orchha 07

and isn't it good to let the day take its own pattern... to wander out at ten and let temples and palace and town and river and paths lead you down up back around and back to return slow and legweary to the hotel seven and a half hours later... all an ideal hangover cure for a newyearman newly unused to drinking ... to saunter off hand in hand into the hornblared body-bustled streets ... and up into the palace and temples … the men the women the girls the boys halloing halloing... the balaclaved roundfaced infants... the boys languagelessly showing you around ... the teenage boys and dark-glassed young men taking photos of stonefaced no-smile you, nice-smile Canadian, and grinning them... the green mossed pools below the bridge... the bank holiday throng on the bathing steps in the main streets on the unwalled bridge over the wide grey river, in the palace car park, on the far temples' highest walkways and cupolas... the high soaring giant vultures returning to their temple-tower nests to feed their twittering chicks... the blue birds... the longtailed green parrots perched high on domes staring at you... the testosteroned white-faced black monkey ignoring the indian close by but bounding aggressively up to chase me back out the arched gate ... the jumpscurrying squirrels... the rush of water over the low waterfall... the dead british soldiers in the ceiling mural... the ancient temples here and there sticking up from the trees or profiled on hills... the dry fields and the very green of the fields …the old woman, ten rupees to open the gate, living under her wall-less eight foot high covering... the straggling fortified walls in the distance... the steep steps up through the cubbyholes... the cold old stone... the curve of fast water over round rock... the burrs sticking to your shirt... the sourceless floating distant singing... the SUVs... the water buffalo in red-check blanket ...the bird-catchers' nets... the whitened sun sinking to the west... the symmetry of the time-paled stone-work... the crenellated dome... the archer's shootholes... the stone latticed windows ... the palms... the papaya laden papaya trees, the banana laden banana trees... the palms... the picnicking extended families, the men in jeans the sareed women in bright-colours, mustard yellow, ultramarine, emerald, pink... the woodpeckers, the fans of their pilialated heads slowly closing when they land... the low-walled high parapets... the yellowed orb turning orange then smoky as it sinks to the laxmi temple