Mysore — The Fairy Tale I Walked Into

Mysore — The Fairy Tale I Walked Into.

                                 By Srinidhi Ramachandra  

The morning sun glowed softly upon the fields, its light mingling with the faint fragrance of fresh parchment and the tender green of ripening crops. Mandya — the heartland of Kannada — stretched endlessly beside the tracks, serene and sun-drenched. As the train glided past Pandavapura and drew closer to Mysore, a quiet anticipation stirred within me. When it finally halted, my eyes were caught by the railway station itself — an old structure of wooden grace, its whitewashed walls bearing the calm dignity of another age. I stepped out, took my first breath of that morning air, and walked into A2B beside the station for breakfast. It was a simple meal, yet it felt momentous — for this was my first journey alone, with nothing but two thousand rupees in my pocket and an eagerness to begin.

I ordered a plate of masala dose for breakfast — crisp, fragrant, and comforting in its familiarity. As I sipped the last of my filter coffee, I opened my phone and searched for second-hand bookshops nearby. The map led me toward Devaraj Urs Market Road, a name that itself carried a faint echo of old Mysore. On my way, I lingered over the façades of aged buildings — remnants of a quieter time — their weathered balconies and wooden shutters whispering stories long forgotten. They reminded me of Bengaluru as it once was, before the clamour of glass towers and flyovers replaced its grace. Passing Dewan’s Road, I recalled that the legendary Dr. S. Srikanta Sastry had once lived there, his scholarship illuminating those very streets. By the time I reached the bookstore, it was just ten in the morning. The storekeeper, a man with kind eyes and an instinct for readers, asked me what I liked to read. Without hesitation, I made my way toward the Kannada section — my true destination all along.

The books lay in quiet order — their faded spines and browned pages carrying the stillness of forgotten decades. My friend had once remarked, “There’s nothing like the fragrance of old books.” I smiled at the thought, though I could never quite agree. To me, that musty scent only meant a sneezing fit — my little allergy to dust refusing to see poetry where others found nostalgia. Yet the charm of those shelves was irresistible. Among them, I discovered a few treasured editions of A. R. Krishna Sastry’s Vachana Bhārata — and to my delight, one bore his signature. Holding it felt like shaking hands across time.

Elated, I set out once again and soon found myself in another bookshop near Gokulam, where fortune favoured me twice — a signed copy of D. V. Gundappa’s Jīvana-dharma-yoga. The clock had already struck twelve by then, but I was in no hurry. The streets of Mysore unfolded before me like familiar lines of a well-loved poem. Strangely, I lose my way even in Bengaluru, the city I call home; yet here, in Mysore — my heart’s own geography — every turn, every road seemed already mapped within me.

My mind urged me towards the Amba Vilas Palace, but the heart, with its quiet insistence, led me instead to Jaganmohan Palace. Perhaps it knew better where I truly belonged. At the entrance, I purchased a ticket, my bag heavy with the morning’s literary treasures. The lady at the counter smiled kindly as I requested to leave it there for safekeeping. Stepping inside, I was greeted by the sight of a broad circular garden — serene and sunlit — with a solitary statue at its centre. To the right stood a grand banyan tree, its branches spread like open arms, a simple swing hanging beneath. The scene imprinted itself upon my mind — still and timeless — as though the palace itself were whispering the memories of another age.

The watchman, with a knowing smile, directed me toward the palace that stood quietly behind the auditorium. I slipped off my footwear at the threshold, the cool stone beneath my feet carrying a faint echo of countless visitors before me. An elderly woman sat near the main doorway, her eyes gentle yet alert. She looked up and said softly, “You are the only one today. No photography is allowed.” Her words lingered in the air, half warning, half welcome. Yet I felt no fear in that vast silence. To be the lone visitor in a palace so grand, surrounded only by art and history, felt not eerie but intimate.

The first hall opened like a passage through time. To my left, a row of exquisite French clocks stood in silent precision — their gilded frames catching the faint light, their hands frozen in eternal elegance. To the right, delicate ivory carvings unfolded scenes from the life of the Buddha — each figure sculpted with such serenity that one almost felt the stillness of meditation within them. Beyond these, a series of busts of Mysore’s kings watched over the room with regal calm, while along the walls hung paintings of the Navaratri processions from Mummadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar’s time — chariots, elephants, and lamps immortalised in colour. The air carried a faint scent of age and reverence; each artefact seemed to breathe softly, guarding a memory too proud to fade.

Above the paintings, my eyes were drawn to a beautiful balcony — the palace’s once-proud outer wall, now gently preserved in silence. The woodwork bore traces of a time when artisans shaped beauty not for display but for devotion. Sunlight filtered through the arches, casting soft patterns upon the floor, as though the old palace still wished to converse with the present. For a long moment, I stood there in quiet wonder — struck not merely by its architecture, but by the grace with which time itself had chosen to linger.

The Raja Ravi Varma paintings, the works of K. Venkatappa, and several evocative Bengali school paintings filled my heart with a warmth I cannot quite name. Each canvas seemed to pulse with its own breath, its own memory. Yet it is the third floor of Jaganmohan Palace that holds a special place in my mind. Here, the board games of Mummadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar are displayed — Pagade, Aśvagati, Sayujya, and many others, each crafted with a precision that reveals both artistry and intellect.

Just inside the entrance of this floor is a small window that opens out to the terrace — an unassuming frame that somehow speaks volumes in its quiet beauty. After climbing the grand wooden staircase, the immediate rightward circular passage is always fascinating. From there, one can clearly see the main gate of the palace. In earlier times, it must have served as a vantage point for communication — a silent corridor where messages flowed without ever disturbing the dignity of the royal chambers.

By the time I stepped out, it was already two o’clock. I realised I had spent nearly two hours alone in that grand, echoing palace — a luxury of solitude that felt almost sacred. Hunger led me to Hotel Siddhartha, where I treated myself to a simple North Indian meal, comforting in its familiarity.

From there, I made my way to Prasaranga, the publication division of Mysore University. The shelves welcomed me like old friends; I picked up a few titles that caught my eye. A brief stop at Kukkarahalli Kere followed — just a few quiet minutes by the water, letting the breeze carry my thoughts. Then a short walk to Bombe Mane at Nazarabad, and finally a visit to Geetha Book House near the circle — a place no book lover can ever skip in Mysore.

By then, the day had begun to fold itself gently. It was already five when I boarded the train back to Bengaluru, arriving by seven, greeted by a sky heavy with rain. I took a warm auto home through the downpour, the city lights shimmering on the wet roads.

And that was my first ever independent journey, back in 2022 — a day stitched together with books, memories, and the quiet companionship of a city I have always loved.