Day 113: Mysore
This day reads better as a poem
Six wheels, divide by two
Three foreign fools
On the road again, so good to be
in a rickshaw again
Four wheels, add four
Three foreign fools
One scheming guy at the wheel.
Careen, careen,
Through the Magic of Mysore
Palace number one is open for business
Sky high ceilings and a man tending the pool
Surface revealing clouds with a cutting edge
Our voices ping-pong between shiny marble walls
and every table is available
At tea time
In the eating room
Where the staff wander
Aimlessly.
Out front we meet
Magic Babu! Who,
You guessed it,
Has tricks up his sleeve
I’m not sure if I ever find out
What a babu is
Let alone a magic one.
He speaks of Steven Seagal,
Alleged loyal customer of this
Idle palace.
“Two wife, this coming,” the magic man says, and
Wraps his hands
Around his throat.
Before we leave, he says I am the spitting image
Of some
Madurathi Bollywood star
I rub sunscreen into my freckles
It’s hot out here.
Scheming Careener steers us
To the next chartered stop.
Palace numero dos
Gives us chai
On the
Whose house is this?
Our rickshaw bumbles through the streets
Our driver really seems to know what he’s doing
Everyone is magic here
Reading minds
He must be.
He hasn’t asked us where to go
He must know
We’re up for anything
Anything being
A little abode where a woman rolls sticks
In a sticky paste
Into powdered sticks
It’s a smelly stick
Incense maker
It takes her
Into the second batch before she
Smiles
She’s still on the first.
A man gestures
Our trio follows
Past a threshold
Into four walls of crystallized scent
Bottled ‘fumes
In glassy wares
Essential
For
What, exactly?
“You sell these oils?”
I peer under the shag carpet of his brow
“You like,” he says
“I sell my smile.”
One by one, the creep train
Tut tuts
From one foreign forehead
To another.
Lotus forehead massage
Great for
Business
We all walk out
Vials in our pockets
Vile piled in our forehead pores
Potions per fuming
The trail away
Leads to the market
–a jungle–
Coconuts, paan leaves,
The chromatic hills of Holi Mysore.
A thali stop in Hotel Ajantha
Thali backwards is I Love A Hot Thali.
Palace, the Third
It’s big. It’s beautiful. It’s
Kinda boring at this point.
The fourth palace houses
Motorbikes
Okay
It’s not a palace
But these bikes are regal
Royal Enfields, to be precise
We buy some stickers
“Built Like A Gun”
But the bike is a Bullet
Confused colonialists,
Weaponry outta whack.
Our driver is named Bays and
While we wait for Shay to shop
Aviel and Bays and I talk
Barbershop
He thinks Aviel should cut his mop
His curly Jewish locks and
Shave his molting face
Into something
Presentable
The shop is
Closed.
Shave over.
Back at the hotel
Bays wants to know what time
We plan to leave in the morning, about
Exactly, what time?
And what colour is
My bike?
His bike?
Your bike?
“10 am,” says Aviel. “All black.”
I squint.
Pizza
Salad
Bed.
My alarm is set for 5am.
Shay’s bike is red.
A Poem in Pictures
in it to wing it 