Every Dasara, there is one ritual I follow religiously: keep off the centre of Mysore city, particularly the roads around the Mysore Palace, on Vijayadashami. This year, however, in a fit of audacity that I caught from an acquaintance, Joy's assertion that he could have me watch the Jumboo Savari passing through the Palace yard, I reached Sayyaji Rao Road. Waiting for Joy to get off the phone call he had placed to his Palace-employed cousin on the better side of the heavily-guarded gate, I grew curious about the hordes channeled through the many linking lanes and emptied into this road. On this grand old avenue, vehicles were plying both ways, deftly avoiding the clusters gravitating towards the Palace. Like the monsoon-caused filling up to the brim of the KRS and the subsequent super discharge from the dam, people continued to pour in, till they had inundated one half of the road and rendered it a one-way. There was still the occasional breach of the levee that the vehicles had to cautiously circumnavigate.
Standing by the entrance of the Mysore City Corporation, opposite one of the five gateways into the Palace, I did chance upon a few unexpected events, unexpected perhaps owing to my naivety.
Just as I glanced at my watch, I was drawn by a voice that addressed me with the customary word reserved for an unknown gentleman. Looking up, I remembered having noticed him walk past me a few moments ago. He, though, didn't await a verbal response and asked me - "want VIP pass?" Before I could shake my head and mouth a no, he was gone. Time, in his case, surely was money.
In the meanwhile, Joy was walking up to me, his phone in hand. His expression was inscrutable - had he gained access, or had he been rebuffed?
Turns out he had only managed to empty his prepaid balance. He read out a number for me to dial. I did so, and lent him my phone. He was off, speaking into the phone, again. A cynical part of me did wonder if he had run out of talktime.
A few minutes later, he was back. I'm often accused of illiteracy when it comes time to read faces, but even I could tell he had failed. Handing me my phone, he burst into a long explanation of how the circumstances had conspired against him, despite his best intentions. Offering proof of his prowess, he even mentioned that he had snuck eight kids into the Palace that very morning, around 8 30 AM. I partly sympathized with him, while wondering if he was only trying to salvage a wounded ego and a now rickety reputation with this bluster. He went on to say that getting people he knew into the Palace was something he did every year, but on this occasion he had been foiled, and foiled by one man.
Owing him conversational courtesy, I had to inquire as to who this man was.
"The Police Commissioner," he said, "this is all the result of his handiwork."
Persisting with the courteous hearing, I shot him an encouraging glance, and sure enough he had more frustration to expel.
"The gates were never manned with such zeal. You could always get by, in tow with one of the authorized employees. But, now, he has posted officers at every gate and is personally monitoring their vigil. If only we had arrived here before him, we might as well have got in. Damn him!"
Congratulations, Mr. Commissioner.
Congratulations, Mr. Commissioner.
Comments