I celebrated Christmas in a way two days before the date, sharing Korean food with lovely women, Selam from Ethiopia and Jaida from Denmark. Jaida had managed to find a tiny Christmas tree, which we decorated with proportionately tiny ornaments. It was a delicious meal with good company, but it wasn't family.
My one consolation, which was admittedly a big one, was that I would be visiting the snow white Taj Mahal on Christmas morning; my ironic Muslim Christmas gift.
Selam continued with me to Agra. She was quite the asset. Her walk was the strong, assertive gait that only an African woman could have. When she told anybody "No!" it was short and convincing. This helped a lot in bargaining situations, "How much is the ride to Taj Ganj?"
"50!"
"No!" Selam would jab, then walk away in her walk, showing no signs of stopping.
We found a decent hotel for a good price; the autorickshaw-away is much more authoritative than the walk-away. Each of us went to our single rooms and washed the train out of our skin. I climbed to the roof and grabbed my first glimpse of the Taj, giant, much bigger than expected, white, shrouded by mist, or smog (it was hard to tell). It was closed that day, so we headed to Agra Fort.
The red fort was lovely, especially contrasted with the white marble palace inside. If not for the looming Taj Mahal, easily seen in the distance, this would be one of the most spectacular buildings in the world. The Moguls built large, simplistically beautiful buildings, featuring domes, pillars, towering archways, minuretes, sculptures and marble inlay work. All these culminating in the world's greatest tomb.
Selam asked me a price and pitted six rickshaw drivers against each other until, finally, the old man, our target, agreed to fifty rupees to take us to another tomb in the North of town and a park with perfect views of the Taj from the North. The catch, we agreed to visit five shops, which would earn the man 20 for each and 10% of everything we purchased. Most of the stores were selling the handcrafts of the area, Persian rugs, marble sculptures, mediocre marble inlay work, and jewelery. The one jeweler almost cracked Selam's statuesque resolve. Heck, I almost bought the jewelery.
We both headed to bed early to awake for sunrise visit to the Taj. Waking was easy even in the dark, just as a child, ready to tear into presents. I knocked on Selam's door and she was ready to go. The gate was closed, not opening until 6:45 and the ticket counter was a kilometer away. I'd hate to imagine the line that would make that practical. Walking in the dark, a horde of rickshaw drivers, awake early, attacked like wolves, chasing us down the road, some running ahead to ask us after we turned the first strikers down. The line at the counter was already full of people. We were still, thankfully, among the first to enter that morning.
It was an ethereally foggy morning and the Taj was barely visible, even from the gate. In many ways, the Taj Mahal is a shame to see; no other building will ever surpass it. Every gushing traveler who's ever said those words are telling the truth. To see it up close pulls unconditional wows in a symphony of languages. It's huge, white, breathtaking, simple and ridiculously complex, all at the same time. The gardens frame the approach, getting more captivating with every step. The door arches stretch to the sky. It's like walking into a fictional that can only exist in books. Koranic verses line the towering doors, all done in carefully cut, marble work, black upon white. Inside, the eerily peaceful mausoleum lay two coffins, the small white sarcophagus of Mumtaz Mahal, the culmination of the whole building. Next to her is the out-of-place add on of Shah Jahan, designer and funder of the greatest monument to love, his own tomb never built. They sit in a cage of carved marble and meticulous marble inlay flowers, with not a seem between rocks. Sunrise threw an orange beam though the perfectly placed East windows, illuminating the flowers, which glowed against the dull white. The proportions of everything was just right, perfect.
Selam had a train to catch, so I headed to Fatepur Sikri, an hour from Agra. 'Tis home to an old abandoned city, featuring great Mogul architecture, on a smaller scale than the other buildings in the area. When I arrived by bgus, a young man pointed down a street and said, "Go there! Monument." So I walked, noticing the man was following me, but he was doing it in front of me, trying to make it not look obvious. Finally, he turned around and said, "Oh, going to monument? It's this way.", pointing back the way we came. He then started leading me there, and as expected, he started giving me a tour for which I never asked.
I tried my best to lead him where I wanted to go, ignoring the direction he was pointing and not caring as he told me the number of stairs in each set. I was roped into a sculptor's sales pitch for a while, then I decided to tell the man to bugger off.
"I got this man. You don't need to show me around anymore."
"Ok, so tip?" holding out his hand.
I stared at his young face, seething, acting as if I was so oblivious not to notice it was he who deliberately led me off course before he "helped me." I was about to tear into him, berate him for his disrespect for the foreigners that keep his town alive, his loathsome tendency to lie, and most of all, insulting my intelligence. Then, I remembered, it was Christmas, and though I'm not a Christian, I must have felt a bit of the spirit that day. My frown turned to a smile and I tipped him 100 rupees. He had successfully tricked me after all.
My time became more enjoyable after he left. The main draw and the one part that costs money for the tourists are the three palaces of Emperor Akbar, that he built for his wives, one Hindu, one Muslim, and one Christian. The largest was for his Hindi wife, Judh Bai. It's an interesting place to explore and imagine the past grandeur of the once great city. Most is in ruins; the city was barely used, abandoned because of lack of water. The red buildings are magical in the afternoon sun, and haunting to see such a magnificent city abandoned, crumbling.
I went back to the bus stop and found the trickster, waiting for the next sucker. I joked around with him about his scam, harassing the begging children and having a great time. Even though he tried to cheat me, he was still Indian and Indian people have great senses of humor. Merry Christmas!
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