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By F. L. WORM ALD
Our small tour-group of eighteen people got no further east than Varanasi. On leaving if we reversed our flight of the previous day and flew west by a little sooth for some forty minutes to land at Khajuraho.
Khajuraho, in the huge but rather thinly populated state of Madhya fradesh, is not now a city—just an airstrip, a small village, a splendid but still incomplete hotel, and the site of some of the most spectacular sculpture in India. Until four years ago, nobody had heard of the place except students of Indian art and connoisseurs of erotica, and few visitors had ever been there. The nearest railhead was over sixty miles away; means of transportation between there and Khaiuraho and hotel facilities in Khajuraho itself' were alike rather sketchy.
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