The Taj Mahal, boring Agra and the train to Varanasi (Agra)

August 12

Up at 4:55 am, fraught with worry that I wouldn’t get up in time to see sunrise at the Taj Mahal. Justifiably so, given that the promised wake-up call never materialized. I daintily navigated my custom-tailored salwar kameez, gently coaxing my calves into the extraordinarily tight legs.  The stitches groaned in complaint.

Downstairs the lobby was dark and abandoned save for a man sleeping in the middle of the floor. I gingerly stepped past him and waited outside for my guide Nadeem who arrived as planned.

Nandu drove us through the sleepy city to the entrance of the Taj Mahal grounds, many kilometers away from the building itself. Nadeem and I hopped a large, battery-operated golf cart people mover to the security check where my last sorry-ass piece of gum was confiscated. We then walked to the outbuildings where Nadeem started explaining the history of the Taj. I barely heard a word due to my anxiousness at wanting to see the building while hundreds of tourists poured through the sandstone arcades of the out buildings. Finally, he allowed us to proceed.

The glorious Taj Mahal

When I caught my first real glimpse of the Taj, I was overcome with emotion and nearly cried. No matter how many photos, videos or simulations one might see, nothing can do justice to actually being there. The building stood etched against the cloudy backdrop, its edges outlined crisply and perfectly. Its sheer beauty, its power, its reverence gripped me fiercely. I was in the presence of greatness, witness to a timeless love story. It was the most amazing building I had ever seen.

“Por favor senorita, muevete!”

I am rudely yanked out of my reverie by aggressive Spaniards trying to shove me out of the way of their photos. Luckily my New York friends arrived before I had a chance to make tortilla out of the Spanish. We walked to the Taj itself where we removed our shoes. I preferred to go barefoot so the building’s energy could travel unencumbered into my being. Nadeem took us into the darkened inner chamber where we surreptitiously took pictures of the spectacular marble designs inlaid with rubies, emeralds, onyx and other semi-precious stones. I wondered about how many mistakes it took before perfection was achieved, and how those errors were addressed, both materially and with the poor soul who dared screw up.

Inlaid marble detail

Outside Nadeem took us to the edge overlooking the riverside where the foundation for a second Taj Mahal, this one fashioned entirely in black marble, was to be built to inter Shah Jahan. Moreover, this second Taj was to be connected to the first by way of a 600 metre diamond-encrusted, sterling silver bridge. No wonder his son imprisoned him before the entire kingdom was bankrupted. (The Taj purportedly cost the equivalent of $7 million dollars back then – as in 350 years ago. Juan joked that this explained why China was economically ahead of India.)

We cajoled Nadeem into giving us time to just to hang out and enjoy being there.  Despite all the visitors (and this was low season), the gardens and chirping birds made it lovely and serene. Although it was hot, the clouds were gentle and the rains held off. Eventually Nadeem dragged me away.

I returned to the hotel where the waiter took me to the roof to see the Taj Mahal. This was followed by a breakfast of parantha aloo with yoghurt and pickle, sweet lassi, masala chai and mandarin juice. Nadeem returned earlier than I expected – no idea why he was in such a rush – and off we went to the Agra Fort where he ended up being hounded by a persistent security guard who relentlessly demanded that Nadeem display his credentials. In between pesterings I heard how the palace’s jewels were stolen by the “Britishers”.

The 7th generation

Next stop, as was inevitable, was the crafts shop allegedly run by the 7th generation descendants of inlay marble artisans. (I came to learn that “seventh generation” was common amongst India’s artisan families.  Coincidence?)  I was taught the steps to create inlay marble: first, the white marble is covered in henna design; the marble is chiseled with iron; semi-precious gems (malachite, black onyx, jasper, etc.) are filed into tiny pieces; resin is heated which bonds the pieces; the pieces are glued with a secret sauce of sugar cane, rice and five kinds of natural ingredients; the finished artwork is washed and polished; finally, the shopkeeper quotes you an outrageously high price for elephant coasters which you just can’t reconcile yourself to buy.

To my surprise, that marked the end of my tour. I thought my tour was to last longer, but oh no, Nadeem impressed upon me that he was only hired for the Taj and Agra. I regretted aloud that I should have hired my own guide as I still had over six hours until my train. He suggested I go to the mall and watch a movie. I asked him to walk me through the market outside the Jami Masjid. He refused. Nandu finally convinced him to walk me through the local market which was, despite its brevity, a rewarding experience.  I felt that people engaged with me warmly because I had a guide/translator.

Once Nadeem and I parted ways I informed Nandu that I did not come to India to hang out in a mall. We agreed that Mathura was too far of a drive, so we tried to figure out an alternative.

“It rain? We go market?” I was starting to speak like Nandu.

Tried to get him to take me to the Roman Catholic cemetery which I read had interesting and old (16th century) tombstones, but in his confusion we ended up at the decidedly uninteresting St. Mary’s Church. Then I suggested Itimad-ud-Daulah’s Tomb, known as the “Baby Taj”.

The route there took us across an old-fashioned iron train bridge. It had the same manic intensity as Indian roads except without the relief of a shoulder. It

Tomb at Baby Taj

was not for the faint of heart.  Luckily the Itimad-ud-Daulah grounds were peaceful and beautiful, which is considerably more than I can say for the bathrooms. The squat toilets had no electricity, so when I closed my stall door it was pitch black. I had so many objects on my person in jeopardy of falling – sure enough I snatched my sunglasses mid flight on their descent into the hole. Yikes.  Relaxing under a tree after I walked the grounds my guidebook kindly advised that many Indian monuments have huge beehives.  Wonderful.

Alas, I still had over four hours to kill before I had to be at the train station and, let’s face it, there is very little to do in Agra other than the sites I’d already seen. (Hello, business opportunity!) Nandu took me to the Mughal Sheraton, one of India’s top hotels, where I spent most of the time sitting on the swing of their rooftop Taj Mahal lookout. As I watched the gardeners at work I couldn’t help but think what a contrast the Sheraton was to the rest of India, how elite and out of reach it was to the vast majority of Indians… and how it might make me really angry if I were Indian and was made so acutely aware of my “have not” status. I was conflicted.

View from Mughal Sheraton

On my way to the restaurant I ran into the sick French family from Jaipur. They looked much happier: tummies were all better and the daughter had a huge smile.

In the restaurant I couldn’t help ordering the “Tower of Bagel” with chicken tikka, chutney, crispy onions and potatoes.  I was warned of its spiciness.  Spicy? Why do Indians think our mouths are gaping holes of raw, tender flesh? There was nothing spicy about it.

While waiting for the food I skimmed the “religion” section of my DK travel book.  The very last sentence of the section caught my eye:

“The first Jews came to India in about 587 BC and now live mainly in Mumbai and Cochin.”

587 BC? Wait a second.  That predates Christianity, Islam, Sikhism, Jainism, Buddhism, and… Hinduism as we know it?  And the Jews are still there? That’s a remarkable accomplishment for an afterthought.

On the drive to the train station in Tundla, Nandu noted the sign for Kanpur, his home town.  He proclaimed that it was the third-largest city in India after Kokata and Mumbai.  Bigger than Delhi? I wondered. “How big?” I asked. “600, 700 million,” Nandu answered proudly.

In the train station parking lot I gave Nandu his tip.  The recommended guideline was 50 – 100 rupees a day. He had been my driver for six days; I gave him 1500.  He looked at it quietly and asked, “I make you happy?”

“Uh, can’t you tell from the tip?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes,” he smiles and laughs.  He then gets back into the car, locks the door and begins backing up – with my knapsack in the car.  My heart sunk. But he was only re-parking the car.

After a quick shower with bug spray – it was now firmly dusk – we walked to the train station. Mildly chaotic, but manageable.  Nandu stood in line in front of a dubious-looking kiosk. I say a prayer of thanks that he hasn’t abandoned me.  An old, unbalanced man comes over and begins asking me what train I’m on.  “I’m with him!” I quickly point to Nandu.  Then the young man standing in front of Nandu comes over helpfully.  After five more times of pointing at Nandu we finally understand each other.

The train station is old and dirty. The only sign of modernity is a digital readerboard listing the trains – in Hindi. The platform is framed by a soaring iron roof whose rafters are densely inhabited by thousands of loudly-chirping birds.  The din is incredible. As if it’s raining whistles.

Nandu walks me to the waiting room.  It says “Gents”, but he kindly points to the other foreigners in the room.  I’m sure when it was first done it was quite charming with its blue and white tile, light yellow walls and light blue vaulted ceilings, but the dirt was now adding 3D relief to the walls and the water stains clouds to the ceiling. Two fluorescent lights dimly lit the room; the fans barely nudged the moist heat. One woman looked like she had been there for ten years. The boredom was palpable.

I discovered one of the other foreigners, an English bloke, was on my train to Varanasi.  I felt better, until I saw the rate running across the floor. As I watched it go through the archway I say to the guy, “I wouldn’t be surprised if an elephant came through there,” to which he replied, “at least it wouldn’t fit in my bag.” Indeed.

Tundla train station

And thus I became friends with Josh and Aaron, a godsend because trying to figure out which was our train was completely ridiculous.  There were trains coming and going on different tracks without any clarity of their destination.  Sometimes they only stopped for five minutes. Josh began to panic mildly. Where is the official? he asked repeatedly, each time increasingly anxious but still smiling bravely. I eventually found a guy who flagged us when our train finally arrived.

We started walking past the exceptionally-crowded sleeper cars, Josh leading the way with increasing purpose.  Josh and Aaron were travelling AC3, so they found their car before my AC2.  I walked past the AC2 car, thinking there was more than one, and realizing my mistaken assumption ran back in a flap.

I hauled myself onto the train and was faced with a short hallway littered with piles of cardboard containers, aluminum paper, rice, dal, half-eaten chapattis. The train worker showed me to my seat, a single sleeper occupied by a barefoot, moustached Indian man sprawled on a ratty sheet.  The train worker barked at him sharply in Hindi and the man scrambled to the four-seater berth across the aisle where his two buddies were sitting.

They stared at me. I stared at my ticket.

They continued staring.  I stared intently at my sheet.  I began giggling. Then I noticed the big, hairy toe of the guy on the berth above hanging uncomfortably close to my face.

So this is India. What have I gotten myself into?

I closed my berth curtain. Show’s over, boys.

My 5-minute single berth

The curtain opened.  It was the train guy kicking me out of my berth. I was moved to a 4-person berth with three Spaniards. Ni modo.

I chatted with them for a bit, a functional conversation about train logistics. They watched my bag while I used the grotty toilet.  Back in my berth I settled in with the bedding provided, my ear plugs, Bose headset, eye patch and Chris Anderson’s Free on the iPod. It was going to be a long night.