Walking with the dreamers

The morning was early and the ducks were elegant. The small pathway along the lake seemed to stretch on endlessly and it was the first time I was enjoying a walk with six others.

It had been Mahendra Pallava who had suggested that we head out to a pub the previous night. Pulikesi had gotten drunk with vodka while Sivakami had taken it easy with lime juice.

And now we were all walking along the lake and Kabilan intoned, "Nagareshu Mysore."

"Athi Sundaram," said the Pallava king and I half-expected Sivakami to compose a dance right there, competing with the swans.

The Annual Theatre Festival (or Rangayana) at Mysore happens curiously every year. A few foreign films had also been showcased. 'Shame' by Ingmar Bergmen had touched a nerve - the pathetic human emotions and the shameful exploits to survive were put embarrasingly on display.

I had initially envisioned a place with bearded men in kurtas and movies that displayed breasts in aesthetic, black & white frames. I wasn't disappointed. But what surprised me most was how much I liked being there.

Then it had turned out that we (my travelling companion and I) were friends with the cast of 'Flame of the Forest' - a stage adaptation of Kalki's 'Sivagaamiyin Sabhadham'. The play brought alive the Kanchipuram of the Pallavas, resplendent with Sivakami's dance and Appar's poetry. Men and women that were forever stuck - and blissfully so - with Hamlet and Chekov performed with their hearts and souls. The same men and women with whom I was walking.

That very morning, I had woken up at six thirty to a lively discussion of the usage of iambic pentameters in Othello and its uses in theatre.

We were all dreamers there, refusing to look at the world in the eyes. We were rebels, trying to break through. Through to the other side. Some of us had found it. Some of us were still hunting for it. But all of us were dreaming. There were no inhibitions. No hesitations. No physical contact.

I had found the pleasure of their company. The company of a thousand lost souls. The company of one collective individual. The pleasure of travel. The pleasure of life. The kind of two days that bearded men in kurtas always talk about...