Am I to view history only as a tourist—no, it cannot be, Dewa can’t help thinking to herself. Anyone who has had some involvement in that whole colonial experience can only see himself or herself as having been there, part of it all, having held the sword in one’s hands or the flint lock, seen those cannon fired that razed a civilization to the ground. For this one tomb, for this one deathspot in a desolation of weeds, there are thousands and thousands of nameless graves and a thousand Captain Harrys. Looking at the others, Dewa sees even the Indians with her as tourists within their own country with its vast distances and diverse languages. Everything changes on these journeys—food, clothes, religion, dialects, the very air that is breathed, the fruit and flavours. Ambrosia is here to taste but you must not wait too long—the thin-skinned plantains spoil, the grapes ferment, turn sour and the flies buzz over their early decay. The freshly-skinned papaw reveals its succulent and thirst-quenching golden flesh, the sapodillas are honey sweet. Here with all their fruit—the apples with their kumkumum streaks, the juice-filled oranges—you too can partake of the theertham, the offerings to the gods.

Going into Mysore is going back into history. Everywhere in the city colonialism has left its impression on the administrative buildings, on the churches, on the bungalows. They have impressive facades yet they are touched with a certain melancholy, the green mould and fungus of time, the peeling plaster and the sense that these are monuments of an age that one would not even wish to remember. Yet, side by side with the race course, the golf club and the boating club are the ancient fortresses, tombs, temples and shrines. One culture is juxtaposed with another. Even on the road to Thanjavur the graffiti on the walls had read: ‘Hindi Never English for Ever’. And everywhere, processions of bicycle riders carrying flags with slogans on them and lorry loads of youthful political supporters of the Congress party filled the road.

Bangalore and Mysore are towns full of ghosts, full of monuments. They still bear that aura of a vanished colonialism. Amongst the sandalwood trees, the crisp cool air, the glittering temples and the great stone sculptures of Nandi, the spires of churches and Christian colleges reveal a different kind of reality. Here, colonial rule ceased to be alien, took root in brick and language.

The guide goes on and on in the bus, speaking his part. ‘Now we come to place named Mysore. You stop fifteen minutes. No delay please.’ He rattles off a number of facts. The students first take notes. Then they get bored. They prefer the video. They refuse to pay him the extra rupees for additional information which he offers to give.

‘Two rupees more you give me for telling about hydraulic feats in Brindavan Gardens.’ There is an altercation here. ‘Why should we pay him extra? Already we have paid him at the beginning of the journey,’ the lecturer from the Indian college says. He is a fair-complexioned, placid-looking man who appears to be immensely popular with his students.