. “Held in its thrall.” Quickly the girl leaps to station, placing one of them on her knee. “He invents excuses to extend his stay.” Meanwhile, the elder of the house in white longhi, white shirt, takes his station to survey the morning’s activity. “And may well ask you to look out for a house or building site for his retirement.” Second vessel filled, he steps to the spigot, washes both feet, both legs from knees downward, rinses his face, hawks and spits. “But you find its value goes up or comes down by how well or ill you can view the hill from there.” The girl in violet top hoists vessel atop head, takes second under arm, moves on down the road.
Two hundred of 1000 steps up Chamundi Hill, Mysore outlook: race-course view, Ruisdael rain-laden clouds over green plain, near-ground sunlit, mid-ground dappled, light breaking through onto white buildings of central residential district, steeples of Gothic cathedral reading in beige-gray silhouette. “The City has grown from a mere 50,000 of 100 years ago to more than half a million ─ or is it a million? ─ today, of whom the majority are Hindus, with 100,000 Muslims and their numerous mosques scattered over all the city and a considerable number of Christians who have raised a Gothic church for St. Philomena.” Race course in variegated brown and green, touches of freshly-watered grass in light green, all utterly quiet, tiny reviewing stand, its double observation towers poised in the stillness of nature. “Ethnic groups have seldom witnessed friction; the harmony in which they live is the envy of larger metropolitan centers.
As author writes, 2 kurta-pajamaed girls, one 16, one 14, flap down the granite steps in oversized gym shoes, their funny father, in Nehru cap, longhi held with both hands, pausing behind author to observe him, as author observes his daughters. Next, 2 Hindi girls: “Three-hundred,” says one. “Seven-hundred more to go,” says the second to her brother, who follows closely behind, as all 3 pause to sit for a moment. An aged priest makes his zig-zag way up the steps, forehead almost completely covered with ash.
Beneath, on the plain, the plaintive bellowing of a single cow. Traffic sounds, a subdued music of horns, begins to reach the auditor from Mysore. On the rocks facing the stairway, graffiti in English letters; a cactus, lodged in among the boulders; the red and white stripes that indicate the confines of temple precinct. Nestled at the edge of the middle distance: towers, archways and the gopuram of the Maharaja’s palace.
On-steps, step-side detritus: at number 572, a cowpie; at 584, a “Tree-Top” soft drink package; at 585, a skein of jasmine. At 593, the torn-out page of a textbook:
All other Southern forces surrendered on May 26th, 1865. After four years and 44 days the American Civil War came to an end. It took a very heavy toll in lakhs of innocent lives, brought suffering to millions and resulted in the devastation of the country, particularly the South. The greatest price U.S.A. had to pay for the abolition of slavery and the preservation of the Union was the life of one of the greatest of its presidents and one of the greatest of mankind.
Lincoln’s body was carried from one end of the country to the other. People everywhere came in thousands to express their homage to the great departed leader. He was laid to rest at Springfield, his home for many years. In the words of Stanton, his bitter critic but later his greatest admirer, “Now he belongs to the ages.”
To go through Lincoln’s biography will be a valuable education for the youngsters of any country. His life provides a model for the cultivation of many virtues.
At step 629: page from a textbook in Kannada explaining the metric system. At 675: the 10 of clubs, torn in half. At 689: a “Wills” Navy-Cut filter-tipped cigarette pack, empty, squashed.
“When you drive him up to the hill’s summit along the winding road, your guest invariably insists on seeing the far-famed Big Black Bull, so majestic and tender that children are not awed by its immense size” (C.D. Narasimaiah). Giant stone-carved bull in process of ablution, Krishna (beggar-guide Kannada youth) grinning at author from balustrade. Priest in dhoti, brahmanical cord, splashing water on Nandi’s chest, bells, conchs, chains. A wooden ladder, its bent wood sides, irregular rungs leading from platform up his neck to the top of the ornamentation. “But some there are who sit sipping bourbon-on-the-rocks in the Bar (which was once a palace) prattling of Picasso and have seen nothing of the monolithic wonder.” Before him, strung between 2 sticks, set in holes amidst the granite floor, a rope to restrain worshippers. Beneath it, a mound of fresh-woven jasmine skeins, topped with red petals of the passion tree. Across the way a peanut merchant fills his conical paper receptacles with freshly roasted goobers, preparatory to the influx of tourists, which, at 8:00 am, has not yet begun.
Ancient priest in saffron ─ fellow step-mounter, having finished his devotion, begins his continuation-ascent. Nandi’s presence most imposing as he lays couchant, smiling, a braid of jasmine 20 feet long draped from the crown of his forehead over the tips of his nostrils. It is tied at its end with marigolds. Ten-year-old Krishna sweeps the forecourt.
Meanwhile a small tour bus arrives, on its way down from the summit. Noisy, white-longhied tourists emerge, Krishna’s peanut-vendor colleague adding to the clamor with his concerted cries as he perches atop a bicycle-wheeled cart, chained to an electric pole. Passing before the image of Nandi the tourists momentarily quiet down; ignoring them the priest freshens up the white stripes, ocher markings, red dots on the bull’s knees and chest.
While priest ─ at furthest reaches of ladder ─ festoons Nandi’s neck with jasmine braids, a cow begins her descent over step number 700, followed now by 3 more brindled herd mates. Above wait the bulls, as Krishna ─ descended from station before Nandi (where he has been turning about on a vertical axis, hands held in namaste posture) arrives to pelt them with stones. The bulls appear unperturbed, but they halt their downward progress. One of them moves (rather quickly) by, to join the cows ─ here swelled to a dozen by others, who have found an alternate, more circuitous route. The major bulls, horns majestic, survey the scene from a dozen steps above. The most majestic of all ─ light brown forequarters, beige mid-section, dark brown hindquarters ─ descends, stands mid-road, challenging the world to question his authority. “May the Bull not wake and bellow, lest the world, lest the world they inhabit be dissolved in the lava that erupts from the 3000 ft plateau on which the city stands!”
Krishna to author’s side. “Gola,” he says, giving author what author presumes is his last name. Asked for rupee, is rewarded with peanut. “Hosoo,” he replies, in response to author’s request for the word “bull” in Kannada. The brown bull proceeds to drop a peck or 2 of dung onto roadway. The black bull snorts, paws dirt, touches penis with hoof. A third bull (black-and-white) repeats the process, as brown-beige-brown bull stands for profile portrait, his brahma hump quivering in nervous flexion. He too paws the ground.
Palace of the Maharajah (constructed 1911), central pillared atrium, roofed in iron art-nouveau supporting beams, enclosed in stained glass (yellow, orange, peacock blue, augmented with black etchings). The inner octagon, rising from a tiled floor (in flesh, pale blue and brown), is carried by fluted pillars, with fin-de-siècle finials. The Saracenic arches between them figured in gold-embossed designs, above which a balcony of 5 arched portals, one to each alcove. Below, and coursing about the octagon, are 2 colonnades, superior, inferior, the latter’s alcoves filled with 1920s meticulously realistic scenes of maharajah ceremony.
About the central space circulate casual groupings of tourists, the women in their best saris, festive flowers. A wealthy North Indian family with private (individual) tour guide strolls past, mommy in stone-washed jeans over pubic bulge, belly protuberance. About the inner space runs a cadmium-yellow artificial-fiber rope, grasped and hung on by 6-, 8-, 10-year-old children. Fans, attached to long white metal poles, descend from above, their tiny blades aswirl.
Gallery of Souvenirs. “A large part of Mysore City is in a bowl, hidden behind Gulmohars.” The children of the raj depicted in grisaille (Del Tufo & Co.). “Which, in rows, look like the flame of the forest in spring.” Krishna-Wodeyar II at the center of the composition, brass plaque in Kannada and English. “And in summer.” An accomplished, well-heeled, if enervated lot. “After a few rain showers.” An oil still-life of temple offering (plates of food, silver vessels). “The Mysorean can talk lightly of the near-by hill station of Ooty.” Royal dignitaries enthroned at the rear of the composition. “With its frequent droughts.” Chamaraja Wodeyar. “Standing at my end of the city in the West.” In his early maturity (oil). “(I call it sun-set point.)” A portrait of his father, Krishnaraja Wodeyar II at Mysore, 1933. “I miss much of the town.” Air of jet-set fatigue. “Though not the glow of its lights at night.” Enthroned with state advisors to either side, a vacant-eyed guard. “But I can take in eyefuls of the hill and Lalitha Mahal Palace.” Portraits of his mother, his father. “A liquefaction of clay and lime.” Chamaraja Wodeyar in sepia photo, 8 feet by 4. “And snowy white.” Krishnaraja Wodeyar IV in his mid-thirties, double diamond earrings, silver-handled walking stick. “Its architectural perfection.” Two stately portraits at chamber’s end in heavy gold frame. “Might well make of it a rival.” Edward VI and his consort. “Of the City of God.” Followed by more family portraits. “The Devanagari.” The fans in this room are gray. “Which, if legend be true.” Mural representation of Dassara Procession. “Its architect visited in his dreams.” Forty-one figures identified in the key.
Two elderly tourists (male) from Trichy, both in white shirts, white dhotis, the second with a carnation boutonnière in his turban, pink, still furled, as though about to blossom. “Did the indigenous architect.” Maharajah throne room, double silver and crimson chairs. “Know that the building of that City anew.” Two smaller, simpler versions to either side. “Is the task of civilization?” “Dressing mirror from Italy” ─ “Good-morning”-greeting guide. “How intimate are religion and art in their relationship!” “Ceiling in Burmese teakwood,” he adds. “Rather, this was a time when religion and art.” “Crystal glass chair from Belgium,” he informs us. “Were but two aspects.” “Elephant tusks from India.” “Of the same vision.” “Tiles made in England.”
On to upper corridor in white and gray marble, checkerboard marble floor, marble alcoves encased in mahogany, within which:
─ “Janaka, King of Mithala, promised his daughter Sita’s hand” (legend of oil painting) “to anyone who could break Siva’s bow, which no one could even bend. Here Rama not only bends but breaks the bow and wins the princess” (Rama at his task, bow broken, floor strewn with petals). “I have lived for fifty years in Mysore and resisted temptations to success elsewhere; they have seemed illusory in the Mysore context.”
─ Shri Kalika Devi, inscription in Kannada and Hindi, the goddess with 8 discreet arms, all in uniform flesh-blue. “The vast vacant space around, the still unchanging skyline, the crimson East in the morning and the many-splendored sunsets, the flights of parrots my wife never misses.”
─ Shri Nayadurga Devi, in 18-arm pose, 2 attendants. Nosy tourist looking into author’s notebook. “The magnificent architecture of our public buildings on either side of our broad roads in keeping with the dignity of the Palace.” Durga reduced to pastel nonentity, an upper-middle-class doctor’s wife.
─ Shri Mahisha Suramardini, a photographically rendered lion behind her. “In the silence of the night I hear the lion roar from the zoo near Lalitha Mahal.” Attributes delicately, almost coyly, held in each of her 8 arms. “Indeed no place is farther than four miles in Mysore.” Another unapproved inspection of notebook page.
─ Shri Saraswathi, again too realistically rendered. “The moving panorama of rumbling bullock carts, to which I wake morning after morning, the steady stream of pleasantry, with the men smoking and talking to their cronies; the women chewing pan while sharing drab domestic discontents in their sing-song lingo to work off the tedium of the long walks to and from the city centre.”
─ Shri Mahalakshmi, cousin of Saraswathi, her contours unbelievable, her virtue non-existent. “Reminding one of the neglected Boetian strain which arrogant Athens eclipsed ─ their sheer humanity has possessed my being.”
─ Shri Bhuvaneshwari. “Old women love to lug basketfuls of dung cakes to buy small presents for an older mother or a darling grandchild out of the precarious income they eke out.”
─ Shri Gayathri. “And their limbs are the envy of the affluent arthritic, clad in silk saris and decked with diamond earrings.”
─ Shri Rajarateshwari, the final 2 figures in royal poses, atop lotus, lotus atop throne.
Residential Museum, inner sunlit court, display of transportation devices. “Not infrequently do the men and women of my generation.” Silver tomjan (single-seat conveyance), lions at chair-arm finials, double silver portage stanchions. “Unless England or America has softened them.” Three museum layabout attendants trying to ignore author but not succeeding. “Realize that the car is a curse, and scorn the city bus.” Surrounding balustrade in mahogany. “Instead they seek out that pride of old cities, seat of royalty, the horse-drawn tonga, which the noisy 3-wheeler has all but squeezed out.” “Way to Mysore Paintings.” “Or in its absence would rather saunter along, greeting old acquaintances and making new friends.”
Principal gallery graced with all-red statue of Ganesh, garlanded, knees in yellow enamel, toe nails in pink. “The city shrinks in size with each year of your residence.” Room after room of popular Kannarese paintings. “You know practically everyone who touches your daily life.” A museum worker arrives, sepia photo under his arm. “Your loyalties pay dividends apart from the joy of human relationships.” Under the other, a hammer; a handful of nails. “And the benefaction they confer.” Sets down photo on window sill. “On the textures of your being.” Proceeds to pound with hammer on window frame. “The migration of villagers into cities in search of employment has posed no problems in Mysore.” Assistant arrives to offer advice. “For while they work in the city, they prefer to live in the villages around.” Passing tourists glance at the man pounding with hammer. “They can crowd into the bus for a mere 50 paise.” Happily married couple, swarthy, passing through. “Or jump into the engineering contractor’s truck for a Ganesh bidi or a pleasantry.” Laughs at blond tourist. “Here is more enterprise than rolling in sleek motor cars with care-worn faces.” Second couple arrives, also laughs at author. “The few villages on the edge of the old town.” Husband of third couple exhorts first 2 couples not to laugh. “Have now become part of it.” A second polychrome wooden Ganesh, feet decked out with jasmine blossoms. “For the whirligig of time has brought the upper castes and classes close to the doors of the pariah.” Second floor view out window. “The barber.” Past cases of silver artifacts. “The potter.” Two unbridled horses. “The cobbler.” Waltzing together. “The basket maker.” Standing, nuzzling each other.
*
7:08 am, K.S.T.D.C. (Karnataka State Tourist Development Corporation) clock, awaiting 7:15 arrival of tour bus for Belur/Halebid. Notice of Mysore sights: As the tale proceeds. (1) St. Philomena Church. We see Ravana getting more and more obsessed with her. (2) Jaganmohan Art Gallery. She is the only woman he respects. (3) Zoo. He has not come across such devotion and moral strength. (4) Chamundi Hill. Irony, however, extends far beyond. (5) Maharaja Palace. After the fall of Ravana. (6) Somnathpur. The victorious Rama. (7) Srirangapatna. Speaks to her harsh words. (8) Ranganathittu (Bird Sanctuary). (9) Krishnaraja Sagar (Brindavan Gardens). In distant tones. K.S.T.D.C. waiting room fluorescent lit, indirect western light entering through open door.
“YOUR SUGGESTIONS PLEASE,” on reservation desk. It is her honor that is again at stake. (White painted sign atop black registry book.) This time assailed by the very man. Black phone to one side. For whom it is worth protecting. Clock above showing 7:14:45, as red second-hand ticks past black numerals on its white face. Hexagonal free-standing case with tourist brochures: temples, elephants, son et lumière, tigers. While Ravana tortured the flesh. Two girls of 19/20 take seats next to author, Jacob, ready for bus arrival. Here is the husband who insults the spirit and denies faith. Speaking Kannada, clad for the day’s activities: short pigtails tied with ordinary rubber bands, plaid shirt, trail pants, pearl earrings (#1); kurta-pajama combination in floral-patterned top, pale yellow pants, rhinestone earrings (#2). Valmiki handles this in dignified verse.
7:25 still-awaiting-tour bus outdoor scene, facing K.S.T.D.C.’s “Transport Wing” (white-on-blue sign, single bulb in shield ─ unlit ─ above it). Cool breeze from north providing author with inspiration, as North Indian family takes seats (tubular chairs): wife in kurta smock, ornamented with inset mirrors; husband settling in to peruse The Times of India, bearded, hair mid-parted, picking nose. Wife takes half the paper.
“Rama then cast his eyes all round, knit his brow and spoke unto Sita words so rude, as all stood by:” Across street a Tata truck, its orange side in shade (“Tamil Nadu & Kerala States Permit”), its cab front brightly illuminated, yellow and pale blue, white stars, landscape panel in side windows of sleeping compartment. “‘All that any man should or could.’” Up-street tree recession. “‘When foe doth offer shame and spite.’” A dozen passion trees, a half-dozen shops, only one with its garage-door front yet open. “‘I have done today.’” Traffic increasing on this street, which debouches into a main boulevard. “‘But it was not for thee I launched on war.’” Auto-rickshaws passing in both directions; an army truck; an enormous Ashok Leyland in orange sides, yellow rear, white canvas cover. “‘Name and fame.’” A pale green scooter: father, daughter in front of him; mother on rear, son between mother and father. “‘Family’s honor were at stake.’” Pedestrians coming to work early Sunday morning. “‘Thou dost stand before me, sullied here.’” Bicyclists, their woven carry-all sacks suspended from handlebars. “‘Forsooth, like the lamp to one with ruddy eyes.’” A fat mustachioed man on a dark red scooter, his headlight still on. “‘The sight of thee doth hurt mine eyes.’” Two balloon salesmen, pink smocks, from the nearby circus.
8:10 am, still-waiting-author to main boulevard station for street-scene observation. “‘Thou art free to go, child of Janaka, where thou wilt, to anyone.’” Across-street tea stall, its gas heater in high flame. “‘Thou art nothing to me.’” Working-class men, turbaned, unshaven, all in longhis. Behind them, in a large sunlit court, the faded electric-pink-on-maroon sign announcing “Jumbo Circus,” tents set up behind. “In shame did Sita shrink.” Before the circus, on clay courts, a dozen young tennis players, 8-12, all in white athletic wear, earnestly at lessons. “The words of the man she wed shot like darts in the flesh.” A bamboo-ladder salesman pushes his heavily-laden bike across the intersection, followed by a white-bullock-drawn cart piled with rough-cut rails. Upstreet, a sign for “PARK LANE HOTEL” in stark black on white ground. Beneath, in carmine letters, “Drink. Dance. Dine. Dwell.” “Tears came rushing forth.”
Across the boulevard, ranged 10 feet above the sidewalk, supported by concrete stanchions, a billboard movie ad: “The Fly / The Fly,” high above which the spreading shady limbs of a huge mimosa tree. “‘Gently yet, though choked in grief,’ said she.” Northwest/southwest intersection corners dominated respectively by. “‘Why dost thou, my Lord, speak thus?’” “The Southern Railway Employee Co-op House.” “‘Harsh and rude.’” “Women and Children’s Block.” “‘As befits a lowly man to lowly wife?’” Both 3-story, in white facade. “‘Dost thou dare suspect the race, based on what thou knowest of lowly wench?’” At the center of the intersection, a policeman’s turret. “‘Give up thy doubts, I plead.’” Its awning in green, red, yellow. “‘It is death to me if thou dost fail to know me true.’” On its side an ad for “Glucos Milk Biscuits.”
8:25 departure, halting Mysore exit. “‘How can’st thou forget my nature, love, and worship too?’” Stopping to pick up more passengers, at Hotel Ashok, at Satyanarayana Fine Arts (“Makers of Inlay Articles”). “‘Can’st thou thus ignore the vows we took.’” A monkey beside a water outlet, scratching himself. “‘Around the fire.’” Observed by dog. “‘While yet so young?’” Monkey ignoring dog. “Thus she spoke and told the brother of Rama, lost in thought:” Dog moves off a pace or 2. “‘Light me the fire.’” Monkey continues his swaying motion. “‘It alone shall cure me of this fatal grief.’” Bus continues to thread its way through central business district. “‘I don’t care to live.’” On out through suburban Mysore, through the countryside. “‘With name so sullied by thought so false.’”
Last sentence written too soon. The key words are: Bus in fact makes further tour of Mysore, encircling its business district, to re-enter main square, head down central avenue through R.K. Circle, up Muslim district, finally returning to K.S.T.D. C. “‘Thou dost fail to know me true.’” Where author quixotically imagines the tour beginning in earnest. When that happens, self-respect demands self-effacement. For the moment, though, more views of orange-sided, yellow-and-pale-blue-cabbed Tata truck (“Karnataka, Tamil Nadu & Kerala States Permit”). Sita voluntarily seeks to end her life. And finally we are off. It is no longer worth living. Only to stop again but 50 yards upstreet, to negotiate at length with a last passenger, a peasant in crimson sari.
A two hour ride has brought us to Shravanabelagola, site of India’s most famous Jain shrine. Temple climb, 400 steps, author passing old ladies, matrons, middle-aged men; couples in their 30s, 20-year-old girls, young men, teenies, pre-teens, male and female (India not an exercise culture). As though the fire ordeal leaves her unscathed, it is soon clear that it did so only physically. Sits now perched on rock to regard valley, magisterial “tank” at base of a second, lower sandstone outcrop ─ boulder-strewn, streaked with millennial rain run-off. Then suspicion, “the cankering venom,” recurs, and on the strength of gossip (lokapavada) Rama decides to banish Sita just as she is about to become a mother (in fact, in other traditions, as soon as she announces that she is expecting).” The day is cool, a pleasant breeze dries sweat off author’s brow, sky covered with low-lying cumulus. The way he does so is clumsy: Below, the nearly uniform tiled rooftops of the little town. He tells Lakshmana to abandon her in the forest. Its temple with surrounding shops, its tourist villas. Without explanation.
Accordingly, our sympathy. Beyond the confines of town, its outlying temples, suburbs, palm groves. Is unmistakably with the heroine. Stretches a gentle, rolling, semi-arid but arable landscape. This is. Over the rising horizon the gray smoky peaks of low-lying mountains. Perhaps. Running all 270 degrees visible from author’s vantage. The poet’s. Mounting tourists continue to arrive. Device. Slowly, out of breath. By which he works towards the climax.
Yet another 100 steps to the temple itself: monolithic Gomateshvara, naked, the largest uncircumcised penis in the world. Years later, when she stands face to face with Rama. Lounging youth at base making jokes about it. She is a chastened woman. Tourists, more than a little sweaty, keep on arriving, energy depleted. Mother of two sons. Eight-year-old girl in black dress, skinny legs, recovering ─ bested by author in final 50 yards of climb. She has dwelt in the hermitage. Woman with canteen, black/white floral-patterned choli, yellow red-bordered sari. Under the influence. Pushes short-cut hair back off neck. Of Valmiki. Departs. For she is maturity incarnate. Gomateshvara, thighs envined, arms in double plant stalks, their leaves pressed against his limbs.
Rama, however. Shrvanabelagola main street. Is king of Ayodhya. Jain’s Tourist Hotel, youth pulling wagon of cool drinks (Thums Up, Limca). And speaks as such: Ad for English-language Deccan Herald. “‘I know these are my sons,” he says.” Author under scrutiny from lounging youth atop Atlas bicycle, thumbnail of left hand painted pink, pink plastic lotus on handlebars. “‘But let me have some proof.’” Waiter from Jain’s Tourist Hotel. “‘In public.’” Crosses street, 2 aluminum cups of coffee, held by flared rims. “Raj Bhavan,” reads sign at the “Hotel”’s entrance (“King’s Café”). “Sita, in ascetic robes of orange, held her head downcast.” An old woman, magenta sari, yellow undergarment, crosses street to beg from author. “Clasped her hands and spoke aloud.” Author continues writing; woman continues to hold out hand. “‘If it be true that I think of none but Rama.’” Passing tourists scrutinize author’s activity. “‘O Mother Earth.’” A stray dog passing. “‘Give me quarter.’” A large cart drawn by two black bullocks. “‘Here and now.’” Layabouts shouting “Hello” at North Indian girls boarding the tour bus.
“‘If I speak the truth I know not any but Rama alone. Therefore, Mother Earth, do but give me quarter here and now.’” Twenty-two-year-old in purple choli, cream/violet-patterned sari, steps to author’s side; stands shoulder to shoulder; gazes into street. “And as she swore.” Author returns to bus. “The earth did cleave.” For a last glimpse of the town. “And sent up a throne of flashing lustre.” Mango seller, wares spread on sidewalk. “The Mother held out her arms and bade Mythili sit.” The 2 Kannarese girls cross street quickly to board departing bus. “The throne went down, fading from sight, never to come again” (Uttarakanda 97).
Sita’s final glory is in her exit. If one lives for truth, one must also die for it.
*
Arrival at Belur, white-shirted, white-trousered, white-hatted guide (from the Archaeological Survey of India) with a black rod in his hand. “The Hoysalas emerge into prominence at the start of the eleventh century AD” (Rama Shankar Tripathi, History of Ancient India). Hat with red star, blue “India”; “Approved Guide” on his shirt pocket; black glass frames, gray-tinged moustache, simian features. “Now in front of the temple you have a pillar” ─ heavily Indian-accented English. “The early princes of this line” (Tripathi) “exercised control over a small part of Mysore and owed allegiance either to the Chola sovereigns or to the later Chalukyas of Kalyana.” Entrance gopuram being worked on, swathed at upper reaches in browned palm leaves, scaffolding, multiple extension ladders. “Now they are undertaking construction.”
Scene heating up, colorful groups of tourists disposed throughout the spacious site; Northerners, Southerners, Kannarese. The Ramayana Tradition in Asia (ed. V. Raghavan): “The Ramayana in Sanskrit Literature,” “The Ramayana Tradition in Kannada.” Palm trees beyond the temple enclosure. “Ramayana in Telugu Literature and Folk-Lore,” “Ramayana in Malayalam Literature and Folk-Lore.” Small palms within the court as well. Tourist group on porch of mandapam, guide pointing out Hoysala details, offering history, anecdotes. “Gradually, Vinyadita (acc. c. 1045 AD) and his son Ereyanga, who assisted the Chalukya overlord in his campaigns, increased their power” (Tripathi). “Jain Ramayanas and their Source,” “The Ramayana in Bengali.” Frieze in lively detail, nervous, decorative, entertaining. “Ramayana in Kashmiri Literature,” “Sri Ramayana in Tamil Nadu Art.” Sandstone lathe-cut pillars at sides of entrance plinth. “Thought and Literature.” Kannarese girls smiling at guide’s jocosities, younger (Sandia) looking alert, fashionable, amused. “Lord Krisna, Lord Visnu, there you can see all 10 incarnations.” Flashlight on shadow-cast carvings. “This is the first, this is the second . . .”
Fluorescent light over entranceway, on which Kannada letters upside down. Rapid-fire tour covering iconography, architecture, masonry. Tourists tiring, hoping for more anecdotes. A group of Southeast Asians dawdling at rear. “The Ramayana ─ Its Character, Genesis, History, Expansion, Exodus.” Two wealthy Indonesians, covered in gold; a Malay; a gaggle of Singaporeans. “The Migration of Ramayana story to Indonesia,” “Ramayana in Malaysia.” Guide commentating mildly erotic “Lady after her toilet looking into mirror.” “Ramayana in Thai Theater,” “Ramayana in Laos (Vientiane Version),” “Ramayana in Burmese Literature.” Guide with left hand extended for balance, silver watch band, ring; right hand gesturing, his white uniform reading against the blackened stones of the temple.
“Here is story of Ramayana, Mahabharata, and of course the dancing girls.” Tourists under glare of full sun all beginning to wilt. “Ramayana in Nepali,” “Ramayana in Mongolia,” “Textual Theme of Ramayana in Japan.” Stone screen, elegant narrative panels, built-out figures of dancers, 2 with pudenda much fondled, oil-anointed, blackened. “They call this pony-tail.” Ha-ha. “Then story of Mahabharata . . . Here is Bhima.” Sky behind temple in lovely light cirro-cumulus, floating at different altitudes. The 2 lovely Kannarese girls standing at author’s side.
“According to tradition, the Ramayana story deals with an earlier avatara of Vishnu while the Mahabharata deals with a later” (V. Sitaramiah, “The Ramayana Tradition in Kannada”). Author smiles. “Here lady appears” ─ guide ─ “after her bath, squeezing the water out of her hair.” Author scribbling. “Here she is dancing.” Author turns notebook page. “Here you can see the perfect moment.” Kannarese girls laughing at joke. “Now a male figure.” Both look up at observing author, flash broad smiles. “Please come,” says guide, “I’ll show you more costumes.” Two North Indian girls passing before author, first in sensual, full lips, finger of one hand held in her other hand, behind her back. Second girl in red leggings, yellow kurta. Two matronly Tamilian women passing. “Re-Creations of the Ramayana in Hindi and Tamil.”
Temple portal, aroma of incense, ghee, issuing from it. Two girls, one in yellow, one in violet, disappearing through entranceway. Author approaches tympanum to study the carved figure of Hanuman, posed in namaste gesture. Second Kannarese girl (Monalee), steps over threshold, is called back by her sister. Author, Sandia, Monalee enter together to confront, in gold, a 6-foot-tall, 6-headed python, lips, tongues, belly button glistening in red enamel. “Ramayana: the Epic of Asia.” “Please come, please come, please come,” says guide. Darkened interior: a teenage girl plays with her white shirt, seated on black granite floor, underneath a spotlight. A little girl in black polka dot blouse drops her white hat. “Now Saraswati . . .” ─ guide. Monalee removes lens cover, prepares to photograph the scene. The sound of a priest shoveling coins from his ash and flame platter into a money tub.
“It was not till the time of Bittiga Visnuvardhana (reg. c. 1110-1140 AD) that the Hoysalas attained a position of some importance in South India” (Tripathi). Halebid, under-tree observation-situation, 16 miles from Belur, early afternoon. Author’s hair askew in breeze, shadows on red sandy parterre so indicating. View of decorous temple, seen whole from this vantage, as families, seated on grassy sward, talk among themselves. Three little girls run to their father, run away, return. “He transferred the capital from Velapura (modern Belur, Hasan district) to Dvarasamudra (Halebid).” The temple, dappled in sunlight, its upper portions receiving rays directly, its lower reaches raked. “And made himself almost independent of his Chalukya suzerain, Vikramaditya VI.” A group of tourists being subjected to another iconography lesson. “Although Vishnuvardhana did not formally assume the Imperial titles.” Strolls past a corner of the temple, only mildly concerned to keep pace with the voluble guide.
The 2 Kannarese girls ─ both medical students, speakers of Hindi, Kannada, Urdu, Telugu, Tamil and English ─ have moved around the corner in the opposite direction, seeking on their own objects of interest. Author himself declines to approach. “He is represented as having humbled the Cholas, the Pandyas of Madura, the people of Malabar, the Tuluvas of Kannara, the Kadambas of Goa.” Instead takes seat on bench amidst gaggle of Bengali tourists. “And even carried his arms toward the rivers Krishna and Kanchi.” One of whom, a lithe girl of 18, crosses her leg as a man would, moving her head emphatically side to side, gesturing in conversation with open palm. Pensively her companion crosses her arms at the wrist, displaying vivid red nails which complement the light brown tones of her northern skin. “Thus it was that Vishnuvardhana established authority over such an extensive territory.” She examines a single finger nail. “Which included nearly the whole of Mysore and adjacent lands.” As a single strand of black hair blows across her face.
In a sense Sita is not unaware of her own strength ─ the moral support which she could lend, as wife. The wind blows strongly about these pleasant grounds. Forlorn in Ashokavana. Whipping into motion yellow-blossom-laden greenery. She inquires of Hanuman if Rama can bear the pangs of separation: Moving smoothly through the magenta-flowered bushes at arena’s edge. “‘He heard the call of dharma, gave up the crown and led me to the forest. But he knows no grief, no fear, no regret. Does he keep that courage yet?’ she asks.” It causes the trees to sway. Hanuman falls silent. The palm branches to flutter mildly. Thus mutually deep-rooted love finds expression in moments of separation (Srinivasan). The Kannarese girls have returned to the steps of the temple, which they gracefully descend. In answer to Sita’s words, Hanuman, the wise messenger, reinforces what she knows: They float back out the allée, the elder flopping her straw hat onto the head of the younger, who waits a minute before she removes it.
Meat and drink he does not touch;
He knows no sleep; yet when he does
He wakes to speak your name.
The rest of the tour begins to drift toward the exits, our driver exhorting us to follow.
When he sees some fruit or flower fair,
“O, my dear,” he says, and praises you.
Love has made him so.
Swallows flit through the scene, diving one after another. Two men, on the bench opposite, having replaced the 2 Bengali girls, discuss in loud and pragmatic tones schedules, departure times. Meanwhile children, in their brightly-colored clothes, continue to play on the lawn, to remonstrate in heightened accents. The eldest, a girl of 7, wears a bright pink dress. Two smaller children have fallen on the grass. A third arrives to pick them up. Now all 4 return to their father.
In contrast to the placid stream of marital love thus described. Author to cool drink stand. Valmiki paints the turbulent waves of forbidden love. Where op asks 3 1/2 rupees for soft drink, then changes price to 4 on delivery. Passion expressing itself in urgent tones and vulgar boast, so characteristic of Ravana. Author opens bottle, revealing a broken glass lip. His pride and arrogance, the poet wants us to see, stem from his past conquests in war and love. Author returns bottle, asks for another. Warrior or woman. Another is forthcoming. The adversary often had made too facile a surrender. But with a price of additional 4 rupees. Overwhelmed by his might and fame. Author refuses to pay for the drink. Ravana knew no defeat, until . . . Having already give op a 10-rupee note, he is returned 2 rupees ─ instead of the 6 in change due him.
Ravana’s nature is revealed to the reader in stages, itself an interesting study of technique. First we hear people refer to his power, with awe and terror. Then we see him in acts of villainous mischief (trick and abduction), followed by more arrogance. But before our revulsion arises, Valmiki evokes a noble streak in Ravana, which asserts itself, the more so as he gets the more rebuffed. Author steps into stand’s interior, knocks broken-lipped bottle onto the floor, walks away offering to break something else if conduct persists.
It consists in his decision not to employ force, for to win her favor would be his real triumph. Tour activity coming to a close, bus driver honking on raucous horn, as author, returned to seat, fills notebook page. If Sita was brought by force, it had been more to settle a score with Rama (who had mutilated Surpanaka, Ravana’s only sister). Postcard dealers stick their wares through open window into author’s face. Once within the security of Lanka, Sita might well have the choice to say when. Horn of second tour bus obnoxiously honking. Thus, notwithstanding the unbecoming manner of his courtship, there is an element of grandeur in Ravana’s offer to wait until her heart relents.
At the center of the plaza before the temple, a triangular plot. He accepts her insults, considers her all the more charming when angry. At the center of which in turn sits a green Matador van, policeman wagging his leg out open door. Her obstinate loyalty to Rama simply enhances his resolve to win her through patience and persistence. A man in white shirt, white extended longhi, stands nearby, arms folded. For he has never seen a woman like this, at once a snare and a challenge. A wickerwork shopping bag at his feet. Thus in Ravana’s love for Sita Valmiki depicts an obsessive passion rare in Indian literature ─ a passion tempered by fortitude and confidence.
Along the hypotenuse. Sita spurns him all the more courageously, for hers is the courage born of commitment to values and indifference to life. Sits a seller of mangos. The more she spurns him, the more is the fire of passion enflamed in Ravana’s heart. The policeman withdraws his leg. Caught in his own trap, he must have her, and yet he will not force her. Nor will he give up his love (he would sooner give up his life). The mango seller stands with his back to the sun, his wares in green, yellow, orange (i.e. progressive degrees of ripeness).
Thus the mighty hero, who had shaken the earth, stands enslaved by a mere woman, and the roles have been reversed: it is Ravana who is prisoner. Sita’s might shows itself when, in the thick of war, Ravana begs for her love, offering to place his head at her feet ─ an instance of what the Greeks call ‘peripeteia.’ For as Ravana falls, it seems less the arrow of Rama than the power of Sita that has taken his life. Bus started, passengers boarding, return to Mysore imminent.
A glance at the map would suggest that the rest of the trip should hold few surprises. Not so. All day long, in the driver’s compartment, has sat the woman in the red sari, whom we had picked up at 8:50, just as we were about to leave Mysore ─ in fact just as we had for the second time left the “Transport Wing” of the Tourist Agency. It was she, we recall, who had entered into a long conversation with the driver from a point on the street below his cab’s window, where, aided by what appeared to be a relative, she’d convinced him that she should be taken along. Up and into the cab.
Throughout the early going it was not clear who she was, or on what terms she’d been taken. Money was seen changing hands, a bill passed to the driver, coins returned. Of the same class as he, she did not seem to belong to the tourist entourage at all. And thus one was not surprised when she declined to descend at Shravanabelagola, at Belur, at Halebid. For the first couple of hours the driver engaged her in conversation, she appearing somewhat reluctant (her marriage cord prominently displayed). He had not taken her off unwillingly; but neither, one observed, did she fully enter into relation with him.
As we had left Halebid, one waited for her to descend, now imagining her to be a relative on her way home, a woman from the driver’s native village. But she did not. Was she perhaps making the whole trip ─ as a kind of extended vacation, an inexpensive tour free from the bother of temples, guides, restaurants?
Again, not so. For a few miles out of Halebid we begin to make unusual detours, first noticing them on account of our strange reception ─ along more narrow roads, in villages, in towns of some consequence, whose denizens, it would seem, have never seen a tour bus passing through. Even junctions at the center of town must be slowly, cautiously negotiated, once by backing and turning to start again. Thence into the countryside, from secondary to tertiary to even smaller road, from pavement to gravel to dirt. After much meandering, in the midst of nowhere, the bus finally stops. The driver’s cousin descends, to be met by other members of her family, who warmly greet the driver as well.
Nor is that the end of it. At the next village we stop again. Here half a dozen, a dozen, family members, all amazed by his presence, come out again to greet the driver ─ from tea stall, from shaded bench, from threshold. We pause for at least 5 minutes, as lively commerce transpires, the village residents all taking note of his activity/scheme, relatives smiling, kids running from distant huts to see the bus. Proudly he receives congratulations ─ from friends, from cousins, from uncles, no doubt from brothers and sisters too.
Why have we been rushed so all day long ─ through temple and rest stop, horn incessantly honking? Not only to make up our nearly 2-hour-late departure but, it would seem, for family reasons as well. Gradually we make our way back to the main road ─ another half hour’s detour. At least the rest of the way should, one supposes, be clear.
Again not true. For so late is the hour, the sun begins to set. Though dinnertime is upon us, we stop instead for “tea,” presumably scheduled for mid-afternoon. By the time we remount the bus, night has fallen. Under way, as other passengers doze, one notices that the driver has not turned off the compartment lights. Nor has he turned the headlights on. In Indian fashion, cars, small vans, enormous trucks, approach us in our lane, only swerving at the last instant to avoid the bus. Peering over the dashboard, one dimly makes out a vehicle but yards ahead of us, whose services the driver has been seen enlisting at the tea stop. It is by his headlights that we are navigating. Before long, however, the car signals a turn, slows, disappears, leaving us with no means of illuminating the road. Now we must stop again, to enlist another car as guide. But this one too soon wearies of the project and speeds on out of sight. For the final 50 miles, driver and his assistant, using arm signals, exhort other cars to help. Unsuccessful in this, we finally block the road so that other cars, unable to pass, will lend some gleam to our homeward progress.
*
Indian Institute of Science (Bangalore), Department of Mechanical Engineering. “And then, says Kamban cryptically.” Water Tunnel Lab. “Ravana thundered:” Diagram, suspended on piece of wire from nail driven into column. “‘Bring forth my battle chariot!’” “‘5-inch water tunnel, Dept. of Civil & Hydraulic Eng.” As Ravana falls. “These arrows indicate the direction of water flow in the tunnel.” “We see in him the elements of a tragic hero” (Srinivasan, Kamban: An Introduction). Gray area labeled “Resorber Tank,” arrows indicating clockwise direction of water about diagram. “His fault being somewhat similar to that of Faustus’.”
Diagram spotted with water marks, mostly dripped from above. Cool breeze enters through door. Director of lab on coffee break, everyone awaiting his arrival. Once on the scene, Dr. Mani, Ph.D. from the Institute itself, here since 1976, quickly, elegantly describes the activity of the lab, leading us upward for third-floor inspection. “This is driven by the motor. . . . Maximum velocity . . . Actually, one beam will come out here. . . . A conversion factor of . . . We can start from 2 meters and we can go up to 30 meters.” Shed roof in corrugated asbestos, metal rafters, painted pale gray-green, all heavy equipment beneath it in turquoise. “And the rise levels can be measured here. . . . We are not doing any basic research.” Conversation closing down, R&D nature of work discussed. Future plans. “Because it is so expensive . . . Similarly, we cannot run it while they are running it.”
Bangalore, 2:00 pm, Visresvaraja Industrial and Technological Museum, sand piled in walkway to entrance steps, on which are lounging 2 60-year-old men in longhis, opposite them a girl in pink kurta, red pajamas, pink plastic shopping bag.
A true scientist is the sage unattached to life and the fruits of action, ever seeking truth wheresoever this quest might lead him.
Motive Power displays (“Sources of Power”): “Animal Power.” The Persian Wheel (or Saquiya): “Animal power is here symbolized by a bullock turning a horizontal wheel, which is geared to a vertical wheel, and carries a chain of buckets. Mechanical water-lifting provides a continuous supply for irrigation throughout India, particularly in the North.” North Indian tourists, one with sari over her head, other pressed against the face of the diorama, on whose glass surface are 3 red paste-on dots to discourage actual entry into its dreary space.
“Human Power,” “Wind Power,” “Water Power,” exhibits continuing, men making motions for the benefit of their wives, children, to explain what is going on within them. “Hydro-Electric Power”: “The Francis Turbine runner,” diorama of K. Sheshadri Iyer Power Station, Sivasa Mudrum: “This is the first hydro-electric generating station in India. “Development of Steam Engines: James Watt (1736-1819), a Scottish Mechanical Engineer, invented this double-acting steam engine working on low pressure in 1782.” Two Indian youths, 15 and 16, arms about one anothers’ shoulders, bounce up to author’s side; look into notebook; stare at author’s face; humorlessly regard one another; depart.
“Timber Paper and Metals” (second floor). “Partly seasoned logs are sliced with an electronically working band saw into sheets which are seasoned later.” Photos of distinctively cut wood ends. A group of schoolgirls, blue skirts, white shirts, half in school ties, half in individually chosen ties. Most regard author with a rather dull curiosity. Each wears a red belt, red hair ribbon, 2 white nuns bringing up the rear.
“All trees are not alike. Can you identify these?” Jaman, Mulsari, Teak, Toon; Sandal, Sal, Axelwood, Indian Cork; Mulberry, Semul, Mahogany, Honne. “The microstructure of wood throws light on its density.” A map of India covered with trees, spotlight from track above shining upon it intently. Photo blow-ups of Indian forests, trees all rather scraggly. “Tips for Timber Selection”: strength as beam; heat resistance; shock resistance; screw- and nail-bearing capacity; shape retention. Display case filled with wooden statues, wooden carvings; adjacent case with household implements, musical instruments, chessmen, a hockey stick, a cricket bat. Display of mechanized wood-working tools: band saw, lathe, drill; behind them on the wall, hand tools: a saw, a plane, a brace and bit.
“The History of Paper in India”: “The earliest Indian writing was noticed by Nearchos, an admiral of Alexander’s fleet, on fine glazed sheets made by felting cotton. The paper industry grew up once again under the patronage of Mughali emperors during the 12th-14th centuries. A new generation of paper makers known as Kagzis spread all over India. The first paper mill was started in 1812 at Serampore in West Bengal.” “Paper Stores Knowledge Its Increased Use Indicates Progress.” Cigarette papers, playing cards, cosmetics boxes. Paper plates, cups, straws.
“Popular Sciences” (third floor). “Measurement of the height of a pyramid”: diorama with 3 pyramids, one in 3 dimensions, 2 painted on back wall. Ancient Egyptian in foreground (3 dimensions), hammer raised to strike chisel on stone block; a second ancient Egyptian using a lever to lift a rock. Other ancient Egyptians in pyramid measurement activity. Sun peering through wall of diorama (electric light bulb), illuminating a permanent shadow cast on floor of diorama (dark sand). Many slaves pulling a large block into place.
Jantar Mantar: “The Delhi open-air astronomical observatory was built by Maharaja Sawal Jal Singh in 1724 AD. The diorama here shows 2 instruments, or yantra as they are called, namely (a) Samrat Yantra in the foreground and (b) Misra Yantra in the background. Samrat Yantra has a huge gnomon with an inclined edge and a quadrant attached on either side. The gnomon edge points to the celestial North Pole; the inclined edge makes an angle of 28 degrees 37 minutes with the horizon, which is approximately the latitude of Delhi.”
“Mathematics”; “Light and Sight”; “Data-Processing.” “Children’s Science Gallery”: “Our place in the Universe.” Map of India, Map of Asia. “Day and Night”: “The earth spins on its own axis.” “Time and Nature”; “The Earth Moves Round the Sun.” Suspended VDT playing video of returning American astronauts, descending steps, waving. “Time and Tide”; “Trees Count Years.” A beautiful girl in gold-inwoven, pale-green, pale-magenta sari, hand on her older sister’s elbow. A 12-year-old boy, 12-year-old girl approach author’s notebook, boy politely asking, “Can we see?” Author indicates what he has just written. “Just a Minute.” Boy and girl laugh politely, leave. “What Time Is It?” Delhi 15:44, Ahmedabad 15:08; Gauhati 16:25.
“A Closer Look at the Planets,” a lovely girl making rounds at the same pace as author, magenta choli, white bra-straps sewn into it. “Activity Corner”; “Angular Momentum”; “The Solar System.” Her earrings have 3 pearls, one on earlobe, 2 dangling. In her hair a magenta cloth 6-petalled flower. “Feel Lighter”; “Jump Higher.” Neptune: The Star Spectrum. Her sari’s hem touches the ground forming a golden envelope. “Nearer the Brighter; Farther the Smaller.” In her right hand, bangled at wrist, she holds a folded handkerchief. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”
Return to hotel by way of Bangalore’s clean, broad, European boulevards. This efficient, affectless city a paradigm of civilization, if by that is meant a humane but cultureless metropolis governed by principles of freedom from difficulty. “The detailed report that issued from the Clibborne-Masson Committee recommended that the Institute be devoted to experimental science and that it aim at training students in experimental methods.”
Author observes painting of alternate yellow and black stripes on curbstones, one crew with buckets of yellow, one with buckets of black. “Carrying out original research and discharging the function of an accepted authority.” Two supervisors meanwhile are loafing. “And referee all scientific problems arising within its own domain.” Black topped, dirty yellow auto-rickshaws passing through the scene, a black tire ad on a yellow background behind them.
“The Provisional Committee had only limited powers.” Two 17-year-olds passing, one in yellow choli, black sari. “However, when the constitution was approved by the Viceroy Lord Minto, the necessary Vesting Order was signed on 27th May 1909.” The second girl with a black-and-yellow shopping bag in hand. “It is assisted in the formulation of academic policies of the Institute by the ‘Court.’” A black-and-yellow steam-driven cement mixer, its smoke wafting across the plaza. “The Director is the executive authority, and in the Management of the Institute he is assisted by the ‘Senate’ and the Science and Engineering Faculties.” Both crews have paused in their task, holding aloft, the one, yellow, the other, black brushes.
Bangalore race-track-opposite Race View Hotel restaurant 9:00 am scene. “North Indian Dishes: Baingan Baratha, Shahi Kurma, Stuffed Capiscum.” Black tabletop reflecting octagonal ceiling panels, water cups. “Stuffed Tomato, Stuffed Alu, Vegetable Curry.” Arrival of coffee, frothy, less sugared, less milk-diluted than Tamil fare. “Vegetable Koftha, Khoya Mutter, Kajoo Mutter.” Gloomy restaurant interior. “Dal Palak.” Marble foot-square floor tiles. “Plain Palak.” Overcast sky. “Panner Kurma, Gobi Manchuri.”
Wait personnel, their backs to window, appear with facial features scarcely discernible. Cashier in profile ─ almost a silhouette. Boy in brown uniform, bare feet, clears table, removes glasses/dishes into pink-and-cream-swirled plastic bucket.” “South Indian Dishes: Rice Idli (2) with Ghee.” Through-window view of passing traffic ─ 20-year-old interrupting with her pink-kurtaed entrance ─ moving in both directions between restaurant and track’s high wall, Communist-slogan emblazoned. “Uddina Vada (2), Khara Bhath.” A red Maruti Suzuki passing a black bike, in turn passing a man in yellow shirt. “Plain, Masala, Rava Dosa.” Three hill-descending vehicles: “Poori Sagu, Bisibele Bhath, Onion Dosa.” Pale blue Ambassador, turquoise van, green commercial truck. “Basundi, Rasamalai, Chum.” Before restaurant, in dull plastic colors, the pie-shaped sections of a pan stall umbrella.
Race track interior, “Jockeys Only” stands situation, light drizzle wind-blown in author’s direction. View of outer track in luxuriant verdure, being raked by hand, crews of 5, 4 with rakes, one to carry off the rakings. Circular hedged walking rings. A blue-and-yellow horse van parked on infield, large white ambulance, red cross, “Bangalore Turf Club” on its side, exiting. Many personnel in evidence, including brown-uniformed, 3-man work crew, 2 with sledge hammers over their shoulders, one a great length of rope. A man and 2 girls, one in sari, one in blouse/skirt, exits from infield. The girl in western dress carries a burlap sack under her arm. Now, as all 3 stand in conversation with an officer of the track, a slip of pink paper is exchanged.
“The architecture of the Institute’s main building is in the classical style.” Cubbon Park, Bangalore, 2:00 pm weekday afternoon. “Carried out in gray granite.” Author seated, shade of large tree (sal? honne? semul?), gnats swarming in front of his face. “And is crowned by a handsome tower.” A party of female picnickers having picked up to go, a crow stands examining their crumbs, quickly joined by a second. “In front of the tower stands a noble monument.” Now the 2 crows are joined by a hound. “The work of Gilbert Bays.” Crows win out, hound lopes off. “One relief contains the figure of Jove with his thunderbolts, to typify electricity.” Crows joined by a funny diminutive bird, in yellow eye shadow, black body, exaggerated bobbing of head. “The second relief contains the figure of Vulcan, with his anvil ready for steel.” A chipmunk joins the crows, is joined in turn by a second chipmunk. “A third relief represents Minerva holding a distaff covered with flax.” Crows caw; chipmunks chatter. “A fourth relief represents Calliope in the guise of research.” The small bird retreats to a nearby sapling, floats in for a landing to harry the chipmunks.
“Besides the Indian Institute of Science Bangalore has a number of prestigious institutions like the Indian Institute of Management.” Author to seat on bench some hundred yards distant, to continue registration. “The Indian Institute of Astrophysics, the Indian Statistical Institute, the Institute of Social and Economic Change.” Here he is first carefully observed, then questioned by cigarette-smoking man, hair mid-parted, black glass frames, maroon pants. “And the National Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences.” In the man’s hand, a green book, its title, Some Things to Think About. “Other prestigious research establishments include: “Where are you coming from?” he asks. “The National Aeronautical Laboratory.” “What are you doing?” “Indian Space Research.” “Working,” author replies. “Gas Turbine Research, Institute of Aviation Medicine, Aircraft Systems Testing.”
“I am a journalist,” he proclaims. “Horticultural Research Institute, Indian Plywood Research, Machine Tools Institute.” Figures pass through the various gradations of the landscape behind him. “The publishers do not like to hear bad propaganda about India.”
“I shall try to avoid it,” author responds.
“Definitely the government will take action against me,” he rejoins.
“How so?” author inquires. “Central Power Research Institute.” But the “journalist”’s response is vague.