Aaro Aakash…….A Memologue of Leisure - Guest Post - Sunetra Lahiri

Dokka, the cottage for two where we stayed

I met Uday Hazra at a photography exhibition where he was one of the exhibitors. Till date I do not know exactly what he does for a living except that he is a writer, graphic artist, and photographer, has a philanthropic bent of mind and owns ‘Aaro Aakash’ which is neither a hotel nor a resort but rather a property having one big and one small cottage that he kindly allows his friends and relatives to stay in. Adjacent and older than ‘Aaro Aakash’ is ‘Anek Aakash’ but that property is for his personal use. He has been asking me to visit 'Aaro Aakash' before it becomes another concrete jungle and the sky becomes just a figment of imagination….. So this February before the summer heat became too much we, myself and my friend Lily, decided we would take up his offer.

We board an early morning train from Sealdah for Bolpur, Shantiniketan. It’s a grey day, cool; we refresh ourselves with paper cups of hot lemon tea from a passing vendor on the train.  It takes about three hours to reach our destination.

'Aaro Aakash'….10kilometre from Bolpur station is in a village – Kamarpara. The property is looked after by Basuda, the manager and Lalda, the cook and odd job man. They both live in the same village within shouting distance of the property. Basuda drives the brand new white Maruti 'Omni' and picks us up from Bolpur Station. When we reach 'Aaro Aakash' we find it picture perfect - rustic, organic, basic; the charm lies in its simplicity. Dokka, the cottage for two, lies at the end of the property separated from a bigger cottage beside a pond and amidst abundant greenery. Dokka has an open front porch. It has a swing, an old armchair and a charpoy. I stake claim to the charpoy much to my friend’s amusement. Lying on the charpoy watching a sun bleached February sky as sharp little neem leaves float down soundlessly to the ground is cathartic. The breeze, still cool with barely a hint of the coming summer, making gentle music as it passes through the trees. It is a moment of unmitigated bliss.

Ekka - the first cottage in Aaro Aakash

I look at my companion – who has quite recently finished her PhD in Philosophy. For four years while she was writing her thesis we did not travel much because of her commitments. We are kindred souls and need to dive deep into quiet to rejuvenate. This trip was her birthday gift to me. Sitting on the swing engrossed in a book she had carried all the way from home, content, peaceful and silent, she is the perfect travel companion – unobtrusive and non-invasive. It has always been like this…..the treasured company of someone in perfect tandem with your rhythm.

The door separating Ekka from Dokka

Lalda comes ambling down the narrow path…. Lunch is ready. Food is simple, fresh and hot, served with love on huge steel plates with matching glasses on reed mats laid on the raised table in a little thatched hut with mud walls. Rice is heaped on our plates. There are dishes of dal, vegetable curry, fried eggplant, and fresh water fish curry. We protest because we cannot eat so much. Lalda is disappointed to find how little we eat; he says the water is good, it will make us hungry and we should eat more. We smile, trustingly drink the water and soon are too full to think about evening tea.

There is nothing much to do and that suits us fine. We lie down on the porch furniture like languid overfed lizards of which there are too many and varied to notice. When I return and tell him about the burgeoning lizard population, Uday-da, who is rather passionate about the environment, ecology and all things that have life, says, “it’s their home too.” 

An abandoned abode on way to Lakhi Sayar

Towards evening, before the twilight slips into deep dusk we venture out to explore Lakkhi Sayar - a large water body. Much before coming here we have avidly followed Uday-da’s Facebook page which was full of photographs of the village, 'Aaro Aakash' and Lakkhi Sayar. It’s just round a bend in the road hidden by a little ridge about 500 yards from the gate. We climb easily, nimbly like the black goats grazing about. It’s a beautiful sight….a solitary boat at the edge of the bank, the sun reflected in broken ripples, birds wheeling and settling among dark trees on the far bank while darkness descended slowly. Like true amateurs, we try our best to capture the mood but must be content with the image etched on our mind. Along the winding path back to 'Aaro Aakash', we meet some village women returning from a day’s work in the field - colourfully attired, their sweat soaked vital faces glowing in the rays of the setting sun. 

The lone boatman  of Lakhi Sayar - the waterbody near Aaro Aakash

We return back and Lalda serves tea with biscuits. We refuse his offer of “telebhaja with muri” (deep fried pakoras with puffed rice). Lily sits on a weather beaten wooden bench in front of the other cottage sipping her piping hot beverage while I amble about busily taking pictures of the surrounding. The previous guests had left that morning so we were the only people on the property.

We spend the evening on the porch surrounded by Mortein coils. The place is mosquito heaven, surrounded by trees and water bodies. My friend reads articles and stories she has collected for just such an occasion. She is a good story teller, her voice smooth with the correct intonation. It’s a moment of … nirmal anand….. We are quite unaware of time till Lalda comes hurrying down the path carrying a hurricane lamp and announces that dinner is ready. The hurricane lamp brings back memories of a bygone time in Calcutta when whole portions of the city would be shrouded in darkness due to load shedding, lighted only by these glass lamps. They would get sooty every night and cleaning them out every day was a ritual. Somehow exams and homework and my childhood evenings will always be linked with these lamps – the smoky smell of kerosene and the acridity of singed hair when we leaned too close to the glass, our eyes full of sleep from the torpid heat and humidity.

After dinner we wander back to our porch and feel that it’s too early to turn in. But there’s not much else we can do. We call home and report that all’s well, finish our nightly rituals in silence, climb inside the mosquito net that Lalda has so thoughtfully hung for us over the bed, a low wooden chouki without headrest pushed against the wall near the window which looks out on the porch. We try to sleep but end up chatting instead, our body clock attuned to a more urban routine. We talk late into the night. What did we talk about? I cannot remember. Inconsequential nothings, I guess.

I wake up early, take out my camera and go out onto the porch. It’s eerily silent. The sun is a mystery – it’s there but I cannot see it. Fog lies thick and deep among the trees.  I sit down on the armchair and try to be one with the silence. After a while I take a walk, feeling the cool gritty soil underfoot. There is dew on the straggly grass that glistens like pearl. Faraway through the cotton-wool silence I hear the tinkling of cow bells. I do not know what hour it is, only becoming aware of time when   I see Lalda emerging through the fog, as if by magic, from some other dimension, carrying tea in a thick glass, asking when we would require hot water for our baths.

Subarnarekha - the bookstore everybody goes to

After breakfast Basuda drives us to Shantiniketan. We have been here before so we do not waste time doing the usual touristy things. We visit 'Subarnarekha', the bookstore near Viswa Bharati University, where one can find anything from the downright crowd pleasers to the esoteric to vintage to rare moth eaten books and out-of-print journals. It’s not very organised. Books weigh down overburdened shelves and are also stacked   on the floor standing in precarious piles and in every nook and corner. It is difficult to walk about in the narrow spaces. There are a few people in the shop and it is an intricate ballet negotiating the narrow spaces between books without knocking each other over. I let my friend spend a happy hour in the proximity of books without trying to venture in much myself for I’m clumsy and quite capable of causing an accidental book avalanche. The owners are laid back, “sukhi” people, who do not seem very interested in selling anything. In fact we waited a good while before the shop was opened, a little after 11 am. But the shop survives, I guess, because of the passion of a select clientele – those people who have such love for books that they are willing to rummage through dust and countless volumes stocked ad hoc, hoping to find one gem to add to their ever increasing library. 'Subarnarekha' is something of an institution. It’s been there for more than 30 years. Everyone’s been here from prominent Bengali writers, academicians and students – it’s a popular haunt of the intelligentsia.

We look at roadside shops selling myriad things from jewellery to clothes to saris to trinkets, leather bags, accessories and souvenirs but nothing catches our eye. We head to Alcha, the store in Ratan Pally whose owner Keya Sarkar is a friend. Alcha has a good collection of bags, saris and scarves, all locally sourced and manufactured. There is also a restaurant of the same name nearby, run by Keya’s husband Satish who makes lovely Spanish omelettes, slated to reopen soon with a revamped menu.

Fourteen years ago, I and Lily had been to Shantiniketan. We were young and broke. We had been to all the usual places in a cycle rickshaw which is now being slowly replaced by Totos, the Indian version of the Tuktuk. We head for Konkalitala because my friend Lily is a temple hound. I look around trying to find the familiar road that wound through the pristine countryside, stretched to the horizon on both sides. We had been there in monsoon and there had been an eerie calm before the storm, the sunlight falling through golden edged clouds making everything glitter. Now the road and the surrounding area around the temple have changed dramatically. Development has come to Shantiniketan. The horizon is no longer visible. All we see are ugly structures on either side. It’s no longer picturesque or pristine but we go nevertheless. After my friend offers puja to Goddess Kali, we get back to Shantiniketan, hungry.
We find a place to eat. We are sceptical about the food, being quite put off by the strange décor and not very clean washrooms. With much reluctance, we order Chinese. The place is understaffed and the few waiters are busy running about. Almost all tables are taken. We infer that it must be a popular joint. When our orders arrive, we find food is surprisingly good and non-greasy. We take our time over lunch and linger a while, finishing our fresh lime sodas. Then it is time to return.

Village road near Aaro Aakash

Basuda drives us back to 'Aaro Aakash'. It takes about half an hour. The silence embraces us like a cloak. It’s a little hot but not very. The late afternoon is spent lazing about on the porch. We fall asleep in the gentle heat. When I wake up it is nearing twilight. We must have napped for the better part of an hour. I wake up my friend and decide that we would like to explore the other side of Kamarpara. Cameras in hand, we walked down unpaved village roads clicking photos of whatever catches our fancy... The porous laterite soil sticks to our sandals. Though there is teeming life in every house for we can hear the low hum and chatter, babies crying, radios and we can smell the smokiness of coal fire in preparation for the evening meal. The roads are deserted except for stray dogs, an occasional cat, an old woman sitting at the entrance of her hut…..a young man returning home on his bicycle….. I’m delighted to find tortuous, gnarled trees which look as if they have been there since the beginning of time. We wander farther than desired, almost two kilometres from 'Aaro Aakash' and then decide that it would be prudent to return as it would get quite dark. Without streetlights -- we were not carrying a torch-- it would be difficult to negotiate these unknown roads.

We returned soaked in sweat to hot tea and village gossip. Lalda is voluble, talking about Uday-da’s generosity and philanthropic work and all that he has done for the village people. The evening rolls into night…. It’s been just two days that we have been here but we feel that we have been here longer than that. This place is timeless…in the sense that every day is much like the previous day so if one were not very careful it would be easy to forget mundane things like time, one’s spatial existence, the virtual reality of things….We do much the same thing as the previous evening. We speak of this and that….n’importe quoi….yet it makes us happy. Both of us, in our city avatars, are busy people - she with her academics and I with designing collections.

When I met Lily she was working in a school in another state and we only got to meet during vacations. I was once an avid letter writer and our friendship began through letters. We are bound by our love of travel, books and music… She is partial to Hindustani Classical Music particularly Ustad Rashid Khan and Pt. Ajoy Chakraborty while I have a more wide ranging interest but am drawn towards instrumentals and jazz. I have a modest library of books and I have shared the best ones with her. Her own stock of books is different – related to her studies though she does read Bengali journals and magazines voraciously. Both of us have enormous respect for the written word.

When she moved back to the city, we met more often. Lily is a good listener and, in the beginning, I had much to tell her but familiarity of all these years of being together has made words superfluous. Much like the art of writing letters, the art of conversation was dying. Sitting in that quiet place we were trying to resurrect it. We were surrounded by darkness, the sound of crickets, an occasional firefly flitting about. We consciously avoided using our mobile phones and realised that it was not very difficult. I was going through a very personal upheaval and Lily’s presence was calming.

Life like a many armed octopus, each arm leading outward to a whole universe of new worlds and returning back to a single source.....thoughts begin and move into an eternal, unfinished journey winding and weaving through a myriad of other worlds…...

In a world full of little moments –
Tucked in a fragrance, a feeling, a phrase......
Weaving a rich tapestry –
Of everything;
And sometimes nothing at all,
You bring me closer to my Earth.


We had forgotten what pleasure it was to have these kinds of rambling conversations amid unending silences without having the guilt that time was running out and things had to be done.

But time did run out in the virtual real world and the next day Basuda drives us back to Bolpur station where the waiting iron monster inexorably take us to the city and to our separate routine lives.

Sunetra describer herself as is eccentric; a philogalist, librocubicultarist, amateur author and artist who is brilliant in unimportant things. She trained at NIFT to become a designer while life had other plans. She is happy to be pottering about her workshop finding fault and complicating the lives of people who work for her.

Tea and Tales from Tawang

Sela Pass

The cup of tea on the table in front of me is quite repulsive, to say the least. The container is squat, made of greyish, flimsy (possibly toxic) plastic that wobbles when held in the hand, threatening to spill out its contents. The tea, thick, dark brown and glutinous, is forming a crinkly skin on the top. It’s 7 am and I’ve just bought this brew at the Guwahati airport.

I’m seated on a large brown faux leather sofa in the VIP lounge. On another sofa, across me, Mr Nitin Gadkari, BJP ideologue and current minister for roads, is reading aloud a joke about the Congress on his cell phone and giggling happily along with his retinue. He is waiting for a helicopter to take him to district Zero in Arunachal Pradesh. I too am waiting for a chopper to get me to Tawang. 

 

A Stream by the Road

I drink the tea. It is hot, sweet and thick, as is all tea you might get at an airport – and nothing like the milk-less light Lipton Green Label I’m used to. I feel it travelling down my food pipe in a mass and hit the stomach. Instead of jerking me awake, as I had hoped (I’ve been up since 2 am to travel), it has a strangely soporific affect – and I fall immediately and deeply asleep. The next thing I know, I am being shaken awake: “Madam, the helicopter is ready, it’s 10 o’clock.” This is a commercial flight run by the state government and I go through the security check again and soon find myself on the tarmac, near the helicopter. Mr Gadkari and his group fly by overhead in a couple of Army copters. 

 

The Road to Twang, from the helicopter

The only other passenger in our chopper is a Washington Post journalist who is worried about altitude sickness in Tawang – the town is located 10,000 feet above sea level. Since I had not thought about this, I too begin to worry but not for long. Our helicopter takes off and soon we are engrossed in the visual delights outside our windows. We are travelling over hills clad in thick virgin forest, the green broken only by the pale thin ribbon of a road winding up and down endlessly. The road trip from Guwahati to Tawang takes about sixteen hours and the chopper ride a little over an hour. However, the latter is dependent on weather conditions and quite erratic.

 

White Tara at Lumla

We soon arrive at Lumla, and hover almost eye level with a huge, beautiful statue of White Tara, seated atop a hill. At the helipad, my host, the district commissioner of Tawang, has sent a Jeep and driver to meet me and soon we are on our way to Tawang Township. The air is crisp and cold, the temperature hovering around 12 degrees centigrade. The journey is an hour-and-a-half long over very bad road. Small waterfalls and streams trickling down the hillside, fields of brilliant yellow flowers, an occasional flowering rhododendron tree, a yak grazing in a meadow, prayer flags fluttering gaily from poles and rooftops, and people busy with their daily lives in the small village we pass are some sights that keep me visually engrossed and cushioned from bumps. 

 

Monpa women dancing

Tawang district is also known as the Land of the Monpa. The Monpa are an ancient tribe that migrated to Tawang and adjacent West Kameng district from Tibet and Bhutan over time. They are followers of Buddhism; in fact, the only Dalai Lama – the sixth – to be born in India took birth in Tawang in 1683. There are many myths and stories about his life as a child, his journey to Tibet and his eventual mysterious disappearance. In the mists of time, Tibet held sovereignty over Tawang and later China became involved. The McMohan line demarcated Tawang as Indian Territory in 1914, but China still lays claim to the area. In fact, Chinese troops over-ran the place in the 1962 Indo-Chinese war and later retreated when peace was signed. The bravery of the Indian soldiers in this war is commemorated through the War Memorial in Tawang and the Jaswantgarh War Memorial close by.

 

White Rhododendron

Tawang’s other claims to fame are the Tawang Monastery, said to be the largest in Asia, and the fact that when the current (14th) Dalai Lama fled Tibet in 1953, he entered India through Tawang. I can see the sprawling Tawang Monastery’s buildings with their whiter than white walls and vibrant yellow roofs from the Circuit House where I am staying. The structure dominates the town which is built on the spines of a couple of green hills – and the entire vista is really as pretty as a picture.

Having arrived at the Circuit House, I proceed to ask Yadavji, the 

Monpa men with Yak dance costume

general factotum, for ‘separate’ tea which means that the hot water and tea leaves arrive in a tea pot accompanied by milk and sugar in separate containers as opposed to the thick curry-like masala chai which is a near universal favourite. The tea arrives on a tin tray with the three containers on it. But…. the teapot contains the hated masala chai, with additional sugar and milk in case I felt like making it sweeter or milkier! I swallow my disappointment and the tea, and head out to see the sights of Tawang.

There’s a fair amount to see within the small radius in and around town. 

 

Tawang Monastery

Tawang Monastery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first stop, of course, is Tawang Monastery. We enter the ancient building into a courtyard that plays host to the annual Torgya monastic festival every winter. Up front is the assembly hall that is home to the 25-foot beautiful gilded statue of the Buddha. The room is festooned with banners, the floor has prayer mats on it and the walls are richly decorated with intricate murals and thangkas. Other buildings around the courtyard include a museum, an impressive library, storage for provisions and a cook house. Beyond are buildings that are home to the male monks and novices; every Monpa households sends one son here at a young age to learn the scriptures. 

Tawang Monastery

We then wind our way downhill to the modest Urgelling Monastery. It has some antique thangkas of the sixth Dalai Lama, prayer wheels, lamps for lighting, and other accoutrements of faith. On the first floor, in the hall, we find a priest and his family. I light the lamp at the altar and am invited to share tea with them. The Monpa butter tea or sueja is salty and made from jari or crude tea leaves that are churned together with a little milk, butter and salt in a long cylindrical churn made of bamboo or jan dhong. The sueja is served warm. The taste, though unlike the tea we’re used to, is pleasant and soothing; a certain sense of contentment falls upon me, brought on by the place and the tea.

Mentally shaking myself, I take my leave and we make our way further down to yet another monastery, Khinmey. This is a beautiful structure that has been renovated recently at the behest of the current dynamic Rinpoche. Inside, apart from the statues of deities and saints, the walls are covered with tantric (fairly erotic) paintings showing life in all its stages, especially the fate that awaits the wicked and the sinful.



Khinmey Monastery

By now it’s late in the evening and the temperature has dipped further. I decide to head back and turn in for the evening. Along the streets, especially in the market, the local people are busy transacting daily business. The Monpa are a good looking people. The young men and women sport the latest haircuts and clothing:  jeans, boots, jackets and scarves. I think that if you were to transfer them to, say, Bangkok or KL, they’d be quite at home. Not many wear the traditional gear - which uses a stunning combination of brick red and cobalt blue – everyday; it is usually reserved for festive occasions. 

 

Pond by the roadside

The driver informs me that yaks can sense the weather change and know it’s going to snow higher up so they rush downhill.

Yaks running downhill
 

The yaks are right. Weather rapidly deteriorates and it is raining in earnest by the time we hit Tawang. There’s a cultural festival on – the reason for my visit to Tawang -- and I leave my driver at the parking lot and walk down to the grounds where the festivities are organised. Luckily, it’s stopped raining but the ground is full of slush.
 

PT Tso Lake

Regardless, the place is bursting with activity. People from different tribes across Arunachal in their traditional, colourful costumes and beads, wearing exotic headgear and masks; men roaming around in the yak dance costumes or dance masks; musicians tuning their instruments; young and old monks; and the town people excitedly talking – it’s a scene that fills the senses. I cannot but help marvel at India and her diversity.  The governor of the state arrives and we witness local dances performed by five or six different tribes. My cup quite spills over with excitement and happiness.The yaks are right. Weather rapidly deteriorates and it is raining in.

PT Tso Lake

 

The only fly in the cup is the telecommunication in Tawang; it belongs to the dark ages. The Airtel service comes on for a few seconds then vanishes for hours. I can’t make contact with the driver, so I eventually hitch a ride with two young monks in a bright red Maruti 800 back to the Circuit House. 

 

Twang Monastery from the Circuit House

Much as I don’t want to, I have to think about getting to Delhi. Since there is no chance of the helicopter taking off in this weather, I prepare to embark on the sixteen-hour journey to Guwahati. Next morning, my host sees me off in a taxi at around 11 am. Leaving town, we descend and then ascent up to the snow covered Sela Lake and Pass at 13,500 feet altitude. Again I get that sense of the majesty of nature and our smallness in its face.

 

Yak Dancers

We drive steadily through virgin jungle along the road that I had seen from the helicopter. There is hardly any traffic and the road is seriously bad in several patches. I get the opportunity to feast my eyes of lush green, unspoilt forests that we are passing interspersed by valleys of incredible beauty. We reach Bhalukpong in Assam by 7.30 in the evening and start again at 6 am next morning, reaching Guwahati airport by about 11, well in time for my 1.40 pm flight back to Delhi.

 

A young Lama

Ever the optimist about tea, this time I go to the slightly upmarket restaurant at the airport so that I can try some excellent Assam tea. The ‘separate’ tea arrives. But a bag of Taj Mahal masala tea dangles in hot water in the pot. The waiter assures me that this is the only Assam tea he knows of. I give up! And console myself that home just a few hours away. The first thing I’ll do on reaching will be to make myself a cup of tea the way I like it.

Urgelling Monastery

 

 

 

Ananda Swaroop is a itinerant traveller. An editor by profession, she edits corporate publications and is also the editor of garam masala chai. A watercolour enthusiast and practitioner, she works with the realist genre. Ananda lives and works in New Delhi, India.

Madhya Pradesh - Narratives of Self Discovery

The other day, I was staring up into the sky, my back on the water, as I finished my swim. I saw hundreds of birds flying here and there and here and there, randomly. Some would disappear into some crevice or other and then charge out as if on some urgent errand and there really was nowhere they were going, nor any pattern to their flight paths.

I am usually so driven with reasons for anything I do; conforming to a routine of doing rather than that of being. Watching the birds fly so aimlessly got me thinking - about this journey called life. Where do we go, what is it that we do or why and what is the purpose of it all? Are we any different to these other creatures of nature that fly the sky?

And, it was a trip to Madhya Pradesh that I undertook few months later, which seemed to put into perspective the kind of travel that one does through life – of savouring the little things that come up.  I started seeing that it was in essence only about the journey, the people we meet, the sites we encounter and the images we form in our minds.  Can there be any other point? Yes, I know there is the existential quest of who am I, but can that ever be examined without the experiences we encounter; and then what?

Anyway, let me tell you about this journey to Madhya Pradesh, the middle kingdom. 

 

Landscape on the way up from Maihar to the Rampur Plateau

One day, quite out of the blue, I got a call from an old friend. She said: “Come see me, come to Madhya Pradesh and spend a few days at my art centre in Maihar”.  I asked her why to which she replied, “I don’t know, just come, I just felt like inviting you."

It isn’t as if we hadn’t been in touch since college, where we studied textile design together at the polytechnic, in mid-late 1970’s. Ambica, now owned and ran a successful art gallery in Kolkata. Art being the common denominator, we did have occasion to meet. But, it was Facebook that really kept the thread of connectivity alive and the way in which Ambica prefaced her invitation was the clinching factor. She has a way with people and is very affectionate; and that did the trick.

It was mid-December when she called. I had planned a Christmas open house on 22nd December, inviting neighbours and friends to share a Christmas cake I had baked - my first attempt. So, on 24th December, I flew to Khajuraho and met up with Ambica and her family and a whole new world opened up to me. The entire journey from Delhi to Maihar and back was enriching – to say the least!

My flight to Khajuraho was on time; well, just half an hour late, but

given that it was ‘fog season’, this was something to cheer. The flight was chock-a-block full.  I had a window seat and thought I would write in my journal but it really was too distracting with my elbow nudging my neighbour on the right and hitting against the plane wall on the left. So I just stared out the window instead, taking photographs of the snow-clad Himalayan peaks which I could see far-far away. The sky was a beautiful powder-blue and soft, white, woolly clouds, like a hand-knitted fabric, extended from below the belly of the plane - a blanket of cloud reaching far out into the distance. The snow capped peaks encircled an imaginary horizon [because I couldn’t see below the cloud cover] like a long arc bending from end to end of my vision. They were faint, yet quite clearly discernible to the naked eye, more so than the pictures my I-phone camera was able to take. I took lots of pictures simply trying to capture the essence of what I could see, but none matched up to the experience of spying those tiny peaks thousands of miles away.

It was this ethereal sight, filling me with a sense of serenity, which got me reminiscing about Ambica and our college days. One of the most vivid memories that I have are of  a bunch  of enthusiastic eighteen year olds working on an assignment of tie-dye – dying our samples, out in Ambica’s back-garden. She had invited us to her home in Sarvodaya Enclave and I think there must have been about ten of us chatting and eating and working. The lawn was a mess after we had finished. There was dye on the grass and strands of multicoloured thread everywhere. Her mother fed us, helped us untie the knots we couldn’t open and then cleaned up after us without any fuss. I haven’t forgotten this for the simple reason that I envied Ambica. My own mother, always a stickler for cleanliness, would throw a fit if I accidentally dropped poster colour [gouache] on the floor. Every time I meet Aunty I remind her of this and she smiles quietly, as if happy to revisit this memory.

 

Temple Complex in Khajuraho

Anyway, as the flight landed in Khajuraho, I switched on my phone when a sms informed me that madam had found a beauty parlour and was having a pedicure. Khajuraho is a small village in the Chhatarpur district of Madhya Pradesh in Central India but even so I had no idea that getting a pedicure was an unusual feat. The SUV she had sent to pick me and my baggage, wound its ways from the airport through a complex passage of lanes and by-lanes, too narrow for the SUV, and suddenly Ambica emerged from a curtained doorway - not exactly relaxed but peeved because the beauty-parlour recommendation hadn’t quite met her expectations. There was no loo, no running water and the beautician retreated intermittently to her nearby home to get some hot water in buckets – some pedicure she had!

We then proceeded to the Taj Hotel for a late lunch and onto the temples which I was very keen to see but Ambica wasn’t. She’d been there too often and said it no longer held any charm for her. I refused to go alone and reminded her of the voluptuous drawings she had done at the national museum [another college assignment] and suggested that she should do some here while I wandered off with Satendra, the guide we had hired. Ambica always drew well with a firm, unhesitating line, and her figures were more than ample. The sculptures at the temples in Khajuraho should have been an inspiration but she now devotes all her attention to nurturing artists rather than indulging in art-making herself, so she reluctantly tagged along with me.

I know that Khajuraho is well documented and every tourist  visiting in India has been there and nothing I can say will shed new light on it. But for me, it was my own discovery of this ancient site that enchanted.

 

 Satendra [09893938015 satendrasrivastava@rocketmail.com] was knowledgeable and his first few sentences gripped my attention......the erotic postures on the temples? Yes, I found them most interesting, but not titillating although Ambica may like to disagree since I focussed the camera lens with such intensity on as many as I could capture. Something she teased me about for most of the trip.  I was intrigued by the complex poses which seemed impossible and generated a sense of awe for the flexibility that could actually twist bodies into such contorted and complex postures.

 In her book on ‘Indian Erotica’, Dr. Alka Pande says that theses sculptures focus on earthly sensuality and divine love. There are sculpted apsaras painting their eyes with kohl and other alluring postures of shringar. I spied one removing a thorn from her foot in such a convoluted pose that anything less than a yoga master would have toppled off. This was no mundane event, it was being enacted as a ritual of enticement, or so it seemed.  Dr.Pande says that the maithuna couples [lovers] are symbolic of transcendental union and are not ‘coarsely representative of sexual intercourse’.  From the Tantric viewpoint, they depict the rise of sexual energy from the ordinary to the higher plane where the kundalini is awakened. Although they have been “misinterpreted as mysterious pagan rituals”, these figures, in her estimation, are not meant for “sexual enjoyment” but clearly suggest Tantric asanas for attaining self-realisation through union with a female/male partner.

 

Apsaras

What Satendra had to say was curious. He said that the Chandela kings, who claimed to be descendants of Chandra kulla [moon born], were rulers of this central part of India from 9th - 13th centuries A.D. At that time society was apparently, deeply inclined towards moksh [liberation from the cycle of birth and death] and celibacy was the chosen route to achieve this.  Therefore the Chandela kings introduced erotic sculptures on the temple facades so that when people came to pray, they would also be sexually aroused and thus hopefully procreate. Satendra said the rulers feared that without this, life would come to an end and with it their dynasty too.

Sounds plausible, but as I noted and the guide also pointed out, the postures were very yogic, as opposed to merely titillating. The complex poses seemed akin to a meditative act through the body, where intense concentration was needed. His was an unusual perspective which I tried to verify through the guide book, but they had the usual stuff about the name Khajuraho being derived from ‘Khajoor’ or date palms and that in early records it was actually called Khajurvatika – garden of date palms. The guide book cautioned that though erotic, these sculptures are not pornographic to excite “savage passion” but that they are sublime and sensual. I have to say I was confused.

 

Shirshana

Alka  Pande says that the “couples in erotic postures belong to a secular theme” where the “artisans gave full vent to their imagination....... beyond the kamashastra prescriptions.” One such example, on the north wall of the Vishwanath Temple, is based on the yogic posture of Shirshana or headstand, where two female attendants support the couple in a coital pose, on either side, while the male fondles their genitalia. Looking at this sculpture, standing in front of it, in Khajuraho, feeling the stone, taking in the carving with my senses, I was in filled with admiration. Was it at all possible? What kind of expertise in yoga would be needed to achieve this? Who were these people, what must it have been like to have lived in that era? It seemed to be so open-minded an uninhibited compared to the times that we live in. Were these couples married? What was their relationship? I had a million questions running through my mind. 

 

Friezes on Temple facade

 Engrossed with my camera and Satendra’s informative titbits, I could have spent a whole day there. Some of the friezes also depict animal passion in humans in the form of bestiality [Lakshman Temple] which, Satendra said, was indulged in while away on battle [with horses], adding that some friezes also cautioned about such excesses. He pointed out one such sculptural narrative which begins with a woman having intercourse with a dog, someone from the local village is a witness who goes and tells the whole village and then a King is seen dispensing justice/meting out punishment. It was defaced and one could barely discern the figures, but once pointed out, it was quite amazing to make the connection. Sculptures on the temple facades also depicted scenes from everyday life such as dancers and musicians, hunting scenes, animal fights, armies marching to battle, sculptors at work; teachers with their pupils and other activities. 

 

Defaced Frieze

Ambica rushed me through the large complex of temples and we didn’t even have a cup of tea. She insisted that there wasn’t time as the journey to Maihar would take us about three hours by road, travelling through the famed Chambals hills, renowned for the exploits of  Phoolan Devi, the Bandit Queen. She didn’t want to undertake this journey in the dark. But dark it did get. And having been terrified enough by her, it took all of my courage to insist on a loo stop, bang in the midst of the dreaded hills. It is one of the perils and quirks of travelling through the Indian countryside where there are no public conveniences and we are compelled to answer the call of nature; in natures own unkempt back yard. Phone-torch in hand, gingerly but desperately, I wandered off into the nearest ample shrub, crossing my fingers that no snake would slither by. The rest of our journey, we chatted like school chums with so much to share. Catching up like this was really fun. 

 

Art Ichol Art Residency under construction - Chambal Hills in the distance

Getting to Maihar in darkness meant that I was unable to see exactly what the location was or where this neo-colonial bungalow, which has a history of its own, was positioned. Unable to sleep because of all the excitement and a new place, I could hear a stream of constant traffic. Plus, it seemed that a railway line was very close by too and around 12.30 am, someone started playing the dhol and then I could also hear a chorus of bhajans. I was later told that the house was bang on NH 7, a railway-line ran alongside the back of the house and there was a mandir nearby too.

I can’t seem to leave behind the railway line and mandir noises. This cacophony of the chaotic Gurgaon urban-scape of Palam Vihar had followed me here too!
 

When we reached Maihar, from Khajuraho, I met Ambica’s husband Sanjeev, their older son Adit, and Charles Kim, a student intern from the US. It was cold but we sat outdoors, around a fire, drinking wine, exchanging stories and singing old Hindi film songs. But at night, while sleep escaped me, I was still in Khajuraho. I loved the temples. It was really awesome to see every inch of the external stone walls, covered lushly with carvings of such exquisite detailing and near mathematical precision. I have not really studied stone carving much, so was not aware of the kind of skill involved, but looking at those temples made me  think they were totally fabulous, and wonder, how did anyone create something like this? I also mused about the fact that I knew next to nothing about the Chandelas and the Bundelkhand region I was visiting, and anything studied in school was long forgotten.  I finally slept with the thought that life, when looked at through the lens of history was fascinating. As an Indian, all of this was part of my socio-cultural gene.  I wanted to know more, explore how much of this was still part of our ethos, how this may or may not have influenced the Indian woman of today, and why or how these ideas had been sanitised through time. But, unfortunately, I have done little in this regard since I returned, almost a year ago.

 

View of River Tamasa from Writers Retreat - under construction. Old bridge seen in distance.

I spent four days with Ambica and her family. She wanted me to see everything - Amariya, the writer’s retreat that she was building on the banks of the River Tamasa of Rishi Valimiki and Sita of Ramayan fame, which flows down from the Kaimur [Vindhya belt] mountain range through Rewa and Satna in Madhya Pradesh travelling to Allahabad. The new Ichol Art Centre that was under construction on the other side of Maihar - facing the Chambal hills which we could see in the far distance. 

 

View from Rampur Plateau

The Rampur Temple plateau which has a breathtaking view and then she also insisted I listen to the Maihar band - the only Indian classical band in the country, doing their riyaaz [daily practice] early one morning. 

 

So much to see and take in, I felt over-stimulated and barely able to cope, but her enthusiasm was infectious and I went along. We would come home for lunch each day, eating out, basking under the warmth of the winter sunlight. And there was this spacious, antique bed laid out on the lawn where I would sun myself each afternoon. Relaxing after the tours, I would inevitably be staring up at the yellow and white painted arches with colourful Bougainvillea cascading down. I thus pondered upon all that I had seen, heard and felt, trying to figure out how it all fitted in, whether it did or not or how.

Maihar Band

 I had taken this trip just as impulsively and intuitively as Ambica had invited me. A journey had begun and an endless narrative was unfolding. Whether or not there was a purpose only time would tell and maybe we would devise one. But for me, then, as now, the journey was the essence – a narrative of self discovery, through history, memory and more – inhabiting the middle kingdom.