Jajabara Travels - Khajuraho : Poetry in Stones

I have a new look on the art of sculpting and the sculpter after visiting the Western Complex of temples at Khajuraho. Sculpting requires, not only the art of a painter and imagination of a poet but also the calculations of a mathematician and the strength and discipline of a worker. It requires a perfect balance between body and the mind. This is where it becomes a more exacting art form than say poetry or painting.
            The sculptures of Khajuraho speak to you in a way that intricately carved, richly decorated and high priced pieces of 'art collections' at any museum would not. Here in the setting and surroundings of temples they are not isolated works to be admired as the output of some artist; rather, they are simply present as a depiction of collective effort of many and represent the everyday life. The setting and the place is their own.
They speak to you with their gestures, their beauty, their actions, with compassion on their face, inviting admiration, exclamation, empathy, love and sometimes jealousy.
           Precise beauty in human forms, sheer horror in form of strange beasts, divinity in forms of gods and architectural brilliance in setting up of richly carved stones ('balua' stones in this case) are all brought together in this magnificent world created by hammer and chisel. As a poet beautifully puts it and as recounted by the voice of Amitabh Bacchan in the glorious light and sound show here

'Make me a stone among the many stones here
O Master sculptor of Khajuraho !'

I reflect: Isn't the world we live in, a similar marvel created by God.

'O Lord! make me a beautiful stone and place me in my rightful place!' A prayer rises up in mind spontaneously. I am sure the Lord's reply, if we could hear it in the din of our restlessness, would be
'Tathaastu' (in Sanskrit) or 'It is already so!'

Dew drops on bamboo leaves

We saw them last night 

Spread against the sky. 

Somewhere in perfect patterns

Which we could understand;

And some we could not,

But, beautiful all the same. 

Smiling and winking at each other

Having a chat may be

About the moon, who was missing. 

Some said he got down,

Through its dancing reflection

From the sky into the beautiful lake

With white lilies,

Where a fair girl was bathing;

He has not come back since. 

And the blue lake, the green lily leaves,

The black night bird

Won't say a word. 

But, the sun

Has come out this morning,

Red in shame. 

Does it know?

Has it seen something?

But, it won't tell either.

The stars have now set it upon themselves

To look for the unwilling moon,

And have it come back to the sky.

Here, they have spread out against every leaf of bamboo

Hanging on the tips,

Looking in all directions,

Signalling each other with movements in the wind:

But will the find?

The sun is not helping at all,

Growing big and pale in anger.

The stars have to hasten their search

Else the sky and they

Will be without company at night.