Old Khajraho

 Ajeet and I sip Chai and bask in the early morning sun with the manager of the hotel I’m staying in. He and Ajeet are engaged in a lively conversation about the difference between Hollywood and Bollywood, what western movies are best and who the good actors are. They share a passion for action movies like Predator and Lethal Weapon. It’s a good thing I’m well schooled in the 80’s classics, or I wouldn’t be able to keep up. As it stands, I can barely string a coherent sentence together. The late night train ride from Varanasi had gotten me in barely two hours earlier, and after a quick shower and breakfast I felt almost human again. 

Ajeet is my guide and native of Khajraho. He is a tall, thoughtful man with a serious face. He is less interested in the movie conversation than the manager is. Seemingly in direct contrast, the manager is a short and rotund man with a cheerful smile who very clearly loves movies, and often refers to actors or movies as “First Class!” The conversation is currently revolving around Arnold Schwarzenegger and his acting ability. I get asked if Arnie made a good govenator for California.  

“I’m not Californian, I have no idea. I know he’s a Republican who got elected in a largely Democratic state, which might be telling, but I don’t know enough about him to make a judgment on that.”

They look at me like I’ve grown an extra head and I decide it’s too early to explain American politics. “I don’t know.” They nod sagely.

Draining the last of my chai I nod to Ajeet, who jumps to his feet. He’s offered to take me on a tour of the village of old Khajraho, which is apparently distinct from new Khajraho. Waving goodbye to the manager we clamber on his dilapidated motorcycle, bringing back memories of Koh Kong in Cambodia, and soon are roaring down the unpaved roads of Khajraho.

Old Khajarho is about five kilometers away from New Khajraho, which is centered around the temples that make this place famous. It has a population of roughly four thousand people, most of whom are farmers. Compared to New Khajraho’s population of around thirty thousand and growing, Old Khajraho feels like a ghost town. The buildings are traditional brick, and the village is still laid out with the old Indian caste system of the preists, called Brahmin, soldiers, merchants and untouchables.

Ajeet stops the motorcycle at his house and invites me inside. His wife, his mother, his two brothers and a mess of children greet me. We head up to the roof to get an overhead view of the village. I know enough about Indian culture to accept his offer of chai, and while we sip it, he answers my questions. His three-year-old son plays around our feet the entire time. The kid is cute, but has a worrying cough. I wave away Ajeet’s apologies and endure the child climbing all over me. I’m not sure he’s seen a white guy before, and I want to leave a good impression. Besides, my dirty secret is that I love kids, and get a kick out of playing with them.

After bidding our farewell we take a walk around the village and Ajeet points out the economic disparity between the classes, and how despite it being officially illegal in India, in rural areas the class system is still firmly in place. This leads into a discussion about class intermarriage and faith intermarriage. Ajeet opens up to me about how when he was younger he fell in love with a girl from another class. It didn’t work out, and he married his current wife.

Once again I’m struck by the contradictions in Indian culture, and I feel utterly lost.

Ajeet visibly shakes off the past and we keep walking. Our wanders take us through back alleyways and open squares. He gives me a crash course in how Indians cooked before stoves and gas came into common usage, shows me the wells where the village still pulls water out of the ground after more than two thousand years. 4 for each caste.

We are still wandering when two kids pull up in front of us and open up a basket to reveal something I thought I’d only see in the movies.

A Spectacled Indian Cobra.

It hisses at me and I start backing away very slowly. Ajeet is unfazed. The kids laugh.

“You want picture?”

“Uh…”

“Do not worry, the kids pulled the fangs out.”

I blink stupidly, but do not relax. “What?”

“They captured it, pulled it’s fangs out and now they carry it from door to door. It’s how they make money. Many in village give money or flour to see the snake. I’ll take your picture.”

I consider the circumstances under which two twelve years olds capture an Indian cobra and wonder how Indian parents survive having multiple heart attacks. “All right.”

-Doug