Illuminated Chaos
…The Beautiful Madness of Mysore Dasara
Yesterday, I found myself
trapped in the ultimate test of human endurance; a legendary Mysore (post) Dasara traffic jam.
There I was, caught in a sea of gleaming idling hatchbacks
and SUVs that stretched all the way back to Banni Mantap, Completely surrounded
by the blinding, delirium -inducing glory of a million illuminated string
lights. Mysore was glowing so bright you could probably see it from Mars, but
down on the asphalt, the only thing moving was my blood pressure.
As the traffic signal
proudly displayed a red countdown timer that seemed to be ticking backward, a
girl—no more than 19 or 20—navigated the tight maze of car bumpers. She was
carrying a tiny baby on her hips who was wailing at a pitch that successfully
pierced right through my closed car windows and the festive music blaring from every direction..
She tapped on my glass,
gestured to the child, and pleaded, "Sir,
look at the poor kid, hasn't eaten for two days. Give me some alms so that I
can feed the child ."
Now, beneath the
romanticized, glittering facade of the royal heritage city, I could sense
exactly what was going on. This wasn't a tragedy; it was a well-oiled corporate
operation. Yet, something about the sheer volume of that kid’s wails &
baleful eyes —or maybe the fact that the Dasara lights were starting to
hypnotize me—made me reach into my shirt pocket. I rolled down the window and
handed over a Rs. 5 coin.
Strangely, as if it had
felt the metallic weight of financial security, the baby stopped howling instantly the moment the coin changed hands
Absolute silence. It was a medical miracle.
But the girl wasn’t
satisfied with my magnanimity. Looking at the coin like it was a piece of
chewed gum, she insisted, "Sir,
there's nothing I can buy with this money, please give me some more."
"But look, I stopped your baby's crying. Isn't that enough value for
you?" I
admonished.
What she said next proved that the true spirit of entrepreneurship doesn't live in tech startups—it lives at crowded traffic intersections.
She looked me dead in the
eye and said, "If that's what you
want, sir,” As if on cue the little brat started screaming."
What a " Model " of emotional
blackmail. Pay the premium , or the ad-supported Howling resumes immediately.
Though shocked, I was slightly
impressed by the raw audacity; I gave her a firm look and told her to beat it.
Conveniently, the traffic light turned green—or at least, the sea of brake
lights ahead of me shifted an inch. As I prepared to "crawl " away , the familiar, piercing wail echoed through
the night air once again. I narrowed my eyes and looked across the
intersection. True to her word, she had already moved on to a premium BMW owner, and the baby's volume slider had been
cranked right back up to maximum.
I nudged the car forward
into the glowing neon abyss of Mysore, trying to shake off the encounter. They
say city life teaches you how to "steel up your heart." But
honestly, between extortionist infants
and the endless Dasara traffic, it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.
Suddenly, the image
flashed back to me—the way the girl carried the child on her hip, her right
hand holding tight while her left
reached across for support.
That was when the realization struck: the exact alignment of thumb and forefinger could unleash a deafening shriek.
