Khajuraho: One Day Too Many?

         So Barbara and I were telling each other that we had miscalculated by giving Panna Park a whole day and planning to leave the following day. We had both imagined a day-long jaunt in the Park, but it turned out to be over by 9 am. We tried to change our plane reservation to leave that same day, but no planes were flying out that day back to Varanasi. That's when I decided to make the best of it by taking a swim in the luke warm pool and going back to town in the heat of the day to get my overdue haircut. I described that milennial haircut in the previous blog post. I also followed my curiosity into the curio shops and ended up buying things I probably didn't need.
But it was my return trip on foot that night that really made the extra day in Khajuraho memorable, giving me what I had always hoped for, but could never reliably expect: close contact with local people. As I walked into town in the dark, a young man approached me and opened the usual way, asking where I was from. It turns out he was an engineering student, Niranjan Awashti by name; I was just grateful he wasn't trying to sell me anything. He was on his way to pay his nightly devotions at a temple in town, a temple I had noticed on my first visit two days before, since it was right next to two of the temples in the Western Group, but fenced off, right outside the park.
We arrived at the base of a long stairway, and I doffed my shoes and followed him up. We entered through the narrow main entry way, ducking under the bells of various sizes that hung there overhead, as I had seen at the Durga Temple in Varanasi. The chamber inside was circular, with a stone platform in the center about 4.5 feet (1.5 meters) off the ground. We followed a narrow passageway around until we reached the stone stairs that gave access to the platform. There the other devotees formed a ring around the edge of the circle taking turns approaching the broad stone cylinder in the middle, the Shiva Lingam, and leaning over and kissing it. Then they would go up to the priest who sat directly on the platform facing the entry to receive his blessing and the forehead mark, indicating they had paid their devotions. Then they would leave a donation. The men, including the priest, were all dressed in street clothes and the women in their beautiful saris, a contrast I always found incongruous.

The priest is the seated bald man, slightly to the right of center.

         I took my turn, and received the forehead mark called a tikka (I'm a Hindoo, too), left 50 rs. and followed Niranjan out. I paused for a moment at the top of the stairs to take in the beauty of the scene: one of the temples of the archaeological park was to our immediate left, framed by stars, and dimly illuminated by the light from our temple, with our shadows (or someone's) projected onto it.

I think the red shadow on the right is mine.

Down below, at the bottom of the stairs, the devotees streamed out, flanked by the devotional object stands.
After that I invited Niranjan for dinner at the Maharajah, where sat in the rooftop alcove where Barbara and I had eaten the previous night, with its excellent view of the square, then we walked back. His way home took him right by my hotel. As we parted, he invited me for breakfast the next morning, and for a brief trip to "the jungle" on his motor scooter, about half an hour a way. I was delighted to accepted, but told him I absolutely had to be back by 11:30 am in order to catch our plane back to Varanasi.

View of the main square from our third story perch in the Maharajah restaurant. Note the cow at the entrance in the upper left. It's about 8:30 pm.

         I was up before 7 the next morning, and on my way down to meet Niranajan, did a quick sweep of the hotel's breakfast buffet and ate it in 10 minutes. It was a good thing too, since what Niranjan eventually served me was the Indian equivlent of a continental breakfast.
         Niranjan was waiting for me when I emerged a little after 7:30. He was wearing a crisply pressed gray patterned shirt and polished shoes. I wondered if this was his usual attire for a visit to the "jungle."
          I mounted his scooter behind him, held on, and off we went into his village, the same one my taxi walla had shown me two days before, but a different part of town. His house was comfortable by local standards, with bright colored devotional prints on the walls, a small alter with the ubiquitous marigolds, candle or fire holders and many beads, and a parrot pacing back and forth nervously in his cage in the main hall. I met his mother, his older brother--who was clearly the head of the household--and his sister and siter-in-law and took everyone's picture managing to include the interiors. They had a tree growing out of the ground and up through the ceiling of the inside hallway. I wondered what happened when it rained, but apparently that part of the house regularly got wet and drained, while floor water was kept out of the bedrooms and living room. The rooftop views of the street and surrounding area were quite photogenic. I saw a woman smearing cow dung on what would be her front sidewalk in our culture. This is a precious fuel, and one sees it everywhere in India stacked neatly in rounded off conical piles.

Niranjan and his mom.

Their home alter.

The kitchen. The main heat source was two electric burners.

The tree growing in the inside hallway. Rain would come into the house and wet the floors and drain out, but this normal. I assume socks were rarely worn.

 Niranjan's brother asleep in his room. It was still early morning.

 

Views from Niranjan's rooftop. This is the village of Khjuraho.

 Note the woman smearing cow dung on her entry passage. She will scoop it up when it's dry and stack it in patties for fuel.

Niranjan took me upstairs to see his mother's "collection." It turns out that she once ran a souvenir and jewelry shop, and this was her stock. She showed me simple, beautiful old (sub-antique) Indian necklaces and bracelets in silver, for which she wanted 600 and 700 rs, a derisory price ($10.34 & $12.06) for such items. I knew I could use these in my body projections: they were simple, very visible, and they resembled the representations of jewelry in stone on the temple statues. I bought a total of 2000 rs worth, and she threw in two ankle bracelets. Later I learned that she had acquired them from her lower caste neighbors in the village when they were in need of cash, so she paid rather little for them, and this was a number of years ago. I couldn't possibly have done this well in any of the commercial shops, the "factory outlet" included.
         It was getting late, but his brother insisted I sit down and have a chat with him. He was a personable, interesting fellow clearly educated, with good English, who made his money as a local tour guide. I got the sense that he was checking me out. We had a very pleasant talk, starting with  certain distance and ending with warmth, after I told him about our trip and my long time desire to visit Khajuraho. I showed him the "Khajuraho Kiss," which I had on my iPod. At the end he insisted that I stay with them the next time I come to Khajuraho! I was very touched by his invitation, as I was by Niranjan's warmth and generosity, which I felt coming from his mother as well. Meeting this family was as rich and touching an experience as the temples were fascinating, and I was very glad we had made the "mistake" of staying "too long."

Niranjan's older brother Rajesh and his three sons.

         Before we left I had to use the bathroom, which I was curious to see anyway. It was the latest design in floor toilet (no seat), nice tile, good plumbing, with the usual faucet that could be used to flood the floor to clean it. I wondered what it was like growing up with such a toilet. There was not toilet paper, so I used my pocket tissues rather than trouble them and delay things even more.
         We left on Niranjan's motor scooter at 9:30. Our destination was a "jungle" (not enough time to visit the waterfall), but first Niranjan had to make a stop at a nearby village. We entered a home there, and two women came out and one by one kissed his shoes! The caste system was playing out before my eyes, and the pious, spiffily dressed Niranjan was its beneficiary. I assumed he was collecting rent from tenants. I photographed the interior and a bit of the village, including a charming little boy who came up to me outside.

Niranjan with his (I presume) tenant. Notice the Shiva Lingam in the middle of the floor.

A second woman appears and kisses Niranjan's shoes, acknowledging his superior caste, as the first one had done.

A neighboring house. Note the little boy on the stoop.

He came up to me, and the only language we had in common was smiles.

         Niranjan and I drove out of the village and within 20 minutes we were in the parking area for his "jungle." If I had seen the rain forest at Ranomafana Park in Madagascar, this was the drought forest: sparsely foliated, with many large dead leaves on the ground in various stages of skeletinization. We saw no animals except for a few birds, but there were some magnificent banyan trees. We met a hatless park ranger, and we all posed in front of the big mamma banyan.

       The park ranger indicated that he expected a tip, and I made a joke about him paying me for a professional photograph, which he didn't seem to get. I think he asked for a tip not for any service he performed, but just because I was "rich" foreigner who had wandered into his lonely domain. I gave him 50 rs.

         On the way back we passed the skull of a cow by the side of the road. I had seen it on the way out, so I stopped Niranjan to photograph it in the foreground with the jagged mountains in the background. Then across the street I noticed that one of the farmers had put another cow skull on a curved pole as a crude scarecrow. Perhaps it was meant as a death threat to larcenous birds.

        Farther along we passed a bus stop that was supported by a banyan tree--what an idea! Just one like this in New York would add some real heart to the place.

         We got back to town early, so I had two delicious somosas at an open-air stand, filled with flies. But the somosa was refried before serving, assuring its safety. Niranjan treated me to it.

         Then we headed for the hotel, arriving just at 11:30 in plenty of time to catch our plane. We exchanged warm good-byes promising to email and hoping to see each other again.

         Once our luggage was safely packed into the taxi, Barbara and I posed with the original greeter at the hotel, who was on duty again. He looked like the Air India logo guy, or like a villain out of a Bollywood film, but of course, he was extremely friendly and very glad to pose with us. His name was Salem Subitha.