These are the days when I feel I’ve seen India. We began early, 5:30,
so we could make it to Agra and back in a day. The morning was foggy,
so the journey began in a dreamlike cloud. There were clear things up
close, not so much in the distance. When the fog hadn’t burned off by
ten a.m., it was clear that it was not really fog, but smog. It wasn’t
unusual to see people on the side of the road with their faces covered,
not from any religious piety, but to keep from breathing the terrible
air.
Side note. It is six thirty a.m. and I’ve been up for an hour and a
half. I got a brainstorm that today should be Muslim research day and
wanted to put together a set of questions I’d ask the Muslims I meet.
Silly maybe, but there is no reason not to work on the book while I am
here. And there is no reason my Khalid and Davis can’t be from Delhi as
easily as from Saudi Arabia. Maybe easier, because there isn’t as much
world focus on the extremism here, while there are still hostilities and
terrorism.
So the trip to Agra. First, I believe our driver, a nice young man about
my son’s age, was lost more than he knew his way. He often stopped,
rolled down the window and rattled off questions to strangers in Hindi.
Many of the strangers looked like they had never left the particular
corner they were on at the time… that they were in fact fixtures there.
Most often they just waved him on, indicating the same direction he was
headed already. Now all of that wouldn’t be such a notable thing, if
we hadn’t spent nearly 9 hours in the car, there and back, when the
drive was supposedly a two to three hour jaunt. The livestock, cows,
wild boars, along the road and so many dogs, all an indistinct lab like
short hair breed and then the people in all manner of costume, from
turban rags to elegant jeweled saris, made it an interesting drive, but
the dirty dust of the “road” which was more hole than pothole, left us
feeling, riding in the back of what is really a luxury vehicle in India,
as though we’d been beaten up, the jostling was that extreme.
And the slums. I’ve seen slums, in Rio, in Mexico, Malaysia, and of
course in the US… but I’ve never seen slums like these. The best
constructed ‘homes’ were made of blue plastic tarps. They had common
walls, one tent to the next and they were patched together with garbage
bags and whatever else you can imagine. People squatted, sometimes on
old crates, others just on the ground, sometimes around an open fire,
inside them as we passed by on this chilly morning. Surrounding the
slums were areas that reminded me more of garbage dumps than anything
else, with ridges of dirt as though they’d been plowed up that way. And
yes, not a few people had their pants around their ankles, squatting to
take care of their biological needs, right along the roadway, on top of
the mounds, along concrete abutments, wherever. Men, mostly, but women
too, with saris or other draping wrapped around them, both the butts and
their faces the only bare parts in sight. For anyone who thinks
women’s privacy, even at that level, is sacred in India… no. Biology
and poverty seem to be the great equalizers in India.
As we drove along the road in the pre-dawn hours, we nearly hit a black
cow, crossing the road. I wonder if there is superstition about black
cows the way there are around cats. My son in law explained when we got
back that it was very fortunate we didn’t hit it, and that had we, there
was a good chance we’d never make it out alive. All those nice people
along the roadside would have, apparently, turned to an angry mob,
complete with Mob Justice.
I saw only one cat, a skittish terrified creature that ran past us later
in the week as we lounged by the pool. My son-in-law explains that
Indians hate cats and consider them terrible omens. (This doesn’t stop
him from being the favorite of my daughter’s sweet gray tabby who lives
with them.)
The visuals were overwhelming, but nothing prepared me for the noise.
Instead of driving in single lanes here, cars drive where they want to
drive and then honk when they want to pass a vehicle in front of them.
Multi-colored Tata (freight) trucks, which I am told are painted that
way to ward off evil, rule the road, and since all goods are shipped
into the city at night, night time is particularly perilous. The Tata
trucks are not as big as a semi trailer in the states, more like the
size of a standard garbage truck, though without the rounding, if that
makes sense ness. The trucks are tarped, (unlike in Houston, nothing
flies out of them.) I sense pride in the ownership and operation of
motor vehicles, and frankly, it is more like race car driving than
driving on a highway. Starts and stops are frequent and plentiful, with
the constant blaring of millions of horns. “Honk horn and wait for
aside” the trucks have painted on them. And at night, use the dippers.
As best I can tell, that means flash your headlights.
I haven’t mentioned the smell… which wasn’t as bad as I expected it to
be. A kind of smokiness that I assume is from the pollution is the
standard, and frankly, you get used to it. Possibly because the air in
Houston has my body already primed to reject it.
As the drive was long, and as we left so early, it wasn’t unusual that
our driver wanted to stop. As mentioned, his English wasn’t great, and
he kept saying “repast” to us. I don’t know if he meant he was offering
it to us or just wanted a break, but no matter how many ways we said, “
we are fine” he pulled off the road to one of the myriad roadside
cafes, known as dhabba’s. These are three sided buildings, made of tin
and tarps as best I could see, with what looked like an outdoor kitchen
and steam tables. There were plastic tables and chairs, enough to seat
a hundred or so, scattered both under the roof and out in the “yard”… a
cleared dirt area. A two stalled Indian style bathroom was a few
meters separated from the kitchen area in its own concrete building,
with a sink for hand washing outside. Monkeys climbed all over the
roof, light brown thinly furred ones, and they reached down inside
frequently, trying to steal food. A brown dog curled in the dirt in the
corner and her puppy, a sweet little girl who came to me right away for
belly rubs, wandered the area.
Dhabba: note the "fog," the bathroom building to the right, and the monkey on the roof.
I’d have had to have been starving to eat, drink or use the facilities,
but our driver sat down to what looked like a four course meal, and very
much enjoyed it. My husband and I walked around until the owner, who
assumed his chairs must be wet, came out with a towel and dried a
couple, turning them toward the road so we could watch the view. We
didn’t want to insult anyone, so we sat. When I described this to my
son in law, he got a dreamy look in his eyes. He loves dhabba food and
told us we screwed up by not eating. He also says every time he comes
back from India, he looks like a refugee because he always gets sick and
loses weight. He hasn’t put the two together yet. We were very big on
hand sanitizer and washing, and didn't eat any roadside food. We also
didn't get sick. Or lose weight for that matter!
When we finally arrived in Agra, I was a little surprised to find the
big city atmosphere. At 1.7 million, it is only the 19th most populous
city in India. They don’t mess around with population in India, and I’m
pretty sure the concept of “small town” is lost on them. When my
husband first introduced himself to the employees there, he explained to
them that he’d come from a small town. They wanted to know how small….
500,000? A million?
He grew up in a tiny place in Iowa with 37 other people living there.
They shook their heads. 37 people in a house might be remarkable, but
it is no town.
At any rate, Agra houses the Taj Mahal, another UNESCO site, so tourism
is the biggest industry. In fact, to halt pollution, the city has banned
industry, and there is no tax on goods produced by hand created in
Agra. So it is a thriving area of crafts, though I had no real use for
the carved marble reproductions of the place. Thriving on Tourism,
there is racket after racket and you have the sense that each level is
paying off the next one. You must park a half-mile or so away from the
Taj. To get there, you must ride either a city taxi (three wheeled, open
air electric rickshaw thing) or ride in a cart pulled by a camel. You
must have a guide. He meets you in the parking lot, where he explains
his fee and the fee of the transport, who is his brother. He sticks to
you like glue, explaining his favorite features over and over.
He takes your rupees to buy himself and the driver entrance (20 rupees
apiece, again) while you wait in line to buy Foreign tickets, (750
rupees) and go through security. Your 750 buys you not only admission,
but a bottle of water and shoe covers… the same thing delivery people
put on so they don’t have to take off their shoes. The Indian line just
took off their shoes and went barefoot.
He leads you to the entrance, explaining the structures, the architect
and the history. For the most part, you will have already read up on
this, so you lag behind and appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty,
letting him do his job. If you hear one more time that it took 22 years
to build the Taj, you will try to feed the guide to the resident
parrots.
(transportation to front gate) (driver and the entrance)
The Taj is really a tomb. From trip advisor:
Where better to go for a romantic vacation than to the great testament
of love, the Taj Mahal? Built by the grieving Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan
in memory of his late wife Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj Mahal’s unrivaled
beauty explains why it’s regarded as one of the eight wonders of the
world. A visit to India wouldn’t be complete without it.
The building itself is nothing short of beautiful, but I expected that.
We are accosted first thing with the guides, who must be hired I fear…
though now that I think of it none of the Indians had guides. Ours was
clearly on the take with both vendors and cabs. We road a camel cart the
mile into the TM complex from the designated parking areas… more
jostling… and spent time admiring the entry “gates” gardens and hearing
the story of the mosque and quarters that flank the Taj itself. The
marble for the Taj, and it is all mare only things that aren’t perfectly
balanced are the graves themselves. The Taj’s dead wife was laid to
rest in the exact center of the complex. When he died, they buried him
next to her. There is no grave on the other side.
Marble of the Taj is inlaid with semi precious jewels, (another item
that they want to sell us in the Kasbah we must walk through to get back
to the car.) It is built with several optical illusions, inlay of dark
stone so that columns that are flat look three dimensional, etc. It is
definitely worth the trip; photographs can’t capture the luminescence
of the marble, the sense of calm that permeates even among the tourists.
(Marble details, including optical illusion
columns (those zig zags are flat) and residence built to match the
identical mosque on the other side)
View from the back (the back is identical to the front) with armed guard.
I do feel like I’m becoming an expert on Muslim art and architecture though.
After leaving the Taj, we took the “new highway” out of Agra, which was
supposed to get us back in 2.5 hours. You already know the end of that
story. I soon found that my senses were overloaded. It no longer
surprised me to see herds of cattle sharing the roadside, the tiny thin
children walking around with no pants, the hundreds of uniformed boys
and girls getting off and on busses, the motorcycles carrying at minimum
a young man in western type clothing, a young woman in full sari and a
child all at once, other motorcycles loaded with plywood, or crates of
goods or mattresses, held on precariously by string or just the hands of
the men, darting in and around traffic, without helmets or other
protection. It didn’t surprise me to see an elephant walking alongside
the road. I am ashamed to have lost my wonder and empathy.
from inside the car. Sharing the road.
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