Sylvia's Journal

Live, the Taj Mahal is even more breathtaking than in the pictures. I had no idea of all the architectural treasures that surround it. We both liked the guesthouse, the mehman khana, with its red sandstone interior. I did try to imagine what it would be like to be a guest in such high vaulted and stone places, without windows, and very draughty and cold in the winter. I was told there were curtains and the place was carved up in smaller interior spaces – still it would be the equivalent of a high vaulted church in Europe.

Mumtaz’s story, albeit it a love story, is also a story about family planning, or rather the sad failure of family planning. She died at 29 during her 14th delivery, with 8 children already dead. The emperor’s tears may have been real and sincere, but she had more reason to shed them. Not only did she lose 8 of her children, her rival’s son imprisoned her king until he died.

Later we saw his ‘prison’ which was not such a bad place; he had a nice view of Mumtaz’ tomb, the river, the town, his own mosque and some pretty nice baths.

We had two enormous beers on a rooftop terrace until it got too chilly and then found a restaurant that Lonely Planet recommended. The food was good but the atmosphere left something to be desired – eating alone in a restaurant is always a little unsettling. But then again, Indians eat late and we were early.

We stayed at Colonel Lamda’s guesthouse. It took forever to find it in the suburbs of Agra. The colonel is an elderly and presumably retired military who is running a small guesthouse. When we arrived he was giving a cooking class to a party from Oxford. The room was frigid and there was no way to heat it as the entire guesthouse was running on solar battery power. We crawled under our 15 pound Chinese blankets, 2 of them, and remembered that this is how most of the people in this part of the world go to bed at night.

Being essentially without electricity meant we could not charge our electronics; besides there was no internet, hence the missed posting.

On Thursday we toured Agra’s red fort (more bad news for women as I learned that pregnant concubines were thrown off the ramparts into a big holding tank. It was not clear whether the cheetahs cleaned up the mess or some untouchables; either way, not a pleasant practice or sight). I assume that the ladies in the harem must have figured out how to not get pregnant or abort, or both, as not knowing was potentially lethal.

We visited the abandoned Mughal capital of Farahpur Sikri on our way to Jaipur. We discovered that dealing with dead India (the Mughal architectural treasures) is much easier than dealing with live India, the hawkers, touts, pseudo guides and shoe wallas who all want to extract as much money out of you as possible for next to no effort. It made me not want to come back to Agra.

Five hours later, in Jaipur, all knotted up from the long ride in our ‘luxury sedan’ we noticed the Ayurvedic massage place near our hotel and managed to get the last 70 minute slot of the day. Side by side, with a curtain separating us, we were sprinkled with hot oils until our skin couldn’t absorb anymore. We emerged relaxed and oily like sardines, greasy hair like Elvis.

We asked out driver to take us to a nice local restaurant, which he did. Inside celebrations were taking place, for a birthday, and the lengthening of the days, with drums, fire, a puppet show and traditional dancing. The best part of it all was that we were the only foreigners and no one was trying to get us to buy stuff we didn’t want. In fact, we bought exactly what we want, which included some adult beverages, and then were invited to join in the festivities with the all-Indian patrons.

We declined and later wondered why? Because we had to get up early to see more of dead India. This touring business on a tight schedule to see dead India has some flaws, we realize now. Next time, we keep saying, next time…