Bangalore airport is very well organised and it took no time to get through customs and collect my bags. I was told that a driver would be picking me up and that his sign would say ‘Princess Sandra’. Mr. Joseph my host mentioned in his email that this was the easiest way for me to figure out which driver was mine, as sometimes amongst the dozens or so signs there could be multiple Sandras and I might not end up in Mysore if I took the wrong driver. I had many logical arguments against this, but I was to learn what the phrase “Well, this is India!” meant.

Murthy the driver, or better known as prince Murthy, motioned that I could lie down in the back of his little hatchback as it was 11 p.m. and our trip to Mysore from Bangalore would take us 3 – 4 hours. I was tired from the 12-hour flight and after folding myself in half propped my head onto my computer bag, and attempted sleep. As drivers go Murthy would have been an excellent driver, but for the roads that have more potholes than a teenager’s acne scarred face and more speed bumps than a mole infested backyard. Each bump would launch me inches into the air and eventually I gave up. I spent the drive in a daze and since it was dark couldn’t see much of my surroundings. Yet again my theory of juxtaposing the driving style of a country’s inhabitants to their mentality was to be proven again. Indians drive opportunistically. Sure there are road rules, but these are taken as a suggestion rather than a rule. There is a chaos of cars, scooters, rickshaws, cows, goats, dogs and people on each road. Somehow they manage to get along quite efficiently. It might take a while to get somewhere, but traffic is always moving. You might be heading along on your side of the road, but if the other side presents an opportunity to get ahead faster then it will be used despite oncoming traffic. Of course cows have right of way, no matter what.

As finally I had made it to bed by 3 a.m. I woke the next morning to the typical noises, which would become a matter of delight to me. Next door’s front path being swept with a grass broom, the first dog’s barking at early morning passers by, the mosque in the distance echoing the first prayers into the morning and a train several miles away blowing its siren like a great dragon swooping past.  Yoga sessions at the Pattabhi Jois Ashtanga Yoga Institute start at 5 a.m., and times as to when to arrive are given out upon registration, which occurs at 4.30 p.m. each weekday afternoon. Fridays and Sundays are led classes that begin at 4.30 a.m. Now that Sharath has succeeded his recently passed grandfather Pattabhi Jois it continues to be essential to book two months in advance, which must be done via snail mail and forms are available from the website. It seems to be okay to drop in without this registration when Saraswathi, Pattabhi Jois’s daughter, is teaching as the classes are generally full but not so much that people are waiting outside for a space to free up.  Saraswathi is in her late sixties and seems as fit and strong as she has ever been. She holds a quiet class and her led classes are strong and intense.  The room is large and comfortably holds 50 people at a time. There are good locker facilities and change rooms, but even here it is advisable to bring your own toilet tissue, as it is advised to do so anywhere in India.

As a very ‘wet behind the ears’ tourist there is a lot to learn about India. Simple things such as the toilet tissue thing are nothing against learning how to barter and communicate with the Indian population. Put it simply, India is different. Even though I can only speak about my experience in Mysore at this point, it has become clear to me that it is not worth coming here if you expect the modern conveniences that you are used to at home. Don’t come here if you wish to be isolated from the dirt, the poor, the cow dung or the traffic. Don’t come here if you expect your electricity to be on 24 hours per day, or the toilets to be clean and contain toilet paper. Don’t come here if you cannot handle exhaust fumes, the constant noise of car horns, people shouting, music blaring or dogs barking. And, don’t come here if you do not want to spend half an hour haggling over the price of a bone rattling rickshaw ride on pothole-infested roads. Certainly stay away if you are worried about hygiene or possibly getting an upset stomach for a few days.  Not to mention the stench of cow dung, or the site of men using the side of the main road as a urinal. But, should none of this worry you then Mysore will somehow manage to envelope you with the charm of its people, the dirt becomes real…more real than the pathological cleanliness the West has restricted itself to. The noise becomes comforting, reminding you that in some way we are all connected to this world. Then you begin to notice the sweet smell of the tuberoses that are sold on mass at every street corner and the smiling children who love to show off their ability at speaking English. All this and the 'Indianess' of the inhabitants is what makes India, India. So far it is an adventure and I have three weeks to experience as much of what Mysore has to offer, even though I suspect I will only be scratching the surface.

The Traveling Ashtangi