The School in Khajuraho

2019-06-23 (updated July 2026)

I was travelling in India.

In Khajuraho, people often approached me. Sometimes they wanted a photo with me. Sometimes they were determined to help me find my way, even when I was not looking for anything.

One day, a man came up to me. He explained that he was a teacher, from the Brahmin caste, and that his school needed supplies.

A few minutes later, he offered to show me around.

A little intimidated, I told him I did not want to disturb anyone.

He replied:

See with your eyes and act with your heart.

The line worked.

Intrigued, I followed him through the streets of Khajuraho.

At the school, I was introduced to the headmaster. He showed me the courtyard, the rest rooms, then a classroom.

When I entered, around twenty pupils stood up.

I felt quite uncomfortable.

The headmaster explained that they were very well behaved and that I could ask them to sit down. I did. They obeyed immediately.

We then went to his office.

He showed me a guestbook where visitors could leave a message in exchange for a donation to the school.

That was when I began to have doubts.

Everything felt a little too well organised.

The meeting in the street. The tour. The pupils standing up. The guestbook. Then the donation.

But I had no proof.

The school could have been real. It could also have genuinely needed help. I simply no longer knew whether I was visiting a school or following a performance staged for tourists.

As I left, the teacher caught up with me.

He suggested that I donate some pens, or buy them myself. I told him it was a good idea.

We kept talking as we walked, until we reached a stationery shop.

He stopped in front of it and said:

“Buy some pens here. You promised me.”

“Whoa. I did not promise anything. I will buy pens if I feel like it.”

I first wanted to check that the school actually existed.

He changed the subject.

“There is one last thing I want to ask you. I collect coins. Could you give me a few? It would be an honour.”

“No problem.”

He explained that he used coins to forge rings.

So I offered him a deal: two coins, one for him and another to make a ring I could give to my girlfriend.

He agreed.

We reached my hotel. I went up to my room and searched through the bottom of my suitcase.

I found two copper-coloured coins: a one-cent coin and a two-cent coin.

I went back downstairs and handed them to him.

He stared at them, wide-eyed.

“This is impossible. I cannot do anything with coins this small!”

“Sorry. That is all I have.”

He left, looking rather confused.

After he was gone, I searched for the school online. I found nothing.¹

That strengthened my doubts, but it was obviously not proof.

I will probably never know whether the school was real, whether it genuinely needed supplies, or whether the entire visit had been organised to obtain a donation.

But I still remember those one-cent and two-cent coins very clearly.

He probably does too.