Sex, Lies, And Sand Dunes

I think they're on to me. This whole nation is conspiring to prevent me from posting on this blog. Though I am now spared the many hours of toil on my yet-to-be-published travel writings that usually preceded getting anything done on this blog, I keep running into unexpected difficulties. Mainly, it's tough to type up a post when the entire eastern half of the country is facing an electricity crisis. ...They'll stop at nothing to suppress me.

Orissa was the worst offender, outstripping Andhra Pradesh and West Bengal in its precision-timed blackouts aimed against my noble endeavors. But to be fair, Orissa was probably just a bit prudishly embarrassed that I was about to post dirty pictures of it online. I'm basically third-party sexting an entire administrative unit of the Indian Union.

I went to Konark, which is the one thing that captured enough of my interest in that state to convince me to get off the East Coast Railway for a day or two. Konark is the location of a massive semi-ruined temple of the sun-god Arka (elsewhere known as Surya). There's a rather amazing story concerning the temple's latter-day discover. Apparently, the entire soaring edifice was for several hundred years lost under an enormous sand dune until a party of inquisitive Brits decided to dig it up and found one of the best-preserved ancient temples in all of India. I don't buy it. The thing is just way to big for people to stroll past for hundreds of years in a not-that-sandy area without asking themselves "Hey, what's up with that sand dune?"

I think it went something like this: The problem wasn't sand. As soon as you call it 'dust', the riddle is solved. Over the centuries, the "untouchable" sweepers charged with keeping the temple clear of dust did as all Indian sweepers do, and swept that dust off just next to the temple. As years and years of wind blew more sand from the beach towards the temple, nobody actually ever got rid of the dust that was actually there, allowing the sacred plaza to silt up like any Indian storefront. It got so bad that the temple was eventually completely buried and worship was abandoned. One day, many centuries later, some Brits came by and said to eachother "Eh, Nigel, wot's that conspicuous pile of sand?" "Oi don't know, 'arry, let's ask one of these primitive chaps." When the locals informed them it was an ancient temple, they decided "Well, bugger me, let's dig it up then!" and called in a class of English maids from a local domestic servants' finishing school to sweep it all up with little feather whisks into proper dustpans and take the dirt somewhere else. Voila, a temple is revealed, and before you know it some English gents have themselves a knighthood and a pleasant estate near some tea fields with cool weather and a modest endowment of native coolies.

I do, however, imagine that the little English maids that unearthed the structure had quite a time maintaining their composure in the face of the...native improprieties that they discovered. Suffice to say, Ghostface Buddha's photo gallery is no longer PG-rated. You see, Konark is not only a sun temple but also a monumental gallery of large and small erotic sculptures. Even the frank depictions of foreplay would have raised some eyebrows, forget about the threesomes.

The temple now is a bit of a humorous spectacle thanks to the number of picnicking families. I was quite impressed with the parents' ability to select an innocuous facade to stand against for family photos without having to examine the smaller carvings too closely. Soon after I got to the temple, a guide approached me and offered the usual proclamations that without expert guidance I would remain wholly ignorant of the significance of the temple art, and thus leave disappointed and no wiser for my troubles. Usually I just roll my eyes and say something like "Yeah, I would have no idea that that sculpture over there is Durga engaged in combat with the demon Mahavitsu as the gods Gahesh and Karkiteya watch on, recognizing in the noble warrior goddess an emanation of their mother, wife of Shiva." In this case, I was able to just smirk and tell the seven-toothed middle-aged sap "Trust me, buddy, based on what I've seen so far I'm probably the greater expert here."

Some of the sculptures are life-size depictions of unbridled, passionate, no-holds-barred fuckin' in a variety of positions so defiantly acrobatic that the couples involved are at a very high risk of sexually-transmitted concussion. Then again, lots of them are just dragons trampling on elephants. The general message of the sexual sculptures is that lying down, under the covers, with the lights off is uncouth. They also seem to hold the opinion that sex is best enjoyed outdoors, up against a tree, or at least in the shade. Anyone who would deny this is clearly a barbarian. The height of culture, it appears, is to have one's enormous member serviced by 2-3 ladies unburdened by gravitational force or any scruples relating to having nuts swinging against their chins. And who are we to question the wisdom of the ancients? Scripture has spoken.