Unskilled labours

When I arrive in a new location, particularly a new town - which are never my favourite places - I'm always a bit apprehensive about whether I will like the place or not. Mysore stole my heart pretty quickly. On the bus before I even got there, an Indian gentleman asked my neighbour to swap seats with him so he could sit next to me. Having seen me poring over my Loney Planet guide, he sat down, leaned over and pointed out all the places in India I simply had to visit, in his opinion. Sadly they were all in the north and that part of my journey is long over. I tried to explain this and, undeterred, he asked for my mobile number and insisted I took his, so that next time I was in India (he had no question that I would return to see these places) I could ring him up and he'd take me to there himself. His spoken English was pretty poor, so I wasn't confident that we'd get any sense out of each other if I did ever find myself in a position to ring him, but I hadn't the heart to turn him down, so I took his details anyway to make him happy. He got off before Mysore, having wanted nothing other that to be of asistance. How lovely this was, when all too often those involved in the tourist industry are 'helpful' for ulterior motives.

When I got to my hotel in Mysore, the good feeling continued: the bellboy who came to show me to my room was as chirpy as a little sparrow. He was probably more of a bell-grandpa really, being around 70 I would guess, with sprightly darting eyes an a big gap-toothed smile. He whisked my leaden backpack onto one shoulder as if it contained no more than clouds, and skipped off so quickly that I had to trot to keep up with him. All the way there sang happily away to himself, leaving me free of my burden to admire the mouldering glory of what had once been a lovely, stylish 1930s Art Deco-ish building.

Still singing, he showed me my room and bathroom. The plumbing looked as if it also dated from the 1930s, along with layers of dirt and stains of the same vintage. I don't think the bathroom had been redecorated or even cleaned since that decade!

Not a word of English or any other language passed Bell-grandpa's lips, just cheery humming. He didn't even seem to be aware of my presence, so much was he in a happy little world of his own. I wanted him to be my grandpa, he was so sweet!

Dodgy bathroom and all, I took the room (it was actually pretty comfy, quiet and had hot water! in the morning). How could I not after such unselfconscious happiness? As I followed Bell-grandpa back down to reception to fill in the miles of forms toursits in India have to endure, he grabbed hold of the shiny, dark wooden bannisters and slid all the way down two flights of stairs, with child-like joy. This sealed the deal!

The next morning I set out for Mysore's famous Devaraja Market refreshed, but for the haunting call to prayer from a nearby mosque that woke me a little earlier than my drowsy body believed to be strictly necessary. The guidebook promised great photo opportunities and I soon found out they were telling the truth. The fruit and veg section was a buzz of early morning activity, with men, women and children coming and going, loading and unloading, shouting and laughing, spitting and peeing.

One man sat already in place in his stall, totally and I mean totally, surrounded to left, right, above and below by onions. Just onions, not a single other vegetable! They were mostly red ones with a small section of white onions too. He seemed to be sitting literally on top of row upon row of neatly arranged veg, all the same size, all facing the same way, creating a vegetable rampart that it would have taken a fearless customer to disturb. Who could dare to remove and handle one of his precision-placed onions?

Behind him lay more onions, this time lying loose, heaped against the side of his little space. These must be the ones he would actually sell, so as not to breach his vegetable castle. He himself sat exactly in the middle, a simple, stripe-shirted king on his throne of root vegetables. The only two other objects present in the scene that were not an onion, were a set of battered weighing scales and the newspaper he was reading. The 8am sun slanted into the narrow alleyway, making the red onions shine like polished pink pebbles.

Elsewhere another man sat cross-legged among mounds and mounds of bunches of fresh coriander. Tied with twine, these fistfuls of herb filled the air with their sharp pungent aroma coating the less pleasant smell of rotting fruit and vegtables and drains that formed the base notes of this market fragrance.

Everywhere I looked, colour and form and texture and light and setting burst into my vision. There were photos everywhere I looked, but taking them almost meant not seeing them in reality. This was, after all, an everyday market, not there for the sole purpose of curious travellers such as me to photograph it and lock it in a box. It was there to be experienced without a lense in front of my eye.

After taking photo after photo until my camera was red-hot, I reluctantly forced myself to put it in my bag and see, feel, smell, taste and touch the place instead. I wandered into the flower section. Garlands of flowers hung down from every high point, stirring slightly in the breeze and curtaining the alleys. The scent of a million flowers swirled through the air. The thick heavy scent of sensual jasmine, delicate tuberose, sweet soft rose and sharp acid marigold all blended together into a rich, fresh perfume that hummed and vibrated with a thousand bees and insects, drawn to and drunk on this heaven of blossoms.

There were enormous temple garlands, metres long, made thick with several slender chains of thousands of tiny white tuberose flowers bound togther, groups of roses or marigolds in between. At the base of each garland, was a brightly coloured foil-covered ball - gold, Cadbury purple, turquoise, or hot pink - gleaming like an outrageous jewel, above a delicate tassel of individually-threaded tuberose strands, each finished with a pompom of orange or gold marigolds. The florists had splashed the finished garlands liberally with water and in the warming air, this scented dew filled my nostrils with fragrance. Some garlands were encased in a delicate web of silver strands that caught the light and glittered like dancing white fireflies.

I spoke to a florist whose name was Khan, and watched as he deftly threaded the fragile individual tuberose flowers onto a cotton thread. He told me that some of the longer garlands took several hours to make, as every single flower, leaf and petal was hand-strung. He worked with quick, expert fingers, slipping the fleshy blooms onto the long thread at lightening speed.

I asked if I could have a go. The results were predictably useless. I tore petals, broke the heads and threaded a wonky line that wouldn't lie straight. Khan gently took the needle and thread from me with an indulgent smile and carried on, barely looking at what he was doing.

His assistant was making the foil balls for the garlands, so I turned my attention to how this was done. He took a small plastic bag filled with dried grain and tied the open end by whipping a soaked cotton thread around it several times. Next he pierced the bag to let a little air out and, with flying movements, quickly bound the ball with more thread, adjusting the shape into a perfectly round ball with his hands. Now it was a tight solid ball, and he encased it in a strip of coloured foil and whipped the thread around this too, folding it neatly round the curved sides as he went. A little twist of the thread at the end and it was done - a shiny fat jewel of a ball produced. The whole process took no more than 30 seconds.

Yes you're right: I wanted to have a go too! And yes, the same car crash results as before ensued. My grain ball was a squashed satsuma, with great lumps bulging out between the strands of thread, like a too-fat lady in tight jeans.Grimacing, I passed it to Khan for inspection before starting the foil wrapping. With a small Indian head wobble he generously OK'd it, after reshaping it in his hands and securing it with a few more rounds of cotton.

The foil-wrapping was also, of course, harder than it looked. Trying to get an even layer, while turning and winding seemed to need several more than 10 fingers, especially after I managed to bind a few of them onto the ball by mistake. My finished globe was unevenly covered, with patches of silver backing where I'd managed to fold the foil the wrong way. It looked like a dog had got into a Terry's Chocolate Orange. Again Khan kindly wobbled his acceptance of my substandard manufacture. I put it in a pile next to his other ones, where my shortcomings were instantly highlighted on top of his heap of uniform spheres. I was sure that its woeful, crippled form would probably be quietly discarded once I'd left.

To cement our budding friendship, I also told Khan I was a florist back home, and showed him some photos of my work on my mobile. He was delighted and a cup of chai appeared from nowhere into my hand while he took a few minutes off to compare and contrast. He seemed impressed, but I couldn't help thinking how much more skillful his creations were. He showed me his own album and my impressions were confirmed: it was full of images of impossibly elaborate garlands, archway decorations, flower netting, headdresses and even a complete bridal dress made of tuberose heads. There were marriage bed canopies, made entirely of jasmine 'lace' that had taken three days to make and install. There was a wedding bus entirely covered with a netting of tuberose and marigolds. It was breathtakingly skillful. Khan was only 23, but he said he'd been working with flowers since he was eight years old. I could well believe it. It seemed that for me, starting as a florist at 31, I'd probably missed the boat...