Khajuraho

The second day in Khajuraho began very early. For whatever reason, my body didn’t want to sleep for a second night either I suppose. Perhaps I was excited. Springing to my feet at 5 am, and feeling much better (yet still without an appetite, which still has not returned fully as I write this several days later), I settled on going to explore an ashram a few kilometers away to see when their morning yoga class was. By the time I walked back though and additionally realized the high prices autos were asking for to go back to the ashram, Melissa and I just took the yoga class that our guest house offers every morning. Good time, different. Didn’t feel too stretched out and all like I usually do, perhaps because our teacher spent a good amount of time talking about the benefits of certain things like eating only veg, which causes *automatic digestion no problem*. Also there was that period of time at the end when we practiced ‘laughter’ yoga (how does one make himself laugh?) and did some dances to the painting of a god on the wall.

As we stepped onto the main road just in front of the guest house, an 18 year old that we had met yesterday greeted us energetically. The ‘English’ name that he gives himself is Debit. He likes the sound of it. Debit and Melissa and I had a breakfast at a nearby place recommended by our guide book. Banana lassi and potato paratha (stuffed bread) with curd. Debit had been trying to get us to agree to let him show us around. It’s always difficult to figure these people out. Debit reminded me of Vijay from Ellora in many, many ways. Always talking about how many foreigners he’s become friends with, how he will alert us of people charging unfair or commission-laden prices, how he doesn’t care to ask for money because it’s not as important as meeting new people and treating foreigners fairly. I figured I’d take him up on his offer and see where it led us, confident that whatever the outcome, I would not pay anything much extra at the end. See this is the difficult thing to come to terms with: friendships like this are founded on flowery terms and built to look strong but all the same to some degree (and I never quite know to which degree) in some way expect a monetary reward.

Debit, a friend of his who calls himself ‘Harry Potter’, Melissa, and me all rented bikes for the day to explore the area. Only the ‘western’ group of temples had an entrance fee (Indian: rs. 10; Foreigner: rs. 250), so there was a good deal to see riding around with no charge. Khajuraho is known for its erotic temple carvings and could be known as housing the kama sutra in stone. I was never quite sure why such racy images would be carved in holy temples, usually religious sites and practices steer away from such earthy pleasures. Some seem to say that these desires need to be satiated before any further enlightenment can take place, others say the carvings were the doings of one king with specific opinions, others have said it simply depicts daily life. In any case, I saw it as somewhat paradoxical.

At the first group of temples we visited, Melissa thought it best for her to return back into town to rest because the heat and sun were so oppressive. The day proceeded with Harry and Debit showing me card tricks, showing me another temple area, directing me through a small town nearby, taking me to the top of a tall stone edifice to see the sunset, taking me to see their school, and taking me to see Debit’s home and family. We also spent a good amount of time eating lunch at a restaurant and swimming in an outdoor pool at a hotel (it took some courage for me to jump in; the water was opaque green and the sides and bottom slimy). I was happy to pay for our lunch, colas throughout the day, and the entrance fees for the pool; I was grateful for such a tour throughout the town.

By the time we ran into Melissa again at the bike return booth, it was dark. She had rested, seen the western group of temples, and had talked with a local for a few hours. We concluded the day by visiting Debit’s uncle’s Kashmiri shop. It was filled with carved wooden boxes, colorful shawls, and intricate rugs. The owner offered us Kashmiri tea, really delicious with its accents of cinnamon and cardamom. We explained a few times to them that we were not interested in buying anything, but were very thankful for their hospitality.

That evening at a restaurant Debit and Harry asked for a souvenir from the US. I handed over to each of them a silly band to wear on their wrist, claiming that they were very popular in the States. I also gave each of them a US dollar. They each looked remarkably non-plussed. During our final hour before Melissa and I left for the next train, our conversation consisted of Harry asking for ‘support’ in various ways, and phrasing himself again and again after I would reply with something like “No, I cannot offer you anything else. We have done many things today, I hope you have enjoyed our time too, but we will probably not see each other in the future, and I cannot support you more now nor later on. There are many people in India that I would like to help, but helping them all is an impossibility.” He would always find some way to not actually ask for money, but skirt around it in clever ways. Debit mostly didn’t say anything. I wasn’t fazed by the conversation, partly because I had learned in a way how to deal with it and also because I had expected it.

That night on the train Melissa and I talked about the people we had met. She (after having been in South Asia for 7 consecutive months now) had simply become immediately skeptical of excited Indians coming up to her, even if they seemed friendly. Granted, not one of the dozens and dozens of people that would jump up to us while we were walking down the streets of Khajuraho seemed as excited to be ‘friends’ with us as they were for us to see their shop. *Hello friend! Where are you from?* “The US” *Oh good country! Many friends from US! This first time India??* “No” *First time Khajuraho???* “Yes” [continuing to walk away] *Hello! You just look my shop?* “No, thanks.” *Just looking, no buying!!....No charge just looking!!* Melissa was through with people seeming like they wanted to be friends but just in the end would ask for money or to see their shop. Perhaps this is why a good friendship takes time, so that you each party has a better idea about what the other’s intentions are. Although instinctive first impressions are valuable, knowing someone requires time.

The autorickshaw driver in Varanasi only took us a certain distance from the train station. Something about high river waters or something? In any case, we were dropped off with a great deal of distance to walk in the busy streets of Varanasi before we would make it to the guest house we had eyed in the Lonely Planet. With heavy bags, oppressive heat, and sweat dripping into my eyes, it was difficult enough to manage walking let alone navigate this new place. Melissa led the way; fortunately she had been here before and had an idea of what to do. The ridiculously crowded main street led to a ghat, steps, that led into the water of the Ganges. Varanasi is known for these ghats that line the riverside; they are hubs of various activities ranging from conducting colorful religious ceremonies to yoga to bathing to washing clothes to selling goods to burning corpses. Because the water level was high enough to preclude us from walking along the ghats parallel to the river, Melissa and I weaved our way throughout the old city to get to our hotel. Although we had a shared bathroom, the hotel rooms wrapped around a large central open-aired patio with a good view of the river.

The streets of the old city were one of my favorite parts of our time spent in Varanasi. They were too narrow to have noisy autos and other smoky vehicles. Maybe a few motorcycles here and there. The streets seemed so antique; stone slabs instead of asphalt, aged tiny shops, no organized plan or design. So many smells, colors, and activity in so little space.

That evening we navigated our way to a main ghat to see a daily ceremony of dedication to the Ganges god. Many foreigners were also there viewing the colorful, fiery, musical display. During that time I also met a sadhu (holy man) robed in red, with a long beard and piercing blue eyes. He sat in front of a shop and had a dreadlocked man from Spain to his side. Evidently he was teaching the man from Spain to paint. Our lengthy conversation was difficult to follow, moments of profundity were punctured with eruptions of laughter at jokes, including his questions of why the angles in Los Angeles were lost.

For dinner we headed back to the hotel; the power had gone out and indoor eating was too hot without fans. Melissa and I ate pizza and paneer overlooking the river, only slightly annoyed by the diesel exhaust being pumped into the air nearby from a generator powering the hotel. We offered some of the banana fritters we got for dessert to the Italians next to us. Lots of ‘foreignized’ food in tourism places like this. You don’t find baked goods and pizzas many times in India! Somehow they rarely hit the spot you have for them though. A formidable, lengthy, and nominally appetizing menu is no suggestion about the food’s taste. I guess a restaurant can’t be judged by its menu.