Adrenaline rush, Burgeoning Neighbourhood, Ramya Hotel and Nature @ Kukkarahalli Lake

It was a Saturday morning, and I yearned for the rare indulgence of sleeping in. I aimed for 7:00 AM, but my early-bird nature betrayed me. By 6:20 AM, I was awake, though I’d stirred even earlier at 5:00, coaxing myself back to sleep with the rationale that rising too soon might invite unnecessary complications. As I left my bed, an unshakable intuition gripped me: my wife would soon unburden her sorrows, a premonition rooted in a heated argument from a week prior. That dispute had escalated into an act of manhandling, a moment I deeply regret. Overwhelmed by the intensity of our clash, my inability to speak, and the weight of what I believe to be depression, I had succumbed to an adrenaline-fueled outburst, behaving like a beast. The scars of that day, I feared, would resurface this morning.

To soothe my uneasy stomach—already irritated by acid reflux exacerbated by my emotional turmoil—I reached for a handful of peeled almonds. I’ve come to recognize that my body rebels against distress, manifesting hormonal imbalances that trigger physical unease. As anticipated, my wife revealed she’d been awake since 3:00 AM, her sleeplessness a silent accusation aimed at me. “You slept soundly while I couldn’t,” she said, her words heavy with the residue of our past conflict. I chose silence, offering only, “Things will be alright. Let’s give it time.” In truth, our relationship lacks mutual affirmation, a void born of our divergent perspectives. My penchant for intellectual rigor often clashes with her worldview, fueling endless debates that erode our harmony.

Soon, a new point of contention arose. My wife insisted I instruct our maid to clean the staircase leading to the first floor, a task I resisted. Weeks earlier, the maid had politely but firmly declined, citing that the work exceeded her agreed-upon duties and compensation. I respected her stance and let it go, but my wife’s insistence reignited the issue. Her demand felt like a trap—a commitment that would later be scrutinized, adding to my stress. My adrenaline surged, urging me to refuse, not out of defiance but to avoid the inevitable follow-up questions. This wasn’t an argument, merely a discussion, yet it carried the weight of our deeper disconnect.

Amid this tension, my pet dog, ever attuned to my moods, gazed at me with eager anticipation for his morning walk. His curiosity offered a timely escape. I seized the moment, grabbing a cup of warm water and signaling our departure. His joyful leaps as he sensed the walk brought a smile to my face, a fleeting reprieve from the morning’s heaviness. As we prepared to leave, I recalled a recent conversation with a friend about expanding my vocabulary. Words like “brouhaha,” newly learned, danced in my mind, a deliberate distraction from the lingering negativity. I was determined to keep my emotions in check, and focusing on these words helped me do just that.

Stepping outside with my German Shepherd, we followed his familiar route. Along the way, I encountered Raju, a friendly tea vendor near my home who charges a modest ₹10 per cup. Raju, economically modest, had once mentioned needing a pen drive to play music on his system. I’d promised to provide one, a small gesture to support him, but procrastination had delayed me. Today, I fulfilled that commitment, handing him a spare pen drive. His gratitude and questions about its use warmed me, reinforcing the value of our regular chats over tea. As I sipped his expertly brewed blend, my dog stood guard, protecting me from stray dogs with a quiet vigilance that amused me. I prefer to call them “universally adopted” dogs, a term that feels kinder.

Continuing our walk, we passed a construction site, a stark contrast to the empty land it once was. The sight stirred memories of building my own home seven years ago. Each house under construction here was unique, from foundational pillars to creative designs, reflecting human aspirations. Many featured ground floors for parking, first floors for family living, and open terraces for serene evenings. Elevated in Mysore, these homes promised views of the Chamundi Hills from their top floors, a mesmerizing prospect. I observed workers, contractors, and owners in discussion, occasionally arguing over plans or wages. At one site, a Hindu Brahmin family performed a ritual, blessing the land for prosperity—a poignant reminder of the cultural dream to own and build a home, a dream I, too, had chased, shaped by societal expectations of success.

My dog, ever mischievous, seized my distraction to sniff and lick at spots I’d rather he avoid. His German Shepherd cunning outwitted me, and I gently corrected him, chuckling at his antics. The construction site reminded me of the past six years, when this area was a raw field where I trained my dog to fetch balls. Now, it’s a burgeoning neighborhood, with roads and amenities transforming the landscape. A caretaker I often spoke with had once urged me to invest here, but my financial commitments were already stretched. His son, once a playmate of my own son, now drifted apart, separated by economic and social divides. Yet, their occasional greetings retained a spark of humanity, a connection I cherished.

As we turned toward home, my dog’s friend, a female dog with new puppies, approached. Their playful interaction amused me, and I teased my dog about missing his chance at fatherhood. The mother dog and her pups trailed us, a charming procession that required careful navigation to avoid harm. At a junction, I noticed chilies, lemons, and red water strewn on the ground—a ritual to ward off evil, rooted in tradition but, to my rational mind, a blind belief that dirties public spaces. I let my dog sniff it, unconcerned, though I lamented the lack of scientific temper in such practices.

Back home, I met my neighbor, a worker to whom I’d lent money. He promised repayment within ten days, a commitment I trusted. My elder son, ready for college, joined me as I prepared to drop him off. Checking my phone, I hoped for no work emails or meeting invites, a small rebellion against my demanding job. Disappointingly, my salary hadn’t been credited, an irony given my recent generosity. Yet, I honored my neighbor’s need, driven by gratitude for past kindnesses I’d received. Dropping my son at college, I inquired about his gym plans, but he brushed me off, focused on his studies. As a 12th-grader, he faced immense societal pressure, and I respected his need for space, wishing him well.

A Pause at Ramya Hotel - Savoring Life’s Interwoven Stories

Photo Courtesy, Justdial

Stepping into Ramya Hotel, I was enveloped by the tantalizing aroma of sizzling dosa, its buttery warmth promising comfort. Diagonally opposite the heritage home of Dr S. Radhakrishnan, the hotel hummed with a quiet intimacy, its walls steeped in Mysore’s storied past. Seeking a cozy corner to reflect and jot down ideas, I settled at a table where I could observe the morning’s gentle rhythm. My mind, still buzzing from the ride’s revelations—my son’s pressures, the shortcut’s guilt, the city’s awakening—craved a moment to weave new thoughts, perhaps inspired by prompts on my phone. I ordered a ghee-drizzled dosa, its rich flavor a deliberate indulgence, and a single idly to start, a nod to balance.

The sparse crowd caught the waiter’s attention, his voice tinged with disappointment as he remarked to a colleague, “It’s Saturday, but the rush hasn’t come. Maybe later.” At 8:30 AM, the hotel typically brimmed with breakfast seekers, but recent rains had kept patrons indoors, dampening business. I sensed his concern—fewer customers meant fewer tips, a vital supplement to his salary.

The gloomy weather, persistent for two weeks, had cast a shadow over the hotel’s vibrancy, yet his candid exchange with his fellow waiter revealed a resilience born of shared struggle, a microcosm of the city’s ebb and flow.

With confidence in the hotel’s unwritten code of trust, I placed my belongings—goggles, phone, helmet, vehicle key, pen, and notebook—on the table, unconcerned about theft. Such security, rare in unfamiliar places, was a hallmark of Ramya’s familiarity, where patrons could relax without fear. I rose to wash my hands at the basin, returning to find my items untouched, a small affirmation of community trust. As I waited for my order, my gaze wandered to four elderly men seated nearby, their animated chatter filling the air. Distinct from the uncles outside, these patrons, perhaps in their late 70s, wove a tapestry of family tales with robust voices.

One gentleman, his eyes alight with pride, shared news of his daughter’s newborn, an 11-day-old child. He marveled at the sensitivity of the baby’s father, his son-in-law, who bathed and swaddled the infant with meticulous care, a tenderness he admitted he’d never mastered. “In our time, elderly women handled such tasks,” he said, noting the friction between tradition and modernity. His daughter and son-in-law, armed with contemporary views, directed the traditional bath-giver, an elderly woman whose methods clashed with their preferences. This tension, he confessed, was foreign to his own experience, yet he chose neutrality. “It’s their child, their world,” he told his friends, his voice steady with acceptance. “We can’t impose our ways—they must find their own.”

Another friend, more traditional, challenged this stance. “You must guide them,” he urged, his tone firm. “Traditions hold meaning, and they should understand that.” The first gentleman countered with quiet wisdom, “Forcing them won’t work. They question everything, and I can’t answer their scientific doubts. Let them flourish in their truth.” His words struck a chord, echoing my own reflections on embracing change rather than clinging to past norms. My experiences, I realized, couldn’t dictate another’s path—imposing them might spark resentment, not harmony. This exchange, vibrant with generational nuance, felt like a mirror to Mysore’s evolving ethos, where tradition and progress danced in delicate balance.

As I scrolled through my phone, half-listening to their conversation, my idly arrived, its soft texture a prelude to the main course. The dosa followed, its golden crispness glistening with ghee, a cholesterol-laden delight I embraced without guilt, trusting a later walk to burn the calories. Each bite was a burst of flavor, grounding me in the moment’s simple joy. My reverie was interrupted by a young woman who entered, her voice bright as she reserved a table for six friends. The waiter, quick to accommodate, pointed to a large table that could seat eight, ensuring their comfort. Soon, her group arrived—a lively mix of three languages: Hindi from a couple, perhaps husband and wife; Kannada from three others; and Tamil from a lone woman. Their diversity wove a vibrant thread into the hotel’s fabric.

Seated near my open-air table, their discussion spilled over, impossible to ignore. They debated the dosa’s origins, comparing homemade batter to the hotel’s recipe, and mused over the ingredients’ nuances. “It’s different on the street,” one remarked, sparking laughter as they imagined roadside vendors’ flair. Their talk veered to tea, its preparation a ritual as sacred as the meal itself. This eclectic group, united by shared curiosity, embodied the interconnectedness I’d sensed all morning—from my neighbor’s gratitude to the city’s bustling streets. Their voices, a symphony of accents, reminded me that Mysore’s heart beat in its people’s diversity, each story enriching the collective narrative.

Caught in their lively exchange, I forgot my own quest for new ideas, my mind drifting to their narratives instead. The hotel, a crossroads of lives, pulsed with stories—some spoken, like the elderly men’s family tales, others unspoken, like the waiter’s quiet hopes. Finishing my meal, I paid a bill of ₹162, adding a generous tip to brighten the waiter’s day, a small gesture to honor his resilience. I washed my oily hands, the warm water cleansing more than just my skin, and donned my helmet and goggles. As I sat on my two-wheeler, a sudden pull tugged at my heart—Kukkarahalli Lake, a nearby sanctuary, beckoned. Without fully realizing it, I was already navigating toward its promise of serenity, ready to weave new threads into the morning’s tapestry.

A Morning Odyssey at Kukkarahalli Lake

Kukkara Halli Kere (Lake), Entrance Shot

Drawn by an irresistible pull, I veered toward Kukkarahalli Lake, my two-wheeler carrying me almost instinctively. Parking near a makeshift entrance—a shortcut carved by locals to bypass the main gate—I stepped into Kuvempu Vana, a man-made garden named for the visionary Kannada poet who coined “Vishwamanava,” a term embodying universal humanity. The park’s structured layout, with neatly arranged plants and stone benches, contrasted with the wilder lake beyond, setting the stage for a morning of profound connection.

As I entered, a vibrant tapestry of life unfolded. A woman in a burkha texted intently, her fingers dancing across her phone, oblivious to the path. Nearby, a young girl walked briskly toward the gate, sharing her location to meet someone, her smile radiating anticipation. The lake’s gentle waves lapped at the shore, their soft melody mingling with birdsong, while joggers, meditators, and families animated the scene. I took the right path, joining the circular trail encircling the lake, where people walked, jogged, or sat, savoring the water’s serene beauty.

Early in my walk, I noticed a man eyeing a prime bench with a clear view of the lake. He adjusted his position, visibly dissatisfied, until the occupant vacated the spot. With a swift leap, he claimed it, his triumph sparking a shared giggle between us. His embarrassed laugh met my smile, a fleeting bond over his small victory. To my right, an untamed mini-forest of tall trees—bamboo, eucalyptus, acacia, and sparse coconut—stretched toward the sky, their branches uncut, defying human control. I envied their boundless freedom, whispering, “If only I could live without society’s constraints, like you.” Birds flitted through the dense canopy, crows scanning for opportunities, their chatter a lively counterpoint to the lake’s calm.

The forest’s wildness stirred a reflection: without human interference, nature flourishes. I imagined myself as a tree, sheltering birds and conversing with the wind, unburdened by societal dogma. The trees, some towering as if boasting to shorter ones, seemed to mock their dwarfish kin, saying, “I see the city, while you barely reach my waist.” Through the dark green leaves, blue skies peeked, and birds—tweaking, mating, or fishing—filled the air with purpose. A clever crow, poised for the perfect moment, swooped to seize a morsel, its precision a testament to nature’s opportunism.

The path curved gently, sunlight filtering through the trees, casting a warm glow on the brownish mud trail. The palette of green canopy, brown earth, and glinting water danced before me, a living canvas. To my left, ancient trees, perhaps witnesses to Kuvempu’s era, stood untamed, their gnarled branches a testament to time. I marveled at their unrestricted growth, pondering how humans, too, might thrive without societal boundaries. “If we had no stigma, no limits,” I mused, “we’d flourish like these trees, hosting life, embracing freedom.”

Among the walkers, I saw barefoot individuals, likely influenced by Ayurvedic advice to tread on pebbles for natural acupuncture. My rational mind questioned their choice, noting the muddy, rain-soaked path that risked injury. Yet, I withheld judgment, recognizing that traditions, like those of my ancestors, hold sway despite modern options. The crowd spanned ages—20s to 70s—each face reflecting unique stories. Some radiated joy, others bore the weight of daily woes. A bald man, around 55, his head glinting in the mild sunlight, barked into his phone in Kannada, insisting mangoes not exceed ₹30 per kilo. “You don’t know the value of money!” he scolded, oblivious to the irony of stressing himself while walking to de-stress. I smiled, but he didn’t notice, lost in his fervor.

This sparked a broader reflection: why carry phones that tether us to stress? A relative once boasted of multitasking while walking, claiming efficiency, but I saw it as a paradox. Walking should be a present act, not a conduit for past or future burdens. Yet, I conceded that music through headphones could enhance the experience, focusing the mind while savoring nature’s beauty. Still, conversing on calls defeats the purpose, robbing us of the moment. “You’re a loser if you miss the present,” my mind chided.

A group of six or seven, likely a Muslim family, passed by. Some women wore burqas or hijabs, while younger ones did not, perhaps questioning their faith’s norms. Nearby, a throng of 50 college students, guided by professors, buzzed with energy. Speaking Malayalam, Tamil, and Kannada, they exuded adolescent innocence, their laughter and teasing evoking my own college days. Girls grouped together, giggling over crushes, while others debated AI or the lake’s history. Their freedom to mingle, unlike my more constrained youth, was a melody to my eyes, their blushes and banter a vibrant nostalgia.

Another group, professionals on a tourist visit, spoke Hindi, English, Marathi, Tamil, Malayalam, and Kannada. They snapped selfies against the lake’s greenery, debating a move to Mysore for its serenity. “No urban chaos here,” one said, only for another to quip, “What about your career? What will you eat?” Their laughter cut through the air, a satirical nod to practicality. I nearly lingered, drawn to their banter, but moved on, embarrassed by my eavesdropping.

Trees leaned into the water, their branches dipping playfully, as if teasing the waves. The wind orchestrated this dance, pushing leaves to touch the water, then retreat—a serendipitous game of nature’s children. A man’s loud motivational talk pierced the calm, followed by a woman, about 60, playing Hindu mantras, their cadence echoing my grandfather’s recitations. These sounds, meant to summon positivity, felt jarring to others, yet deeply familiar to me.

Young joggers in colorful tights—blue, red, black—moved rhythmically, relishing the lake’s beauty. Overweight walkers in their 30s struggled on the uneven, rain-soaked path, cursing the municipal corporation for not paving it in concrete. “We pay taxes for this nonsense!” a woman shouted. Elderly men paused to discuss H.S. Venkatesh Murthy’s recent passing, a Kannada poet whose work I admired. Their talk veered into politics, blaming the government, and I caught myself critiquing their critique, my mind whispering, “Stop picking holes, move on.”

Near a shelter, filth from a drainage leak tainted the water, its stench worrying me for the aquatic life. A water hen foraged in the muck, unfazed, its resilience a quiet lesson. “I’m fine here,” it seemed to say, surviving where I saw only decay. I stepped aside for joggers, realizing my slow pace disrupted their rhythm. The symphony of cuckoos, cranes, crickets, and bush birds enveloped me, some mistaking the shaded path for evening, their calls a vibrant chorus. Frogs croaked as if at noon, adding to the jungle-like ambiance of my footsteps on the muddy trail.

Two college students snapped selfies at every turn, one instructing his friend to share them on specific WhatsApp groups. Their mischief drew my smile, and his shy grin acknowledged our shared amusement. Others, aged 40s to 50s, meditated—some with poised postures, others less so. My mind urged me to stop judging and move on. A duck’s graceful landing in the water, navigating the ecosystem with precision, spoke of strength and harmony, its ripples blending with the wind’s melody against the shore.

Cut trees, their logs stacked roadside, bore the scars of human intervention. Stripped of branches, they stood as stark reminders of our paradoxical quest to ease human life by ending plant life. A tractor’s rattle signaled cultivation on university land, unearthing worms that drew crows in a feeding frenzy. The tractor’s driver tilled, worms surfaced, and crows feasted—a biological cycle unfolding before me. Nearby, heart-shaped vines twined around a tree, a symbol of love cradled by nature. “If humans valued heart as you do,” I thought, “joy would hang everywhere.”

An ancient tree, leafless and weathered, stood as a monument to its contributions—sheltering birds, offering oxygen, now resting in dignified decay. A muddy stretch forced me to balance on a narrow brick path, my curiosity leading others to follow, a small act of trailblazing. A businessman, phone blaring, yelled at workers about hardware orders, his stress echoing my own manager’s tone, a reminder of workplace pressures.

Two squirrels scampered alongside, and a tiny mushroom, dwarfed by towering trees, seemed to challenge them: “I’m small, but I thrive here.” The trees, in turn, welcomed it, as did a taller grass vying for dominance. Capturing the mushroom’s photo, I drew curious glances, but the crowd had thinned. By 10:30 AM, the lake’s keepers were closing, and the reduced footprints unleashed a burst of life. Squirrels roamed freely, butterflies flitted, and fish leaped. Birds—ducks, cormorants—danced for their prey, their excitement palpable. Stray dogs, or “adopted” ones, rested on concrete steps, secure in the quiet. Life was coming alive.

Two cement benches, donated by Mysore University alumni, underscored the community’s role in sustaining this sanctuary. A half-built shelter, imperfect yet enduring, spoke of beauty in flaws. A wrecked structure, overtaken by vines and grass, supported a micro-ecosystem, proof that even decay fosters life. As I neared the end, the closed gates explained the sparse crowd. A gatekeeper kindly opened the exit, and I stepped into a buzzing world of commerce and noise, the lake’s serenity lingering in my soul.

This walk revealed life’s interconnectedness—every human, animal, and plant weaving stories around the lake. From the businessman’s stress to the water hen’s resilience, from the students’ laughter to the trees’ silent wisdom, each thread formed a tapestry of existence, vibrant and eternal.