Khajuraho

The temples, carvings, palaces and paintings we visited on our two week journey south were spectacular and amazing but the hard sell methods of the touts selling maps, postcards, books, jewelry, clothes, Kashmiri crafts, taxi rides, rickshaw rides, brass ware, and on and on was a real drawback to wonders of the historical monuments. My stories will deal people, places and events other than what you see in the guidebooks.

In Khajuraho we settled for the first hotel with the right sized bathroom door.

“The room is clean, nicely painted in shades of yellow and blue-green. The windows at the back look out on a minor garbage dump and behind that is a street with a couple of shops and homes and children playing cricket, riding bikes, running back and forth, singing, pumping water—there is a pump at the side of the road—running errands etc.. There is a small temple to the right of the dump and the dump is home to a family of wild pigs. They are black with stiff bristles standing up straight all along their back and they are very itchy creatures spending a lot of time scratching and rubbing their bodies on the edge of a stone wall. They are mostly sows, some with full milk dugs and the only boar I have seen is a young one. Sharing this place with the pigs are cows, goats and dogs. The dogs are very respectful of the pigs. Scared, I think. It’s easy to be entertained by just looking out the window.”

One evening, still in Khajuraho, we were having chai and ghulab jamens at a street stall and a young man came and sat with us and started a conversation, probably with the ubiquitous “What country are you from?” We of course wondered what his line would be and what he wanted us to buy. He’d had some university training in Delhi, so he said. He apologetically questioned my disability and it turned out that he has a niece, 16, who‘d had polio as a baby, can walk holding on to the wall or furniture, has crutches but won’t use them. He takes her to school on his bike. He asked if I would come to visit her and encourage her to practice her walking so she can become stronger. We of course said yes and made arrangements to meet the next day at the gate of the Jain temples, near his home.

After our tour of the Jain temples we met Vijay as arranged and walked down a path strewn with plastic bags and other trash. On one side was a hostel for Jain pilgrims to stay and on the other side a dry empty field. Khajuraho has had no rain for three years. The monsoon has passed it by. It’s a big concern for the people of the area, understandably.

We came to Vijay’s compound, first past some tethered water buffalo and past some small mud and brick homes for cows and a couple of very small homes for people. We were led to a cheerily painted light blue house with two darker blue steel doors. His sister, Gita, was tall like her brother with a lovely keen intelligent face. We went inside the tidy room. One doorway led to a small kitchen, the small clay stove in one corner. Two other doorways led to other rooms. Inside the house we met Oma another sister and two boys of Oma’s and two of Gita’s. From behind a curtained door shyly appeared Pretty, Vijay’s niece and Gita’s daughter. She was short and stood holding on to the doorway. A chair was brought for her. She was very pretty, suiting her name.

We all had a spirited conversation and it was my job to encourage her to try to walk more and get out of the house more. We asked to see her crutches. They were never used as evidenced by the layer of dust coating the arm supports. It was obvious that they were too long for her. Ross asked for a tool and he and another fellow made them 3 or 4 inches shorter.

The two sisters were fascinated by me—felt my legs and feet, pushed up my sleeves and looked at my arms, Vijay said Oma was a doctor. I of course believed her and then there was great laughter when Vijay said it was a joke. I did my duty and tried to tell Pretty useful or helpful things about being a disabled person, etc., etc., she could speak a little English and Vijay translated, but just being there was the important thing, not my so-called words of wisdom.

We were invited to stay for lunch. I went into the kitchen to watch Gita at her little stove. She chopped vegetables with a curved knife shaped like a small sickle, sharpened, I think, on both sides. Being curved it can cut in the curved bowls and cooking pots by rocking it back and forth. The kitchen had a doorway to the outside. On the left was a loo, on the right was a washing area and beyond was a field growing mustard and wheat. Lunch was tomato subje, papas, dal and chapattis. Sweets were also included in the meal and Vijay said he was getting them also only because we were there. He was served by his two sisters like a little king.

After lunch we were treated to a musical performance. Pretty’s younger brother sang a Bollywood song miming a microphone. He then found a silver shampoo bottle and used that for his mic. Three or four songs were sung, some joined by Pretty and Oma singing and clapping time. Lots of laughter and fun.

I was then presented with the gift of a beautiful dress with gorgeous silver and gold embroidery made by Pretty. The sisters tried to squeeze me into it in vain but I said it would fit my daughter and Pretty was thrilled. Vijay folded it carefully and wrapped it in newspaper and wrote on it “To Eliza from Pretty”.

Photos were taken and addresses and Oma entreated us to come to her house the next day for lunch. We were not sure of our plans for the following day and could only say “Shahaad.” Perhaps. Fond goodbyes were said and we left.

It turned out that we were to stay another day and so we called Vijay that night and said we would be happy to take up Oma’s offer for lunch the next day. We found our way back to the sisters compound and squeezed into Oma’s tiny one room home, perhaps 12’x7’. Vijay wasn’t there. A small television was being watched by one of Oma’s boys. A plastic chair was brought for Ross and we showed our photo album to Gita and Oma. And then there was Pretty at the door having come on her crutches! She came in and sat on a chair brought by a cousin and I showed her our pictures. She appeared more confident with her English speaking skills, spoke more and understood more. Everyone was teaching me Hindi.

Lunch was served similar to the day before. Tasty.

We brought our gifts of dates and cashews for the sisters and stickers, notebooks, pens and key lanyards for the kids.

Vijay arrived on his bicycle after lunch and was very happy with the BC Hydro lanyard that lights up blue that we gave to him.

I was presented with a rose given to me by a cousin-brother, (In Hindi the word for brother and sister is the same as for girl cousin and boy cousin) and we went to see the field and garden. Gita’s husband is a taxi driver and his parents provided the field. You can see from their houses who has the greater income. Oma’s husband is a farm labourer.

Our visits with this family meant much more to me that the temple wonders of Khajuraho, amazing as they were.