After grumbling about working on Thanksgiving, I happily got home from school that evening and packed a bag for our weekend excursion to Amritsar. Located about 260 miles northwest of Delhi in the state of Punjab, Amritsar is the spiritual center of the Sikh religion. It’s also just a short drive from Wagah, a village that was split in 1947 with the end of British rule. Independence brought Partition, so the eastern half of Wagah went to India, and the western half to Pakistan.
Wagah is now home to the main road border crossing between the two countries and an unusual ceremony that has closed the border each night since 1959. The Border Security Force of India and the Pakistan Rangers engage in a series of choreographed marching, foot-stomping, high-kicking, head-wobbling, thumb-gesturing bravado before lowering the Pakistani and Indian flags in perfect unison, shaking hands and shutting the gates.
Shortly after checking in to our hotel in Amritsar, we hired a taxi to the border. Our driver dropped us off, pointed us in the right direction and told us to meet him at that same spot after the ceremony. We joined the throng on a road lined with vendors selling snacks and souvenirs. At the security checkpoint, we ladies breezed through and watched Tony slowly ebb forward with the sea of men until he finally emerged for his pat-down by a camouflage-clad guard. We passed through another security area set up for VIP foreign passport holders that spat us out at the “Foreigners Gallery.” Among the VIPs were several other teachers from our school!
Crowds on both sides of the border filled the stands, shouting nationalistic slogans and waving the flags for their respective countries. In India, an image of Gandhi overlooked the pre-ceremony revelry that included energetic dancing to Bollywood tunes and cheers of “Hin-du-stan!” Just a few yards away in Pakistan, the country’s first governor-general, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, watched Muslim spectators divided into gender-specific sections, alternately chanting “Pak-i-stan!” and playing Koranic verses.
We couldn’t see the goings-on in Pakistan very well. However, the Indian activities were perplexing enough to keep us riveted. First, two female guards marched dramatically from the staging area to the gate. Next, several guards lined up at a microphone. One at a time, they took a deep breath and then hollered what sounded like, “Goooaalll!” in an apparent competition to stretch it out the longest. Eventually, they all marched (a bit out of sync) to the gate and back, stomped a bit, led the crowd in more cheering and ultimately opened and closed the Indian gate a few times. I assume the Pakistani guards were putting on their own version of the show until they opened their gate. (Note to other countries considering this type of ceremony: The Pakistani gate slides open, which is much more dramatic than the Indian gates, which swing open from the middle.) When both gates were open and the guards had faced off with some clomping and shaking of their pleated headwear, they took the ropes from the flagpoles and simultaneously lowered the Pakistani and Indian flags. Flags folded and carried away, a guard and a ranger exchanged a quick handshake and a smile before slamming the gates for the night.
According to news reports, the confrontational ceremony was toned down starting last year to reflect the desire for better relations between the two neighbors. The vibe on our side was definitely one of pride and giddiness more than anger, but who knows what tensions rippled below the surface and beyond the gate?
I had hoped to pose with the guards following the ceremony but the surge of Indians with the same plan dissuaded me. Instead, I snapped a few shots of the rapturous crowd and made a quick escape.
Here’s a video of our experience at the Wagah border.
Here’s some old BBC footage featuring Michael Palin on the Pakistan side of the gate. Much nicer production quality than mine!
Ironically, Michael Palin also starred in the Monty Python sketch, “The Ministry of Silly Walks,” which I’ll post here just to amuse myself. (Another teacher pointed out the irony!)
Before leaving New Delhi for our weekend excursion, I had this vision: Our train pulls out of the station, thick air pollution swirling in its wake. We slowly chug-a-chug-chug into the countryside, where the brown haze gradually dissipates and the blue sky bursts into the scene. Green crops sway in the crisp, cool breeze while farmers wave in slow motion.
(Cue the sound of a needle scratching a record.)
Reality check.
Our train DID pull out of the station with thick air pollution swirling in its wake, and that air stuck with us all the way to Amritsar. No blue sky, no green grass, no friendly farmers. Everything was gray and brown and dirty. In Amritsar, we tuktuk’ed to our hotel – HK Clarks Inn, which veiled itself in that all-too-familiar western style designed to fool unsuspecting guests into thinking western-style customer service was on order.
As a traveler, I am often guilty of letting little disappointments condense in a cloud over my head. It’s been a long time since I visited a place like the Golden Temple, which blew that cloud away with a tranquil ethereal breeze.
Checking our shoes at the gate, we walked barefoot for a considerable distance on path covered with a damp woven mat. Before entering the temple, we had to walk through a little pool of water to wash our feet. Although I have serious issues regarding bare moist feet in public places, my OCD went out the window when the temple came into view.
The Golden Temple – Harmandir Sahib – rises up from the Sarovar, a lake considered holy by Sikh pilgrims, who immerse themselves and their children for its auspicious and healing powers. Home to the religion’s holy text, Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the temple is the spiritual center for Sikhs but welcoming to everyone. The chaos, pollution, traffic and frustrations outside the complex evaporated, overcome by smiles and spirituality.
Our group strolled clockwise with the other visitors along the white marble parikrama path, pausing frequently to absorb the serenity and appreciate the importance of this place. A mother sat fully dressed, splashing water over her naked toddler and gleefully pointing him in our direction. People knelt at shrines located along the parikrama in honor of Sikh gurus, saints and soldiers. Families sat huddled together, mumbling from prayer books and staring out at the gleaming temple. Men crouched lakeside, scooping water over their torsos and laughing. For some, it seemed a culmination of their life’s dream.
Nancy cropped her photo in the name of decency.
Photo by Katrina.
Another by Katrina.
Photo by Cristi.
“Please, miss, one snap!” A gentle touch on the arm, a shy gesture pleading for a photo. We must have paused 20 times to pose with other temple-goers. All across India, people are whipping out their mobile phones to share pics of themselves with the foreigners and … oh yeah … the Golden Temple. Within the temple complex, everyone was deeply respectful, though; we never felt overwhelmed by the attention.
This man didn’t speak English, but he gestured at my camera and then at himself. I took the photo and showed it to him. He nodded, smiled and walked away. Beautiful.
Everyone was required to remove their shoes and cover their heads – even men! Tony bought this handkerchief from a vendor outside the temple.
Our posse: Katrina, Nancy, me, Tony, Cristi and Jan
In line to enter the temple building itself, I was amazed at the peace. Nobody pushed or shouted. Everyone waited expectantly, many carrying packets of sweet halvah to present as an offering. Musical scriptures, recited inside the temple from the sacred book, poured out of speakers to create a spiritual soundtrack.
Katrina entering the temple; this shot is from her camera.
That night, Jan, Cristi and I revisited the temple. We were surprised to see hundreds of people clearly set up to spend the night. Some leaned against the walls; others sprawled out in the open space, covered with blankets too thin to compensate for the cold marble. We nearly stepped on one sleeping pilgrim who picked an unfortunate spot near the donation window. Although I prefer a warm bed, I understood the appeal of dozing in the glow of the beautifully illuminated temple.
Before heading back to the hotel, we popped in to the “langar,” where thousands of people each day gather for a free sanctified vegetarian meal cooked and served by volunteers. This New York Times article has a wonderful description of the temple and its community kitchen.
The guy on the left was passing out plates. I really wanted to eat here, but we ran out of time.
On April 13, 1919, thousands of people gathered in the Jallianwala Bagh, a garden down the street from the Golden Temple in Amritsar, for a religious celebration amidst a buzz of political restlessness. In the weeks preceding this day, tensions had escalated between British imperial authorities and activists for Indian independence. A series of protests and riots rocked Punjab, and rumors circulated that a revolt was planned for later that spring. To quell the uprisings, British governor of Punjab, Sir Michael O’Dwyer, declared martial law, which included a ban on public gatherings. When word of the crowd in Jallianwala Bagh reached Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer, he marched British and Gurkha troops into the garden and ordered them to open fire. His armored cars with mounted machine guns were too wide for the enclosure gate or he would have used those, too, he later admitted. Official figures put the death count at 379 with almost 1,200 injured, but other sources say close to 1,000 people were killed. More than 100 died by leaping into a well to escape gunfire.
The garden now stands as a memorial to the massacre, so we stopped by to check it out. Entering the garden, we could envision people 92 years ago chatting under the trees and lounging by the stone wall, never suspecting the imminent ambush. Just as we were feeling appropriately somber, just as Jan was reading the story of the massacre from a guide book, we experienced a completely different kind of attack.
“On April 13, thousands of people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in 1919. An hour after the meeting had started at 4:30,” Jan read, slowly raising her head from the book, “they were attacked by a wild mob of women in saris!” I looked around at the encroaching photo-seeking fans. We laughed but honestly couldn’t escape. Lucky for me, Jan created a diversion with her sing-song voice: “Well, hellllooooo. Oh, don’t you just look so beautiful! Well, I don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re absolutely adorable.” And so on. I slipped away and stared in shock at the group engulfing her. We had warned her not to make eye contact! We had tried to teach her the art of kind rejection, but there she was, trapped. I wish I could say that I parted the crowd and staged a daring rescue, but I am ashamed to admit I bolted for safety without a backward glance. Well, I looked back long enough to snap this picture.
I didn’t get far, however. Another group of smiling Indian tourists accosted me, rattling off Hindi louder and louder to help me understand. Finally, an English speaker asked where I was from, and I heard, “No British, American!” For once, being an American was an asset. It was far worse to be British in this emotional place. The group moved in closer. One lady embraced me, stroking my face and resting her head on my shoulder. She and her entire extended family insisted on cuddling and posing for phone photos, which took ages and left me a bit traumatized.
Finally, I was released to walk about the garden. But freedom was short-lived. Every time, I lifted my eyes from the ground, somebody was desperately bobbing around trying to catch my glance. Unlike the gentle snapshot requests at the Golden Temple, the memorial paparazzi were brutal. Although amusing, the attention really did keep us from fully experiencing the memorial and its displays. Next time, we’ll have to wear disguises.
Notice the girl taking a picture of me taking a picture of the memorial. ALL of my photos at the memorial have that common feature.
Can’t you hear their moms? “Go stand by the tall white man!”
These school kids were dying to bust out of that line and chat with us, but a nun with a stern face kept them in check.
After being mauled at the massacre memorial, we needed time to decompress. How do Brad and Angelina handle it? Exiting the Jallianwala Bagh, we hired a few bicycle rickshaw drivers to take us to lunch. I was looking forward to dining at a restaurant recommended by the brother of my colleague, Shafali. He visits Amritsar frequently and raves about this place. The rickshaw drivers merged into the busy traffic, and off we went.
After darting through alleys, zipping around corners, and pedaling up and down a highway overpass (well, technically, we got off and walked for that part), the rickshaws pulled up to our destination. Closed.
“We can take you to Crystal Restaurant,” said our driver.
“Sure,” said Tony. “Why not?”
“Why not? Why NOT? Well, maybe because he is a RICKSHAW DRIVER,” I said to Tony as we hit the road again. “Are we really taking restaurant recommendations from a rickshaw driver?”
“I bet he’s taking us to his favorite place,” said Tony, who obviously hadn’t thought it through.
“Yeah, I bet the Crystal Restaurant is a popular hangout for the rickshaw crowd,” I muttered. Still, it was an adventure. For the second time, we hiked up the hill to the highway overpass and reboarded the rickshaw for another wild ride.
The Crystal Restaurant turned out to be a typical packaged-tour eatery with a thick menu catering to the culinary preferences of various nationalities. Katrina snapped this shot.
After lunch, we asked our drivers to take us back up and over the highway to the Durgiana Mandir, a Hindu temple that was lovely but a bit anti-climactic compared to the Golden Temple.
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell! (Nancy’s photo)
Returning to our rickshaws, we decided to head back to the hotel. That involved another trek up and over the highway, but at the end of our journey, we all agreed this impromptu tour was a highlight of our Amritsar visit.
Katrina was terrified, but Nancy kept her calm.
Jan and Cristi.
Tony and me (from Jan).
A beggar lady outside Crystal Restaurant.
Walking up the hill to the overpass for the jillionth time.
The rickshaw drivers pushed their vehicles up to the top.
As you may recall from our first Indian rickshaw ride, it is not easy to get good photos! Here are a few I like.
I came to Amritsar with only one restaurant recommendation: Kesar Da Dhaba. It came from the brother of my colleague, Shafali. When I searched for it online, I discovered it was tripadvisor‘s number one restaurant in town! I didn’t get a good look at the place when the rickshaw brought us here for lunch (only to find it was closed), but I knew not to get my expectations too high.
Our taxi parked a short distance away, and the driver got out to help us find the restaurant. We meandered through some alleys and eventually found it. At around 6:30 p.m., we were the only ones there. In most countries, that would be a red flag, but Indians eat dinner well after our bedtime.
The decor could be described as “prison minimalist” with a Coke poster to liven up the joint. We sat in concrete booths with gray marble tables and cluelessly perused the menu. The waiter appeared and cheerfully addressed us in Hindi. We ordered water, which he seemed to understand.
Then we experienced a classic ESL moment: Oftentimes, teachers present English learners with a choice, “Do you want to use crayons or colored pencils?” and the kids respond, “Yes.” You can’t help but giggle. Unless you’re the one saying “yes.” So the waiter said, “Blah blah blah” with one hand extended, followed by “blah blah blah” with his other hand extended. And we said, “Yes!” Then he shook his head (oh boy, been there, done that) and repeated the “blah blah blahs” with the hand gestures, to which we repeated, “Yes!” Finally, he laughed, wandered away and returned with two bottles of water – one cold and one at room temperature. Oh, right!
The confusion continued. We had no idea what to order. So I pointed to the menu, made a thumbs-up gesture (please don’t let that be offensive in India), rubbed my tummy and smacked my lips, pointed at the waiter and then shrugged my shoulders, which is obviously the international message: “What’s good here?” Somehow it all worked out. Our meal – parantha thali (which kind of translates to “delicious flat bread with a few small servings of other things on a round tray”) – featured bowls of dal (fried lentils), channa masala (spicy/sweet chickpeas), raita (thick yogurt with cucumber) and the most delicious butter nan bread I’ve ever tasted.
We asked for more bread, and a young boy delivered it, picking up each newly fried piece and crunching it in his bare hands.
Dessert was an almond custard called firni. Pretty and scrumptious!
Cristi and I were members of the Clean Plate Club!
There’s very little on this planet that I won’t eat, and I don’t have a lot of hang-ups when it comes to hygiene or western standards at restaurants. That said, I am SO glad we visited the kitchen AFTER dinner. It was open to the street, and the cooks sat cross-legged on the counter.
Katrina took this one.
Here are a couple shots from our walk back to the taxi.
We live in a southern New Delhi neighborhood called Vasant Vihar, which is split into several blocks. Ours is D like Delhi. Knowing Diwali night traditionally calls for excessive fireworks, we opted to stay around D-Block. To be more specific, we opted to stay on our sofa with an occasional foray to the balcony. Tony tried a few times to grade papers, but ultimately the explosions and high-pitched whistling of wayward firecrackers sent him back to the couch. We were slightly embarrassed when our landlord’s daughter came upstairs decked out in turquoise chiffon and sequins to bring us small oil lamps called “diyas.” Wearing sweatpants, an old T-shirt and glasses, I followed her out to our balcony, where she placed them on the railing. Downstairs, her mother positioned more lamps along the garden wall.
Lights are key to attracting Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. People leave electric lights on inside, string more lights on the outside of their homes, and fire up numerous diyas, which are placed inside and outdoors, in hopes that Lakshmi will visit and bring prosperity and happiness for the coming year.
Here’s another take on the illumination tradition from the diwalicelebrations website.
According to Ramayana, Diwali commemorates the return of Ram, an incarnation of Lord Vishnu and the eldest son of King Dasharath of Ayodhya, from his 14-year exile with Sita and Lakshman after killing the Ravan, a demon king. The people of Ayodhya illuminated the kingdom with earthen diyas (oil lamps) and fireworks to celebrate the return of their king. … Twinkling oil lamps or diyas were there in every home and fireworks were there too. Great celebrations were held and everyone was happy for Rama to be the King of Ayodhya. This celebration took place on the night of the new moon of Ashwin (October-November). The tradition and the timing continued to be followed even these days. Even today Diwali celebration means happiness, fireworks and sweets. Thus the festival of diwali is in honour of Rama’s victory over Ravana. Among all the legends of Diwali this one is the most believed one.
Although a 5000-year-old Indian scripture refers to a city located in modern-day Delhi, archaeologists will have to keep digging to find proof. Sites unearthed so far have found signs of Delhi’s urban dwellers in seven successive ancient cities dating to around 1060. New Delhi, as we know it, is considered the eighth. Yesterday, we visited the ruins of Delhi’s first ancient city – Qila Rai Pithora, which extended the citadel of Lal Kot, constructing a walled city with 13 gates.
I had heard the name “Surekha” from several sources, so I got in touch with the founder of Delhi Metro Walks and signed up a group of 11 teachers to join her Saturday tour. We all met at a busy street corner and walked to the Mehrauli Archaeological Park with a brief stop at a square domed tomb, which recently underwent renovation. We veered off the sidewalk onto a dirt path that wound up a hill. No wonder British soldiers used to picnic at this spot; even today the view is lovely. Back then, the forest and hunting lodge must have been a welcome refuge from city life. Inside the mausoleum, intricate finials and traditional patterns decorated the walls. According to an article in The Hindu(India’s national newspaper), the resident of the tomb is up for debate. The tomb’s caretakers migrated to Karachi after Partition forced Pakistani nationals to leave India (and vice versa). “No one remains to help unravel the mystery of the mausoleum,” the article says.
Climbing up to the tomb.
Isaac checks out the view.
Inside the mausoleum.
After back-tracking to the sidewalk, crossing a busy street, and cutting through the debris of a recently relocated flower market, we entered the Mehrauli Archaeological Park. Suddenly the honking and shouting faded, and we found ourselves amidst sun-dappled trees, rolling lawns and a newly planted rose garden. We exchanged curious looks with this little group.
Starting in 1997, the Indian National Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage (INTACH), with funding from the Delhi Tourism Development Corporation (DTDC), has been identifying, excavating, renovating and conserving 42 of the buildings (which represent nearly every era in Delhi’s history) in this 100-acre park. In addition, According to the INTACH website:
50 trail markers, 40 monument description boards, 150 benches and project description boards, together with 2 km of heritage trails were laid down. Both signage and pathways have been built of natural materials such as sandstone and the local quartzite stone employing traditional workmanship thereby contributing to the unique natural and historic character of the area.
Here are some highlights of our tour.
Sir Thomas Metcalfe, who was the East India Company’s resident at the Mughal Court, constructed his 19th-century country house right over the 17th-century mausoleum of Muhammad Quli Khan (an attendant to the Mughal emperor Akbar and stepson of Akbar’s wet nurse). Metcalfe’s dining room was apparently directly over Khan’s tomb, and he further embellished the area with pavilions, a dovecote and a waterway to bring visitors to the estate by boat.
The motorbikes are parked in what would have been the canal. The building was a boathouse, and we walked up the steep steps to the site of the former tomb/country estate.
Work is underway to restore the building to its original state – as a mausoleum, not as a weekend get-away.
The Rajon Ki Baoli is a three-storey stepwell built in 1516.
Many walls, gates, foundations and buildings remain unidentified and overgrown with weeds and trees. The sign marking this one just said “wall” or something like that.
Surekha walks through an archway.
Near the entrance of another tomb.
Inside the mausoleum of Shahid Kahn (son of Sultan Balban, see below), Surekha pointed out the “scrafitti” on the ceiling. I had never heard that word before!
The sun was setting as we approached the tomb of Ghiyas-ud-din Balban, who reigned from 1265-87. Surekha explained that this building is believed to be the first in India constructed with “true” arches. The Speaking Arch is an interesting article that clarifies architectural significance of that arch.
Surekha saved the best for last, but it was pitch black by the time a caretaker unlocked the gate to the Jamali-Kamali mausoleum. Inside the tiny building, we used the flashes on our cameras to light up the colorful, ornate space.
It was so dark, I couldn’t see what I was shooting. When I opened up the pictures on my computer, I decided not to crop out the heads in the interest of perspective.
The tomb of Dervish Shaikh Jamali, a Sufi saint who died in 1536, lies next to that of Kamali, who is assumed to be an associate of the saint’s family.
The mihrab is a nook that indicates the direction of Mecca.
After leaving the Jamali-Kamali tomb, we walked in darkness back to the starting point and – with some help from Surekha – rounded up some tuktuks for a short ride to dinner. We invited our wonderful tour guide to join us, but she had another busy day planned for Sunday and needed to rest.
Our group met up at Thai High restaurant and enjoyed a delicious dinner on the rooftop terrace.
For my first three-day weekend in India, I joined eight other teachers for a roadtrip to see the Taj Mahal. In an uncharacteristic move, I relinquished all power and let a new friend, Sandra, organize the whole thing. I hopped in the van Saturday morning without knowing (a) exactly where we were going, (b) what kind of hotel she booked, (c) whether we would have a guide, and (d) what was on the itinerary. How liberating!
Tony took too long to commit to the trip, so Sandra filled all the seats in the van. He was fine with that. In my absence, he bought a TV and a toaster, so it worked out well for everyone.
See my previous post, Getting to Agra, for details on the chaotic colorful cacophany we experienced on the journey.
After seven hours of watching India roll by the van windows like some unscripted Bollywood movie, we pulled in to a parking lot and met Tanveer, who would be our tourguide in Agra. He explained that we were going to visit Akbar’s Tomb first. This was a pleasant surprise as I hadn’t realized we’d be seeing anything other than the Taj Mahal.
I will describe our sightseeing as though I knew what I was seeing at the time, but really I returned to New Delhi and researched everything before starting this blog post. Just play along.
So who the heck is Akbar, and why were we visiting his tomb?
The Mughal Empire controlled much of the South Asia from 1526 to 1858, and Jalāl ud-Dīn Muhammad Akbar (eventually known as – or self-dubbed – Akbar the Great) became the third Mughal emperor in 1556 at the age of 13. During his 49-year reign, he modeled religious tolerance and a passion for art, literature and culture. He was also a follower of Salim Chishti, a holy man who lived in the region of Sikri. Remember that fact; it will be important later.
At the time, it was customary to design and construct your tomb while you were still around to see it. Akbar planned it and picked the site but died of dysentery before it was finished, so his son Jahangir oversaw its completion. The red sandstone contrasts dramatically with the white marble and black slate, and the Persian calligraphy is gorgeous. Tanveer pointed out a flaw: White marble slabs with inlaid black calligraphy reach up on both sides of the main gate’s arch, but then peter out. The calligrapher didn’t space his work properly to the fill the whole canvas. Plus, thanks to the laws of physics, the inscriptions up high look teeny compared to the elegantly huge writing at eye level. Tanveer said the calligrapher, Amanat Khan, learned his lesson. (That’s another little bit of foreshadowing.)
In this slideshow, you see a tomb, but that’s only a cenotaph – a word I just learned that means an empty tomb used to honor the deceased. Akbar is actually buried on a lower floor inaccessible to tourists. You’ll also see a blurry shot of a precious little girl. Stupid shaky hands! We saw a jillion beautiful people on this trip, and I wanted to take pictures of all of them. This family happily complied and then posed with me for some pics of their own.
Leaving Akbar’s Tomb, wild green parakeets swooped overhead and landing in the trees. Tanveer announced our next stop: Agra Fort.
Now we’re going to be bouncing around through time as I detail our Agra trip, so bear with me. Fortunately, all the main characters are related, so it shouldn’t get too complicated.
The imposing red sandstone walls of Agra Fort popped against the bluest sky I’ve seen in ages. The fort’s 1.5 miles of enclosure walls surround the imperial city of the Mughal rulers, starting with our buddy Akbar in 1565.
Only 10 percent of the fortress was open for visitors, thanks god. That 10 percent was exhausting! In one tower with a beautiful white marble balcony, Tanveer told us this was where Akbar’s grandson Shah Jahan lived out the last eight years of his life in exile after his son Aurangzeb staged a violent overthrow. Shah Jahan spent many hours each day staring out over the Yamuna River at his beloved wife’s mausoleum, the Taj Mahal. Stay tuned for details on that world wonder!
Tanveer rattled off one fascinating anecdote after another as he rushed us through the various buildings, courtyards and gardens. He was appropriately bossy and exasperated when we didn’t pay attention, so I felt nervous straying away to take photos. Hence, these shots aren’t very creative. That’s Tanveer by the fort map, and that’s the Taj Mahal in the background shot of me. Very cool.
Turns out Agra Fort was one of three UNESCO World Heritage sites we would visit this weekend. For more details on Agra Fort, check out the UNESCO website.
The brilliant blue sky had turned gray and angry by the time we finished seeing the fort, and we returned to our hotel in a downpour. We stayed at the Raj Mahal, which bills itself as “world-class luxury.” Not so much. But it was perfectly clean, comfortable and quiet. After a long day of sight-seeing in the hot sun, all I wanted in the whole world was a cold beer. Alas, Agra is a predominantly Muslim city, and most people were observing Ramadan, so we were lucky to get snacks and water in the hotel restaurant.
Our gang rose early to visit the Taj Mahal at sunrise. Tanveer said only the “lovers” – people who want to take their time and treasure the experience – visit the Taj this early. It seems he was right; the crowd didn’t start to swell until we were on our way out. Perfect.
So back to the Mughals. Remember poor Shah Jahan who was exiled at Agra Fort? Before his son got all crazy on him, he was the fifth Mughal emperor from 1627 to 1658. Obsessed with art, architecture and opulence, he was a prolific builder and supported some of the era’s most renowned craftsmen.
The relationship of Shah Jahan and his young queen Mumtaz Mahal is legendary. Although he had two other wives, historians agree Mumtaz Mahal was his one true passion. When she died giving birth to their 14th child, Shah Jahan vowed not to take any more wives and to build the most beautiful mausoleum in the world.
Tanveer brilliantly built suspense, walking us slowly up to the massive red sandstone gate that opened to the Taj Mahal garden while sharing the history and facts about the site. When the gleaming white marble building came into view, it honestly made me gasp. Built on a hill above the Yamuna River, it appears to float in the sky, a fitting tribute in a dreamy love story.
We strolled along the garden paths, pausing frequently to admire the Taj from different angles. Tanveer pointed out the mosque on the left-hand side and a matching building on the right-hand side built in a quest for perfect symmetry. The extra building couldn’t be used as a mosque (because it pointed away from Mecca), so it became a rest house where Taj Mahal visitors would hang out after praying at the mosque and paying their respects at the mausoleum. Considering the rest house was merely a symmetrical prop, its design and intricate carvings were quite impressive. (See the photos of the red sandstone building in the Taj Mahal slideshow.)
The Taj Mahal itself was both smaller and more awe-inspiring that I expected. I knew it had been built by an emperor for his beloved queen, but I guess I missed the fact about it being a mausoleum. I was expecting a meandering palace attached to her burial site. In fact, you could walk around the whole thing in just a few minutes.
But you wouldn’t want to; you have to take is slowly to absorb all the incredible detail that 22,000 workers spent 22 years crafting. Delicate carvings, white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones, minarets that lean slightly away from the mausoleum in case of an earthquake, the 33-foot-high brass finial at the top of the dome, magically designed arches that appear and then disappear a few steps later, towering columns of inlaid Persian calligraphy, the effect of the rising sun on the marble’s hue, the tiny windows of mica, and the view over the river to the Agra Fort, where Shah Jahan mourned his dead wife.
Remember the poorly planned calligraphy at Akbar’s tomb? By the time Shah Jahan hired that same calligrapher to decorate the Taj Mahal, the artist had worked out some fairly advanced math. According to a website on Taj Mahal calligraphy,
The calligrapher’s signature bears witness to his status and renown at the court, since many of his peers remained anonymous. He was so talented that he used an optical trick to inlay the verses at the Taj. The letters seem to be of equal size but they are not. As they move upwards to the peak of the arches, they gradually get bigger. It is a fact that things that are far away look smaller, hence by varying the size of the letters, the inscriptions look perfectly proportioned, no matter where you view it from. Such is the perfection of the Taj!
Photography was prohibited inside, unfortunately. Just like Akbar’s Tomb, there were cenotaphs to represent the caskets of Shah Jahal and Mumtaz Mahal surrounded by a lacy screen carved from marble; the real tombs were downstairs. Shah Jahal’s cenotaph is the only asymmetrical element in the whole complex. He hadn’t planned on being buried here, but his own mausoleum was never built.
UNESCO World Heritage Site number two? Check.
We returned to the hotel for breakfast and then checked out, loaded our bags into the van and headed to Sikri for our last sight-seeing stop in Agra.
Remember when I mentioned that ol’ Akbar the Great was a follower of the Salim Chishti? Akbar visited the Sufi saint when his wife had failed to conceive. Salim Chishti blessed the emperor, and soon the first of three sons was born. Akbar was smitten, so he did what anyone would do: build a whole new city and move the capital of his empire there just to be near his favorite holy man.
The UNESCO World Heritage site says, “it offers a unique example of architectural ensembles of very high quality constructed between 1571 and 1585.” Sikri was the capital of the Mughal Empire for only about 10 years, and then it was all but abandoned until archaeologists “re-discovered” it in 1892.
I love roaming around places like this, trying to imagine life as a 16th-century royal. It wasn’t easy for those ladies – stone beds, no air-con, competing wives and murderous sons, etc. Imagine being one of the slave girls who served as a living pawn in the life-sized chess-like courtyard game!
In this slideshow, you see the countryside as we approach Sikri. That was quite a change from the roadside scenery in Agra. The rest of the shots are inside the ancient city. One pic shows some remaining frescoes, although most of the city is unpainted with fine stone carving miraculously intact. The shot with Tanveer was an attempt to capture the purple comb in his back pocket, but also to show the stone pattern for the courtyard game played with live girls.
UNESCO World Heritage site number three? Check!
Here are some random shots of Agra from the bus window: a modern Indian family on a scooter, water buffaloes cooling off in a city pond, and people going about their business.
We were so lucky to have beautiful weather at all our stops, especially considering it’s monsoon season. Shortly after leaving Sikri for our ride back to Delhi, the deluge began again.
We got home lickety-split – only five hours, compared with the seven hours we spent getting to Agra. Next time, I’ll take the express train. Although my body feels like it got run over by an overloaded tuktuk, I feel incredibly fortunate to live here with so many opportunities to explore historical and contemporary India. I am now an Indian-culture addict. Where will I get my next fix?
It’s been one week since Tony and I joined the teeming masses of the Dilliwala – the almost 17 million residents of Delhi. We can now be counted among the 1.1 billion (with a B!) people who make India home.
When we accepted our jobs at the American Embassy School here back in February, the headmaster told us, “Whatever is true about India, the opposite is also true.” We have seen this first-hand every day since we stepped off the plane. For example: Our first-floor apartment (which is actually on the second floor if you speak American English) is located in a posh Southwest New Delhi neighborhood with tree-lined streets, lovely parks and spacious gated homes manned by around-the-clock security guards. However, our building backs up to a sprawling slum, which is hidden from view by a large fence. During the day, a steady parade of slum-dwellers streams past in the adjoining alley, but they seem to disappear when they reach the main road. We hardly sense their presence except for the sound of chatter, laughter or crying babies. Our up-market neighborhood also serves as home to several cows that roam freely during the day. In a country where cows are sacred, these cows have it especially good. Although the houses and apartments appear huge and clean, often with lovely courtyards or gardens, the streets are in disrepair and feature occasional piles of sand or bricks dumped for someone’s construction project. The juxtapositions are never-ending and surreal.
We arrived in New Delhi last Sunday night after meeting many of the other new teachers at the Chicago airport (they were easy to spot as we had been told to wear our navy AES polo shirts). School administrators picked us up and took us to our apartment, where workers carried all eight of our boxes and bags upstairs for us.
What a nice surprise to see a traditional brass nameplate on the door!
In the foyer, we encountered a little welcome mat, which turned out to be an artform called “rangoli” created in colored rice! Unfortunately, we only figured this out by stepping on it and messing up the design.
Here’s Tony in front of our building.
As we wait for our shipment to arrive, we make regular trips to a nearby shopping area to buy household necessities. It’s a nice place with two western-style grocery stores and many high-end shops … and the requisite cows.
So here’s a little video tour of our apartment. Hmmm … I filmed this with my iPad, which I’ve never done before, and I just realized I created a very skinny video. Well, too bad. I’m jetlagged and exhausted, so I’m just going to post the silly thing rather than try to figure it out.
