Khajuraho Part 2

Day 3.

We didn't want to rush Khajuraho, but at the same time, we didn't want to stay for so long. The problem was, the trains going to Varanasi only come through this city three times a week: Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays at 11 pm. The train situation had decided that we stay in town until Friday evening, although it was pretty unheard of, considering that aside from the Western and Eastern temples, tourists find very little reason to stay in Khajuraho, and leave on the earliest possible train or split with the next flight at the nearby airport. (It's strange to see planes flying so low and so frequently, I felt like I was back in Paris, except I'm surrounded by cow dung.) Olivier and Laurianne, who had been with us since Fatehpur Sikri, went on the Tuesday night train.

On our third day, we woke up late and did the laundry while watching Bad Boys, then spent most of the afternoon at Paradise Restaurant, which boasted of high-speed wi-fi at 30 Rs per hour. The food was more expensive, but not as good as the grub at Ganesh. After brunch, we said we'll do a quiet stroll to the temples behind the lake and go back and sleep some more.

But just a few minutes into the path going to the lake, we were intercepted by a man who wanted to take us to his house. Not again! He went with us everywhere, and Henri had to be frank with him because we were tired of Indians trying to “guide” us and then asking for money. He said he is an honest man and all he wanted was to invite us to his house for dinner because it was his daughter's birthday and it's good luck to invite foreigners. For real? I wanted him to go away because I was really worn out; I wanted shanti, quiet, but he kept talking and asking questions. I felt that Henri wanted to give him a chance, and it wasn't so bad to have a local showing you around the ancient grounds.

Because it turned out to be a place of ancient magic, where women came at dawn on certain auspicious days to perform rituals that could heal, or so it is said. There were broken bones and bangles offered as puja (offering), but whether they were heard or not is up to the believer to decide.

Next to the old prayer grounds was Chausath Yogini, the oldest temple in Khajuraho. There used to be sixty seven shrines inside, to represent the sixty seven towns, all of which had their own temples, wells, and man-made lakes.

In the middle is a large altar dedicated to Kali, where centuries of offerings seem to have stayed put. The man who followed us around, Balli, told us it is a very special temple, because it is the only place where you can ask a question and hear a reply within a minute of asking.

Henri and I picked a shrine each and concentrated on our questions, meditating on the answers. The sun shone in my eyes; it was so quiet and I got a tingling sensation in my chest as the soft breeze from the west blew past me, and I got my answer just as the welder below broke the silence with a loud, electric buzz.

We had a strong feeling of peace, as if we had just woken from a relaxing nap or stood up after a good massage – Or maybe like all of nature went inside me and then left after reading the contents of my heart - I'm sorry, I don't know how else to describe it :) I asked Balli what he asks of Kali, and he said he asks that no bad words or thoughts come out of him.

Still not convinced he is as genuine as he seems, we nonetheless went with him to his village, just to satisfy our curiosity. We had no idea it was such a long walk!

We passed by the school, where his kids saw us. They seemed like ordinary kids - which was weird, because unlike strange northern Indian kids they were shy and did not ask us for anything! No “hello, school pen/chocolate/coin.” We passed by a potter's house and though he was a nice guy, his kids were bullying us for candies. I gave one a Storck (from my mom) and she wanted me to give her a coin too. Geez, girl.

But if the potter's house was far, Balli's house was in the middle of nowhere! But it was a bucolic walk, and it was worth the hassle. Here, it was quiet and the air was clean, with a whiff of wild mint.

On the way, he kept showing us plants and giving us ayurvedic tips. He introduced us to medicinal barks and fruits, and to the Indian version of tobacco, the bidi. Here is the leaf itself.

He also introduced us to his wife, whom we first saw teaching neighborhood kids in their makeshift school in the backyard. Here was a family that was poor, where neither father or mother has a job, and yet they were still helping those who had less. His children gave us candies and his son gave Henri a vintage 1 rupee bill, without asking for anything in exchange. He gave us countless seeds from his garden so we can start our own in the Philippines, with marigolds and veggies and ayurvedic plants.

His wife gave me bracelets, toe rings, a box of bindis, put a comb through my unruly hair so she could braid it and put some makeup on me because she wanted us to be sisters.

The story of Balli and Sonu is a heartbreaking one. They came from different castes, and Balli's family disowned him when he and Sonu got married secretly. He lost his job as a teacher and his friends forgot about him. When Sonu was giving birth to Deepshika in the deep of night and the height of a typhoon, not even his sister bothered to help – even though he knocked on her door for three hours. Now they live with other outcasts in this village, while Balli's family and former friends live in Khajuraho proper. He tried to work as a cook, but he was treated like shit by his employers, and now his dream is to start a restaurant of his own, with vegetables from his own garden.

The way back to town was enchanting; walking back through the field of mint under the light of the waxing moon. As the city loomed closer, it became clearer that there were two separate worlds in Khajuraho - the world of castes, and the world of outcasts.

Day 4.

On our fourth day in Khajuraho, we hired a bike and went sight-seeing; with me sitting behind Henri on the milk carriage thingy. Maybe it was because it was a rare sight to see foreigners riding on just one bike, Indian-style; or maybe it was because we were overweight and the wheels had gone flat; or also because it was too small for Henri's legs; but we were the laughingstock of locals who saw us passing by.

We went to see the Eastern Temples, which still looked like the Western Temples with their Kama Sutra sculptures, but in varying degrees of preservation.

But many of them were, in fact, better than those in the paying area.

And because these temples were, more or less, in the middle of nowhere, the backdrop was all the more impressive.

In one of the temples was a pregnant goddess, and the brahman watchman made me rub her tummy.

The trip was peaceful when we were on the bike, because no one was trying to con us or ask us for pens and stuff. But there was a guy at the entrance of one temple who followed us around and pounced on us once we were outside the temple. The chain of the bike was surprisingly out of the gear when Henri was sure it was ok before we went in the temple. Weird! He proposed to follow him on a short cut that was hard to walk with a bike and we felt it was a trap to drag us to his store. We ditched him by throwing insults his way, he got the message and left us in a huff.

We passed through the old village in relative quiet; except for the times when we had to walk because of the puddles and humps or simply to avoid the ginormous mounds of steaming cow poop. The kids then started to gravitate towards us like zombies, but instead of our brains they wanted pens or euros. We ran as fast as we could out of there. A guy asked where we were going, and I said “far away from you!” I thought India would make me peaceful, but it's turning me into a b*tch.

So, feast your eyes on the only picture we have of the old village:

Then we went to the old Jain Temples, which oddly, still looked like the ones in the Western Group. But these were half covered in forest, and some ruins were still on the ground.

After that, we went back to see Balli because he said we could fish near his house, but we were shocked to discover an electric wire in the water, put there by a bunch of drunk boys who shock the fish so they would be easier to catch. Mga tarantado. Balli said he was sorry but we told him we were sorry for him, it's the river next to his house and soon there will be no more free fish for him and his family.

Here I am, climbing on a tree to get the fruits by shaking the branches. Made me think of this summer in Gigouzac when I shook the apple trees to make the fruit fall down. I feltt like a kid for a moment, but I came back violently to reality when I came down.

I grabbed a dead branch and I had nowhere to hold on anymore, so I fell from the tree, around 2m high, and my whole weight of a 33 years old young boy on my left heel. Aieeeee! J'ai mal! That hurts! I smile here but I really felt bad for a few minutes.

Then Balli and Sonu took care of me like a family member, which they would say very often, and it felt good. But still hurts... :) A massage and hot water with salt, a little rudimentary but it helped for a while.

Behind there is the outside kitchen in which they cooked a really good fish curry the same night. They said it was the best for my cough, and the spices really helped getting the phlegm out!

Sonu's daughter taking care of Marj like her mother was doing, already a young lady. I could feel this girl and her brother were in lack of affection from other people than their parents, they were very close and touchy with us, I guess because they don't have other family than the people who accept to follow their dad in their house. No uncles, grandparents or cousins...!

Then we went to the market to buy some fish and other stuff for the family. Very crowded and dusty! Once a week, all farmers from around come here to sell their products.

Some people don't buy though, they just ask for a little food, they are the sadhus. This one was especially good looking and clean and colorful.

Day 5.

Henri's foot needed a rest, so we stayed in a restaurant with free internet. We Skyped with friends and family for most of the afternoon, saw Die Hard on TV, and waited for the night train to arrive at 11 pm. We knew Khajuraho would be stressful, but the more we stayed, the less things made sense... but this would be multiplied a hundredfold in Varanasi.