There’s a secret rhythm to Mysore if you know where to listen: the clink of cups at Depth N Green, the lazy shuffle of sandals outside Malgudi Café, the soft chatter at Mystic’s.
I’ve spent hours hopping from one coffee haven to another, notebook in one hand, cold brew in the other.
These cafés aren’t just spots to eat — they’re where ideas bloom, friendships form, and sometimes, where you catch yourself quietly, happily falling in love with your own life.
Before moving to Mysore, my mornings were… let’s just say, less than magical. Snooze buttons, cold coffee, hurried emails. But something about this city — its slow sunrise, the scent of fresh jasmine in the air — whispered for a softer start.
Now, my mornings begin barefoot, with warm lemon water, soft stretches on my balcony, and a quick visit to the tiny temple at the end of our street. No expectations. Just presence. If you’ve ever dreamed of romanticizing your mornings, Mysore might just be your muse too.
There was a time when my mornings felt like a race I didn’t remember signing up for.
The alarm would blare, I’d stumble toward coffee, thumb through emails before my eyes could even focus — and somehow, the day would already feel lost before it even began.
Back then, “morning rituals” sounded like something reserved for monks, influencers, or people with a lot more free time than me.
And then, I moved to Mysore.
There’s something about this city that invites you — gently but insistently — to slow down.
Maybe it’s the way the sky blushes pink before sunrise, or the distant hum of mantras floating from nearby temples. Maybe it’s the smell of fresh jasmine that sneaks into your window before your feet even touch the floor.
Whatever it is, Mysore mornings have a way of asking you, softly, to listen.
These days, my mornings look completely different.
I wake up naturally around 5:30 or 6 AM, no blaring alarms needed. The air is still cool and a little heavy with dew. Before my mind can start negotiating with my body (you know the drill: “five more minutes”), I swing my legs off the bed and step onto the floor — barefoot, grounding, awake.
First stop: the kitchen.
A glass of warm lemon water, sometimes with a pinch of pink salt if I’m feeling fancy. There’s something oddly ceremonial about it — like a quiet nod to my body, thanking it for carrying me through another night.
Then, it’s onto my little balcony.
Mysore isn’t a noisy city — at least not early in the day. Sitting there with my cup in hand, watching the sleepy town slowly stretch itself awake, feels like a privilege I didn’t know I needed.
Sometimes I journal.
Sometimes I just sit.
Sometimes I whisper a few Sanskrit mantras under my breath, the words rolling around my mouth like secrets.
And of course, there’s yoga.
Not the performative kind. No “flow of the day” posts, no fancy leggings.
Just me, my mat, and a few sleepy sun salutations to greet the light.
Some mornings it’s ten minutes. Some mornings it’s an hour.
There are no rules anymore — just rhythms.
The funny thing is, nothing about my mornings now feels productive in the traditional sense.
I’m not checking tasks off a list. I’m not even thinking about work yet.
But somehow, these soft, spacious hours shape the entire tone of my day.
They remind me that presence isn’t something you “achieve” — it’s something you choose, moment by moment.
And that magic?
It doesn’t come from some perfect wellness routine or a sunrise Instagram post.
It comes from giving yourself permission to be exactly where you are — messy hair, sleepy eyes, uneven breath — and calling that beautiful.
If you’ve been craving a softer start to your day, maybe you don’t need a whole new life.
Maybe you just need a moment of stillness. A balcony. A lemon. A deep breath.
Or maybe, just maybe, you need a little Mysore in your morning.