A city seen through borrowed eyes made my heart pine for it still more.
Some cities reveal themselves only if you borrow the right pair of eyes. Mysore did that for me—courtesy of my family friends the Bhatts, a Gujarati husband and a Bengali wife who grew up in Puducherry, built their early careers in Delhi, and then—in that mysterious way wise people make big decisions—decided to uproot themselves and plant their lives in Mysore. Almost three decades back. In the prime of demanding professional journeys, they sought a gentler rhythm. Their two daughters, now grown and thoroughly Mysorean, are proof that cultural synthesis is not an abstract slogan but something that grows in living rooms, school corridors, and evening walks.
It is fashionable to speak of India’s “unity in diversity,” but with the Bhatts guiding me through Mysore, I understood how quietly and organically this unity operates. A Gujarati-Bengali-Pondicherrian-Delhiite family thriving in the old domain of the Wodeyars is not a sociological case study—it’s just India being India. And tourism, always hungry for authenticity, thrives when such stories breathe beneath the surface. (Mysore now attracts over 35 lakh visitors annually, with domestic tourism rising nearly 12% year-on-year.)
Mysore’s Kannada soul is unmistakable—the palace, the silk, the grandeur of Dussehra, the gentle pride of a city that once hosted kings. But the Bhatts steered me beyond the obvious, into alleys where the royal aura is only one thread in a much larger tapestry.
I marvelled at the Venugopalaswamy Temple, recently restored after rising from years of submersion in backwaters. The sprawling landscape around it turns golden at sunset, the kind of glow that makes you momentarily forgive every flaw of the world. I stood there thinking how heritage often survives despite us—not because of us. More on that later.
Then came the cuisine. For most ignoramus palates, ‘South Indian food’ is a single, convenient stereotype. Mysore politely shatters that illusion. The Bhatts took me to Halli Hatti, a small, disarming eatery near their apartment at KC Layout, where nothing is fancy except the trust. You eat first, and only when you go to their counter, someone asks what you had and calculates the bill. A cultural audit replaced by a conversation—endearing, old-fashioned, and strangely soothing.
At Indira Café in the city, the warmth repeated itself. No fuss, no flair—just honest food served with the confidence of a city that doesn’t need to prove anything. And of course, Mysore Pak. At Guru Sweets, a five-generation institution, the melt-in-mouth square arrives like a quiet proclamation of legacy. The Bhatts insisted I carry some back, a suggestion that required no persuasion.
One morning, I wandered through the flower market—a riot of colours and fragrances that felt almost theatrical in its busy-ness. Flowers are woven deeply into Kannada culture, finding their way onto deities, doorways, and even daily moods. Yet most of the trade here is run by Muslims, a reminder that coexistence doesn’t always require speeches; sometimes it’s wrapped in marigold and jasmine and sold by the kilo. Foreign tourists seemed entranced by this aromatic and visual diplomacy.
Mysore’s dual personality—quiet lakes and bird sanctuaries rubbing shoulders with crowded markets—feels almost intentional, as though the city is determined to offer both serenity and bustle in equal measure. The Ranganathittu sanctuary, shaped by the vision of Salim Ali, sits close enough to the city to make birdwatching an early morning indulgence rather than a planned excursion.
But before I start sounding like a tourism brochure, a word of caution. Even the loveliest cities can stumble. I saw litter piling outside Tipu Sultan’s palace, and plastic bottles tossed carelessly near the Venugopala temple’s otherwise majestic landscape. I even picked up a few myself—an impulsive act born of irritation and affection. Mysore, with all its gentleness, deserves better stewardship from its own.
As domestic tourism grows and travellers seek destinations with cultural depth, Mysore stands ready—not just with palaces but with people like the Bhatts who embody the mingling of traditions. In today’s trying times, the city can be a beacon of inter-regional harmony, but only if urban management keeps pace with its cultural wealth.
For now, Mysore lingers with me—a place where history rests lightly, food comforts deeply, and the future, if nurtured well, can shine as brightly as the city’s famed Dussehra lights. But that’s solely provided Mysore municipal corporation wakes up like it’s Indore counterpart.
