Page 37 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime
Adventures in Erotica
Of course, nothing happens. To begin with, there is the not insignificant matter of our sleeping arrangements: six beds, three on either side of the carriage, stacked on top of one another like battery hen cages.
The weak prostates and constant phlegmy snoring of my fellow travellers is not conducive to romance.
Or a good night’s sleep, for that matter.
The predawn arrival in Khajuraho is another factor.
Plus, there is the message from Jonathan and the possibility that my husband is out there somewhere, hot on my trail.
If there was something simmering between Utkarsh and me, that email switched off the gas.
When we check into the hotel, it is as if we have made a silent pact to give each other a bit of space. There isn’t exactly tension between us, it is more that we recognise we have too many thoughts and not enough words. Plus, we can scarcely keep our eyes open.
My mother has once again cut off communication, so our best chance of tracking her down is to find someone she’s befriended on her travels and interrogate them.
The tactic has delivered mixed results so far but I can’t think of another, better idea.
Plus, Utkarsh remains enthusiastic about exploring Khajuraho’s one big tourist attraction.
I am nowhere near as keen; pretending to appreciate erotic art with someone I keep imagining naked is a daunting prospect.
So far, I’ve been able to ignore Utkarsh’s physical charms. Okay maybe not ignore, but certainly resist. But viewing sexually charged artwork together really does feel like a step too far for my fragile psyche.
We agree to meet up after lunch and retreat to our respective rooms. I nap and google and worry. And worry some more. I worry about my parents’ safety and their state of mind. And I worry about what, if anything, is going on between Utkarsh and me.
I am still angsting several hours later as we walk down Jain Madir Road to the western temple complex.
The oppressive heat doesn’t help my mood.
Nor do my surroundings. I thought I’d made my peace with India’s many challenges, but Khajuraho raises the bar yet again.
The temperature has broken through forty degrees.
There is no shade and not a hint of breeze, just an endless patchwork of concrete and people ahead of me.
Merchandise spills out from every shop so that walking on the footpath is an obstacle course of plastic buckets, cheap furniture and vegetable carts.
There are touts everywhere, as insistent and annoying as mosquitos.
And there are plenty of regular six-legged mosquitos around as well.
A dozen settle into a holding pattern around my head, though none come in to land.
I’m not sure if that is because of my industrial-strength insect repellent or because I am covered in so much sweat that they would drown if they attempted to touch down.
I discovered during my morning of doomscrolling that India accounts for three per cent of the world’s malaria cases and Khajuraho is positioned right on the northern edge of the malaria map.
If there is a hell on earth, I’ve found the postcode.
But my physical discomfort is nothing compared to what is going on internally. I silently rehearse several different lines of pithy observation for our temple tour but everything I come up with sounds prudish or, worse still, like a bad pick-up line.
Well, that seems a little ambitious.
Whoever would have thought those two bits would fit together?
So which position is your favourite?
Every line is worse than the one before.
By the time we reach the ticket window, I am a wreck.
My hands are shaking so badly, it takes me several attempts to unzip my money belt.
And when I finally do get it open, a dozen or so coins fall through my fingers and land in the dirt at my feet.
I scrabble about in the dust, retrieving enough money to buy admission.
The rest I leave to be discovered by someone who needs it more.
Utkarsh doesn’t comment. Perhaps, in all the excitement of living his schoolboy dream, he hasn’t noticed how edgy I am. Or maybe he just thinks I am distracted by my parents’ unusually lengthy silence. Any which way, I am grateful not to have to explain myself.
We opt for the audio guide. It proves to be an inspired decision. We are able to wander around the half-dozen or so temples at our own pace. And by staying alert to whatever highlight is coming up next, I manage to avoid standing in front of the more risqué sculptures at the same time as Utkarsh.
Eventually the relentless afternoon sun gets the better of us and we retreat inside one of the larger temples for some shade.
Utkarsh plonks himself down on the dusty stone floor and pushes his back against the wall.
I drop down next to him. Surveying the room, it is immediately obvious that we have strayed into one of the more explicit temples.
I am surrounded by Hindu erotica. So much for escaping the heat.
‘What do you think?’ Utkarsh asks, gesturing to a particularly elaborate carving on the other side of the room.
The scene it depicts is so complex and intricate, it takes me some effort to decipher.
When I finally do sort out the jumble of arms and legs, I let out a gasp.
Colour floods my cheeks. Again. I haven’t blushed this much since I was a teenager.
I have no idea how to respond. The carving is more salacious than anything I saw during the audio tour. So many bodies, naked and enthusiastically intertwined. Some of their contortions seem physically impossible. Certainly, they are nothing I have ever attempted.
Utkarsh misinterprets my silence as awestruck appreciation. ‘The beauty takes your breath away, doesn’t it? Do you know the legend of Khajuraho?’
I let Utkarsh talk while I regain my composure. I roll one shoulder, then the other, trying to appear like someone who is not at all intimidated by her surroundings.
‘The story involves a beautiful woman. Her name was Hemavati, and she was the daughter of a Brahmin priest. One night, she was bathing in a lotus-filled pond when the Moon God looked down on her naked body. The god was immediately overcome with desire, so he descended to earth and seduced her. The poor girl fell pregnant and was driven out of her village, a fallen woman. All she got from the Moon God was a vague promise that her son would be a powerful king one day.’
I try to concentrate on Utkarsh’s story, hoping to distract myself from everything else that is happening. Everything else being just one thing: the man sitting next to me.
‘The power imbalance between a god and a young woman makes the story problematic. But the son did eventually become a mighty ruler. And when Hemavati died, he built the first of the Khajuraho temples in her honour. His purpose was to show the world that there is no shame in the pleasures of the flesh.’
Utkarsh returns his attention to the wall opposite, his forehead slightly furrowed as if committing each scene to memory.
In profile, his features are as chiselled as the artwork.
His lips curve naturally upward as if the world is some enormous joke.
Once again, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
And then I immediately give myself a mental uppercut.
What is going on with me? Sex hasn’t been on my radar for many long years, since well before my husband (or is he my ex-husband?) found comfort outside our marriage. These temples—this country—are playing tricks with my head. And Utkarsh and his taste in art isn’t helping any.
‘It is beautiful, yes?’ He opens his arms as if embracing the room.
My face is burning as I search for a response.
‘I guess you could call the carvings beautiful. They’re certainly very …
’ I grapple for the right word, ‘… energetic. But I’d say it’s more confronting than anything.
I can’t imagine why my parents added this stop to their itinerary, especially at their age. ’
Utkarsh frowns slightly, his eyes probing in that way that always knocks me off balance.
‘There is nothing wrong with celebrating the human body, Eva. Age doesn’t change that—although it might affect the physicality and creativity of the expression.
You are still a sexual being. Why should your parents be any different? ’
I break away from his gaze and examine my toes.
‘You seem shocked, Eva. And a little uncomfortable, perhaps?’ Utkarsh waves a perfectly manicured hand toward another, even more provocative, carving. ‘You mean you have not done these things?’
I scan the next tableau with dismay. The scene is of an orgy and there appears to be an animal involved. I cannot think of anything to say that will sound witty and worldly wise. The silence stretches.
After a moment, Utkarsh laughs.
‘Eva, I am teasing you. I have not pleasured three women while simultaneously being serviced by a mythical half-man, half-beast.’ He reaches for my hand. ‘My tastes are wide ranging but not quite as adventurous as that.’
‘Oh, of course not.’ I shift awkwardly. Utkarsh has this extraordinary knack of making me feel both valued and a little foolish all at the same time.
‘Maybe you prefer something more like this?’
He points to another carving. This time a woman is positioned cross-legged with a man seated behind her.
The man has his chest pressed hard against her back as he hugs her body close.
His hands are placed in a way that makes my whole body shiver.
A trickle of sweat snakes its way from my chest to my stomach.
Utkarsh reaches for my hand and strokes the soft underside of my wrist. His touch radiates through my body, making my nerve endings fizz like popping candy.
This time there is no doubting his intent.
Or my reaction. For days, we’ve been circling one another like those sarus cranes.
Now I am hovering at the edge of the abyss.
I know I should snatch my hand away. Stand up.
Get away from this man and this place before we cross the line and leave the safety of friendship for something different and more dangerous.
But I am powerless to move. More than that—I don’t want to move. As soon as I acknowledge that truth, the air between us shifts.
Utkarsh slides behind me and, in a smooth motion, arranges our bodies to mirror the couple in the carving.
I can feel his breath on my neck as his hands drift down from my shoulders, skimming my breasts before finally encircling my waist. His arms are smooth and bronzed—I imagine lifting them to my mouth and tasting him.
My tongue traces my lips and my heart quickens. He must feel it pounding.
‘Relax, Eva.’
Utkarsh stays as still as the stonework around us as he waits for my heartbeat to return to a quieter rhythm.
Then he lets his hands glide across my body, caressing first my stomach then my hips and the tops of my thighs.
I let out a sigh as I lean into him. But he pulls away just as my body is screaming for him to go on and further.
‘Now we try this.’ Utkarsh gestures to the next scene as he gently lifts me to my feet. He is still behind me. His lips graze my shoulders, cooling the light sheen of sweat on my skin and making me shudder. His hands once again move tantalisingly close to my breasts. But again, he retreats.
‘And now this.’ The next carving depicts a man and woman standing face to face, their bodies touching from the tips of their noses to their feet.
Utkarsh gently turns me toward him. He draws one finger down my cheek and lifts my chin. His lips are so close now we are drawing in each other’s breath.
‘May I?’
He pulls back slightly to be sure. I take a step forward, reclaiming the space between us.
I haven’t kissed anyone except my husband for more than thirty years and as our lips meet, I am swept away with longing.
Not only for Utkarsh, but for rediscovered passion.
For the woman I used to be and have a chance of becoming once again.
For this new, thrilling second chance at life.
When we finally pull apart, Utkarsh waves a hand at one final carving. It depicts just one man and one woman, their faces lifted up in ecstasy.
‘Maybe it’s time for us to return to the hotel, Eva.’
I can still say no. We’ve shared a kiss but that doesn’t have to mean anything. Who wouldn’t lose their head just a little bit in a place like this?
Somewhere deep in the back of my brain, the old, sensible, dutiful Eva is screaming at me to stop. But as I walk to the exit, hand in hand with Utkarsh, I tell her in no uncertain terms to sod off.
From: Rachael Ezzy
To: Me
CC: Katie Taylor
So, have you slept with Utkarsh yet? He sounds divine. Also how was it?
From: Katie Taylor
To: Me
CC: Rachael Ezzy
Make sure you keep me cc’d. I am SO invested in this!
From: Me
To: Rachael Ezzy
CC: Katie Taylor
I’m busy. I’ll send you my usual musings in the next day or so.
Also, you two REALLY need to get lives.
E. xx