To my dearest Mysuru,
I feel so deeply privileged to have experienced you. I’ve often carried a sense of rootlessness — born in one U.S. state, raised in another, educated in a third, and yet most deeply attached to India, a country to which I have no legal claim.
You’ve given me yet another way to substantiate this attachment — but this time, it feels different. My “swalpa swalpa Kannada barutte” and I can’t claim to be a Kannadiga by any stretch of the imagination, yet I now claim the title of Mysurian. You welcomed me so earnestly and so thoroughly that I almost think you’d feel betrayed if I didn’t.
No other city has ever made me feel so utterly at home. I like that you’re kind of small; it made it easier to learn your ins and outs. For someone as directionally challenged as I am, that mattered — I know my way around you. I feel safe with you. I explored every inch of you in a way that stands apart from the many other cities I call home.
I’m not sure how to cope with the knowledge that I won’t be seeing your coconut trees, smelling your earthiness after rain, or feeling your gentle breezes through morning auto rides for… how long? I don’t know when I’ll be back to appreciate you so wholly again, and that is a gruesome truth to face.
You’ve certainly left your mark on me… but I think I’ve left my mark on you too. I hope. I wonder if the cows that frequent my street will miss me feeding them — will they notice I’m gone? I know the staff at the bookstore and coffee shops I frequent will miss me (and no, this isn’t a bloated sense of self-importance — we actually discussed it, I promise). I know my friends will think of me, at least from time to time. My avatars have been many here: favorite dance partner at Evolve, favorite customer at Silverfish Bookstore, favorite dessert buddy, favorite coffee raver, regular at Mysore Darbar Filter Coffee, Namma Filter Coffee, and Minimal.
You know what, Mysuru? You’ll remember me. Maybe in bits and pieces, scattered across yourself, but you’ll miss me — as much as I’ll miss you. And for that, I’m sorry, because this parting aches in a way I’ve never known.
But I’m also grateful. Because this pain is proof that I finally felt rooted with you. I spread my web far and wide — across shops, cafes, universities, my workplace, even other cities in India — but every strand is anchored through you. This pain is how I know you became home.
I look forward to calling you home again soon, Mysuru. And I promise that when I do, I’ll take my “swalpa swalpa Kannada barutte” to a simple “Haudu. Kannada barutte” when I’m asked. Neenandre nange thumba ishta— I am eternally grateful for my time with you.
