Divine Orchha

Orchha is cute little village at a stone's throw from the (incredibly crowded and pushy) Jhansi. You are genuinely happy when you have finally arrived here, for here, too, tourism has left its traces. That is why nobody wants to tell you which bus you should take; they think you're better off taking a cab. Out os heer protest I definitely wanted to go by bus!!!

When I had 'settled down', I started wondering why the whole village had been decorated with christmas tree garlands. Of course; there was yet another celebration! I couldn't believe it. There are so many people around here and therefore so many working hours are at their disposal, that they just need a festival each week to keep themselves busy! You don't believe your eyes and ears when you see what preparations they have to make. Hours and hours and hours are put into this. Making the garlands, images, food and decorations for the village and installing endless chords of light bulbs (One keeps fearing for a short-circuit, for everything is being tied to everything). I think they use 220 volt and their sweaty hands, but up till now I haven't seen anyone fall off their ladders, so it seems to work somehow.

On the first day I visited the temples and palaces while 'enjoying' the singing, which was very loud and had clearly been intensified by enormous speakers and horns (Everyone here lives in a hovel, but they do have a lot of electronic equipment!). But the temples and palaces here in Orchha were definitely worth it. In the afternoon I walked to the river, where they'd raised a huge tent. Why was this? It turned out that on the second day, a very important person, that is: a god, was to take a bath in this river, followed by many mortal men. There are hundreds, no thousands, of these followers (Where have I seen this before?). Being curious by nature, I walked towards the tent. There were about a hundred women who were busy making little rolls of clay of about 4 centimetres, the tops of which were dipped into a sort of coloured sprinkles. Next, the rolls were placed on the table, ready to be thrown into the river the next day. It is about the so-called 'lingam', the phallus symbol of what's-the-name-of-that-god-again. And I am talking about lots and lots of tables which were stacked with these items! There were literally thousands of them. You'll understand that the term 'provision of work' appeared in front of my retina in capital letters once again.

I obviously was an object of interest myself, for in no time I was surrounded by a group of three orange grandfathers who, possibly in holy Sanskrit, asked me where I came from (a question everyone keeps asking me in India). What could I say? Nothing, really. So, I was being 'deported' to an unbelievably fat and bald sumo wrestler who was wrapped in orange dress and who turned out to be some fat cat from Bhopal. When I saw this huge microphone in front of his mouth, I realized immediately that he must be the one who was producing this mortifying screeching. [I think he must have been castrated.] After some small talk, with the help of an interpreter who looked like the twin brother of one of the two grumpy old men on the Muppet Show dressed like Gandhi, I was allowed to continue my journey. Gosh, what a mutual integration it had been!

On the second day, the celebration was complete. During the whole day the rich Indians (I call them 'the richies') drove into the village in their jeeps. That had to indicate something, hadn't it? In the evening I accompanied a few others to the river, where everything had been arranged for the god's arrival. He was to to arrive at midnight, but at one o'clock nothing had happened yet. Being familiar with the plannings people make over here, we decided to walk back to the village, for it could still take some hours and I wanted to get up early the next day. I only left my room to buy a bottle of mineral water in the shop at the corner, which was owned by the owner of my lodge. I was pulled into the shop and allowed to stand on a little platform. You guessed it: the god had arrived and I had the best place to watch him in the village! In an open car with (again) a lot of equipment and lights, he was now standing in front of us: a 'well-fed' Indian who was around thirty years old. Everyone bowed their heads and started praying. Next, they all tried to climb the car but were kicked off mercilessly (The word 'gently' is not in their vocabulary). When the spectacle was over, the shop owner approached me and said in a voice full of respect: 'That was God!' [Good, I thought - can I finally go to bed now? I didn't need to see the bathing as well.]