Everyone loves a Procession?

The procession was a parade. Because "procession" sounds like a somber funeral activity to me, I will use parade, though none of the Indian people knew what I was talking about when I asked them what time the parade would start. Apparently, a procession is a really happy event. I don't know what the word "parade" might connote.

The word on the Dasara Parade was vague until the last minute. We heard rumors that 3-4 million people would be in town for the culmination of the 10-day festival. Some said that the parade would clog the entire city and no one would be able to leave the house. Others said the scene on the streets would be impassable, impossible, frantic. I heard little titterings among yoga students: "where will we be able to go to the bathroom?"; "how will we get back home through the crowds?"; "what if an elephant gets loose and attacks us?". Okay, I didn't hear anyone ask about a wild elephant terrorizing the crowds, but it was a funny thought, and I believe someone may have thought it.

The night before the Parade, we learned that you can buy tickets for grandstand seats near the Palace at the Loyal World supermarket. Miss Karen and I called Raj immediately because if there is one thing in this world that I love, it's a parade. I really don't like crowds; I really don't care for other people's children; I really don't appreciate cotton candy. But I love a parade. I love the drums and the colors and the floats and the dancing. I love to imagine how many times all the parade performers will have to repeat the same movement during the course of the parade; I love to imagine the little bits of conflict that must inevitably occur on the small space of the floats, and the ways the fights might be covered up. And this parade presented something I had never really had a chance to love, but knew I would. This parade would have elephants all dolled up in silk and paint.

Once again, Raj saved the day by delivering us directly to the right gate to enter the Palace grounds. Miss Karen took lots of pictures and I lagged about, waiting for her, making polite conversation with all the parade cops who wanted us to hurry along to our seats. Four officers, each wearing different hats, asked to take a picture with me. I graciously agreed because I also had a different hat, and thought our picture would show off some of the best and worst hat styles of the world. Miss Karen did so, and now she is charged by the Mysore Police Department with delivering four copies to each of the officers involved. I got out of that one because my camera is crap.

We found our seats in the same plastic chairs used for the concert. Everyone sat very politely and it started to rain. Everyone politely opened umbrellas, and we waited. Miss Karen realized that she had a squatter under her umbrella, but being a fine, compassionate, young lady, she allowed her uninvited umbrella guest to remain. Drums started, the rain stopped and the parade started. Still, everyone sat very erect and still, waving indignantly at everyone who stood and ordering them take their seats. Miss Karen said this was a relic of British tradition. After being reprimanded at the Palace before, I was not going to be the one to break this tradition. Fortunately, the crowd in front of the seats surged to a critical mass that no longer had to heed the needs and wishes of the properly seated. We were free to climb on our chairs. Indian families constructed towers of chairs by stacking them up and placing their youngest high atop. The kids cried, and the parents said, "watch the parade."


A cannon started to boom, over and over and over and over. It was less than 400 meters from our seats, and didn't sound in any pattern. We all screamed for every boom, and it finally stopped. When the smoke cleared, the Jumbos started. Then came the marching soldiers, high-stepping in more funny hats. At last, the floats, interspersed with more and more drummers. Each float told a story, as they do, but in a distinctly Indian way that I had not earlier understood. One float had a large picture of Gandhi surrounded by dancing skeletons and bottles of poison. We imagined it might be a warning that you shouldn't poison good people who practice civil disobedience. We learned later that it was a statement against non-violence. We were close.

Another float had two kids chained to a boulder and two kids in cute school backpacks. This was a lesson in making sure you get an education, because if you don't, you will be a slave attached to a boulder forever.

Then came a float with the swami from the cave at the Chammundi Hill. We don't know if it was the real swami, but I took a picture because we missed him at his swami-place, and I thought it was kind of him to appear so conveniently in this way.

The parade went long, and we got tired. I ate all of Miss Karen's cookies, which she calls biscuits. She got groped on the way out and we had the best, wild rickshaw ride ever on our way back home.