Everywhere one goes in Karnataka, one can see boards proclaiming to the world that "Athithi Devo Bhava", the irreverent 'h' being a pet of Southern India. However, after one visit to the Scotland of India, one can see the celebrated Indian hospitality crawling away, clutching at its broken ribs. If this is how God is treated i can only be grateful for my own mortality. Every person one meets in Coorg gives one the impression that having to converse with one is the last straw after a year of dealing with the plague, an attack of the locusts and suddenly not-so-dormant volcanoes. The very first conversation my family had with a native of Karnataka opened a gash so deep in our hearts that even Time will find it difficult to mend the wound. A venerable old sage castigated us for not knowing the habits of the local rickshaw wallahs, despite the fact that three states had to be traversed for us to reach the warm hospitality that is unique to Karnataka. Apparently our ignorance had preceded us with uncanny premonition, by years, nay, decades, and ruined a wonderful city. With this knowledege of our sins bearing us down, we nevertheless crawled to the derelict old bus station that housed the miserable excuse for twenty first century transportation that would carry us to our dream, away from disapproving old men, a quality we deemed sufficient to create Utopia. We had, however, faced harsh opprobrium, since we were the reason the city was what it was (and believe me, what the city was could drive Pollyanna to despair), and shame lends surprising humility. It led us to pay and use toilets no one could previously have bribed us with gold to use, sit mutely in a bus that, besides having been hidden so skillfully that it almost left without us, would most likely plunge us to death, and bear with forbearance the threats of a cocky conductor. Apparently, his sitting on our tickets could be reason enough for him to throw us off the bus.
The next morning we were retched out onto warm tar by a bus that shied from every curve and screeched like a ticklish banshee at every bend. A bigger shock than homicidal busses was, however, journey's end. When we found our bearings it was to discover that we were marooned amidst clots of humanity. Instead of reaching the serene, charming, old-world village promised by travellogues, we had mysteriously reached a congested little town; littered with garbage, hawkers and fellow disconcerted tourists. When we finally found our way to our hotel, which a travel site had proclaimed to be the best Coorg had to offer (I found no cause to fault the website in the duration of my stay), we were greeted, initially, with blatant disbelief at our reservations, subsequently with smirks and whispers of "lets see how long these suckers last", and finally with stone-cold breakfast served by indifferent waiters. The incident that best describes the luxury we enjoyed here took place on the third or the fourth morning of our stay (yes, we stuck on that long).
On the third or the fourth morning we were reminded of how humans are slaves to habit. Usually, we just had our morning coffee in our rooms, preferring to delay seeing how much our presence inconvenienced the housekeepers and owners of the hotel. On this morning, with unwonted optimism, we hoped that they would be civil and ventured out to have coffee and breakfast in the resturant. The lone waiter who would do us the honours seemed not to see us though, as he sailed past with the life giving brew. I was assigned the task of finding him and bringing him back. Keen detective that I am, I was able to follow him by the trail of mud coloured liquid that he had left behind. And when I finally tracked him down, he was knocking on my locked room door. The easy bit done, now I was faced with the Herculean task of getting him to believe me that there was no one in the room.
I started out with a tentative, "There's no one in there, we are in the resturant."
He ignored me. I tried again, "We want the coffee in the dining room."
He spared me a glance, before going back to knocking the door (the knocking had, by now, taken on the timbre of blows).
I tried saying the same thing in Hindi, to no avail. He went on knocking.
Then the steward joined him, and the two of them started hammering at the door.
I pulled out with a flourish my Tamil, "Coffee yenake Dining Roomle venu, namba ange irrikun." (I want the coffee in the dining room, we are all there).
The original drummer shook his head at me reprovingly, as if to say, "Don't distrub an artist at work," and the orchestra continued.
I tried sign language, pointing at myself,the coffee, then at the dining room. Four blank eyes stared at me.
Progress, the drumming ceased! I pointed at the room and shook my hand to say that there was no one there. They stared at me and resumed their knocking. All I had done was remind them that they had stopped.
Exhausted, I gave in, unlocked the door, led them in so that they could deposit their prize, and then picked up the tray and took it to my family to tell them of my gallantry and cunning in retreiving our morning beverage. I needed it more than any of the others; afterall, even Sherlock Holmes got the photograph.
The next morning, we prudently breakfasted in our respective rooms, then set out to shake the dust of Coorg from our feet; never to darken the doorstep of the most beautiful, scenic Hell that I have ever seen.
Once we left behind musical, but imbecile waiters and the congested town, Coorg lived up to all that was promised to us by various friends (sadists, of course, not to have warned us that the people there do not speak 'human') and tourism websites and the Karnataka government. The greenery, steep mountainsides, thick plantations, serene waters, all washed our memories clean.
For, however displeasing the experience with our fellow humans was, Nature did not dissapoint us.
