ADVENTURE

Hijacked. One young Indian man either side of me as I was heading towards the gigantic statue of Buddha. ' hello', ' where are you from?', 

'how many times India?', 'first time in Bodhgaya?', 'where are you going?', the standard assessment instruments to discover as much in as little time. It is the tried method for commission men and would be guides. Who these two were I was not yet sure. I asked 'where are you going?' The response, 'to practise English, with you'. 

On the journey there was a Deer Park that I wanted to see. So I headed in that direction and they joined me in what was very underwhelming park. Some tendered rose beds, trees and pathways leading to a well used set of swings, but no animals. The lads told me they were taken away as no  one wanted to look after them anymore. The small entry fee was therefore questionable, received by a wizened well aged man sitting on a sunken stool.

There were plenty of seats inside though and a quiet respite from the street outside. The questioning continued until I learned they wanted to take me to a school. Both of them said they taught the students even though they themselves were just eighteen and in college. I let the adventure unfold. 

Exiting the park we moved around the various larger monasteries into the back laneways. Traditional cow dung and mud covered houses with enclosed animal yard located behind the walled in monasteries. Some painted vibrant colours, others remain earthly. Peering through the narrow doorways, chicks and chickens roam through the washed and air drying stainless steel pots, pans and utensils. A cow, tied grazing on a pile of greens provides the family's milk, water containers filled from the hand-pump just passed. 

This is a maze of alleys and houses, children scurrying along the lanes not perturbed by me. It open out into green fields, growing rice, stretching far across to what I learn is the Tibetan Monastery and huge meeting hall. Robed monks are navigating the very narrow embankments between fields taking a shortcut. On other small embankments between the paddies dal and marigolds grow.

Seated outside a brick and mortar two storey house is a young man, a sculptor. He deftly works incredibly sharp tools removing slithers of wood as he carves pleats onto the Buddha's image. The  piece is only about forty by thirty centimetres in a soft but fine grained wood. The basic form has been blocked out with larger chisels. This is a high relief sculpture of a seated Buddha, the backing shape a large peepal leaf. There is a second 'blank' beside him. Sitting cross legged with the sculpture resting in the lap, he works finely sharpened steel double ended chisels about the size and length of a straw. Most are flat but a few are curved. They slice through the wood but effort is evident in the white knuckles. The skill is well learned and practised. Through interpretation he has been working on the sculpture of eight days, nearing end. He will make around Rs6000 ($130) for the work which is sold by commission. 

This young man was apprenticed for four years in a remote village learning the skills involved. Not only does he carve Buddha but also the pantheon of Hindu gods. He had quite a few completed sculptures waiting for market. A trained eye, he drew directly onto the wooden surface to create the next layer of decoration, changing to a finer tool. 

I am moved into an enclave of double and triple storey buildings, non rendered, looking for all the world they could topple any time. It is the amount of reo rods that are used in building which keeps them together, I am sure. We stop. On the outside of one is a printed banner ' Elizabeth Children's Home' run by Jesus Christ of Compassion Charitable Society. Home for homeless, hope for hopeless. So the school is an orphanage.  Inside there is a flurry of small bodies dashing out of sight. I am introduced to Pastor Nakhul Dev with his wife standing a way off. Removing my shoes I am ushered up the stairs followed by all to the roof. 

The roof space is flat and multipurpose. An external bathing and washing area, somewhere to clean the grains and pulses, a classroom and a play area. A sheet of plastic is stretched and laid on the ground with the children all taking their allotted spots, youngest at front with eldest to the rear. Some plastic chairs appear and I am invited to sit but on inspection not a good idea, so I am offered the charpoi. I have to move myself into the middle,and sit cross legged hoping there was not much wear on the hemp rope now well tensioned. My hijackers and the Pastor are seated and the children start a Christian come Bihari hymn. Some English I understand, the tune is reminiscent and the children harmonise beautifully. This is well rehearsed. I wonder how frequently this performance occurs. After a further song, one by one the children introduce themselves and practise some English. The mix is sixteen boys and nine girls. Three of the boys have reached puberty, the eldest seventeen and acting as a warden. I ask the Pastor what inspired him and the answer was simple. He and his wife could not have children. 

The place runs on the smell of an oily rag, donations mainly. The children are all healthy looking, clothed and attend the local school as well as lessons given on the roof to provide them with English. There is a cook who comes in twice a day to feed the masses and the girls help prepare the food. I am sure the boys would have chores as well. All the younger boys occupy one room, a conglomeration of what look like abandoned wooden desks abutting each other create a platform bed with no other space. Everything else hangs on nails in the wall. The girls room is without the platform, bedding is rolled up against one wall and the final small room has a flat wooden single bed platform that the three older boys sleep on, again occupying most of the room. There is an attached toilet area in each. The Pastor and his wife have one room and the final is an office come storage room, with dry goods, books, games and sports gear stacked in shelves to the ceiling. 

The sun sets, a beautiful site sitting on the roof. A glowing red circle hanging in the sky, slowly descending through the dust layer. Dusk upon us it is time to move and be lead back through the labyrinth of lanes that reaches this place. A different route is taken and then I recognise where I am, glad of the experience.