A priest met us at the entrance and motioned toward a wooden cart.
We slipped off our shoes and socks, then stepped closer.
The stone beneath our bare feet felt warm where the sun reached it and cool beneath the temple’s shade.
Out of habit, Dani and I turned right.
The priest stopped us with a gentle wave of his hand.
“This way.”
He pointed left.
We circled the temple clockwise instead.
~
Four smaller shrines stood around the main sanctuary.
At one, the priest paused, pressed his palms together, and bowed his head.
“Our god. Surya.”
Then he smiled and caught up with us again.
The temple climbed skyward in repeating bands of white marble. Every surface had been carved.
Rows of flowers gave way to elephants, then horses, then people. Each layer repeated the rhythm of the one below until the carvings dissolved into a golden spire above us.
The priest rested his hand on the lowest row.
“Hell.”
His finger climbed upward.
“Elephant. Horse. Human.”
He pointed to a row of figures seated with impossible posture.
“Tantra.”
“Tantra? I thought tantra was Buddhist.”
He smiled.
“Buddhism is from Hinduism. Buddhism is in Hinduism.”
He held one hand above the other.
“Buddhism here.”
The second hand settled beneath it.
“Hindu here.”
Then his hands began trading places.
“Horse. Human. Peacock. You. Me.”
One hand rose.
The other followed.
“Reincarnate.”
Again.
“And again.”
A red flag snapped above the temple’s golden spire.
I looked up.
The priest’s eyes followed.
“Reincarnate until heaven.”
The drums had faded somewhere inside.
~
We finished the circuit and returned to the shoe cart. As we reached for our shoes, the priest appeared again.
“Come. I show you my home.”
We followed him away from the temple and into a bedroom lined with paintings. He pointed to the artwork hanging on the walls.
“My children make these,” he said. “Natural colors. Handmade silk.”
He rubbed his fingers together, then tugged at his eyebrows.
“Brushes from chipmunks.”
He pointed toward the temple grounds.
“Catch them, take hair, make brush. Then let them go of course.”
He laughed
“Hindu. All life is sacred.”
He moved along the walls, showing us one painting after another.
A small three-panel painting caught our attention. It was about the size of a sheet of paper. In the first panel, a horse stood before a lake. The second showed an elephant in front of a pink city. In the third, a camel crossed a stretch of sand.
The priest pointed to each panel.
“Horse. Udaipur.”
He touched the elephant.
“Jaipur. Power, dignity, intelligence. Ganesha.”
Then the camel.
“Pushkar. Love.”
He tapped the horse again.
“Udaipur has strength like a horse. Many battles. Kings. Agriculture. Drought. Horse gives strength, speed, loyalty.”
He pointed toward the City Palace next door.
“Look at City Palace. Hundreds of years to build. Survived empires, fires, destruction.”
His finger moved toward the lake.
“Lake was dry for decades. Now it returns. Udaipur has strength like a horse. That is why you see it in the temple.”
We looked again at the three panels: the horse beside the lake, the elephant before the pink city, and the camel crossing the sand.
“I guess, we should go there next,” Dani said.
~
At City Palace, we did not stay long.
The stone corridors trapped the afternoon heat until every room felt hotter than the last. Soon, we escaped into the street looking for lunch.
“Hi, Caleb.”
A man waved from a doorway and handed me his card.
Little Armani, Tailor
“Remember me?” he asked. “From the Temple.”
He smiled before I could answer, then pointed.
“You need a shirt.”
Armani led us inside and shut the door behind us.
The air conditioner hummed.
Plastic bins filled with folded fabrics lined the walls. Finished shirts hung from hooks overhead.
I had planned this trip around disposable white T-shirts. Wear one until it turned gray, throw it away, repeat.
By noon, I was already soaked through.
I stopped in front of a dark linen shirt.
Before I could ask about it, Armani unbuttoned the shirt he was wearing.
“Try.”
“No …”
“Try.”
He pulled it off and handed it to me.
I peeled off my damp shirt and slipped into his.
The linen felt cool against my skin.
I didn’t want to give it back.
“What color?”
He spread bolts of fabric across the counter.
I chose pale teal.
“What collar?”
He pointed between a flat Western collar and a short standing collar.
“The Indian one.” I said.
He grinned.
“Good choice.”
A tape measure appeared around my shoulders.
Chest.
Sleeves.
Neck.
Waist.
He scribbled numbers onto a pad while calling them to someone in the back.
“Come back tomorrow.”
~
The following evening a clean-shaven man sat outside the shop.
Dani gasped.
“You shaved.”
He looked confused. Then he laughed.
“You want my brother.”
He rubbed his upper lip.
“He has the luxurious mustache.”
Then he disappeared down the street.
A minute later Armani hurried in and found a shirt from among the racks.
“Here. I finished it just now.”
I slipped it on.
It fit perfectly. And this time, I didn’t have to give it back.