Here's some advice to anyone thinking of a visit to the Taj Mahal: (1) don't stay in awful Agra, epicenter of tourist-exploitation; (2) don't bother with the "Taj by Moonlight," however romantic and exclusive (only on non-Friday, non-Ramadan, full-moon nights, by advance ticketing) it sounds: whether it was mist, pollution, or the placement of the moon, the building's silhouette was barely discernible in the distance; (3) do see the Taj at dawn.
The air was fresh and cool, there were few (relatively speaking) tourists, and I even managed to be ALONE in one chamber of the tomb for five whole minutes. [It's difficult to be alone in India at any time, much less at the Taj.] I was prepared to find this icon over-hyped, but was actually moved by its perfection. As the sun rose, the building's color changed, through all shades of pearl. The jalis, stone screens, made lacework patterns on the floors. Thanks to an expert guide I heard the amazingly prolonged echo under the double dome.
Another sound effect was potentially more sinister: the whispering gallery in the Agra Fort (a walled Mughal palace complex even larger than the Lal Qila in Delhi), evoking the machinations of court life. Machinations like the imprisonment of Shah Jahan by his un-filial son Aurangzeb. The usurping emperor did provide dad with a beautiful marble pavilion from which he could gaze downriver at the monument he had built to Mumtaz, although his eyesight had almost completely gone. Poignant, and just another strike against Aurangzeb, my least-favorite Mughal.
The human scale of the "Baby Taj," built by Nur Jahan for her parents' interment, was very pleasing: similar in plan to all Mughal tombs, but small and delicate, with lacy jalis, it has colorful floral motifs as well as the endless geometric patterns. [Forgive me, dear math colleagues, but the relentless geometry and horror vacui did get a bit wearing.]
Fatehpur Sikri is another World Heritage site notched on my counting-stick. More compact and better preserved than Hampi, and in a completely different [non-Hindu] style (google for photos), it again displays the astonishing Mughal taste for splendor and good living. Unfortunately the water ran out, and the court had to abandon it after only 15 years' use.
Rajasthan memories: the desert from the train window turning pink at sunrise; antelope springing away in the scrub; men in colorful, loose (non-Sikh) turbans; women in swinging skirts, bodices, arms weighted with silver bracelets to the shoulder, heads and faces veiled with translucent scarves in brilliant colors, spangle-edged.
Jaisalmer, my destination, is a 12 c. fortress-city (of 99 bastions: it resembles Carcassonne) filled with butterscotch sandstone haveli [mansions], in fanciful forms (colonnades, turrets, cupolas, balconies, bays, etc.), all fretted with filigree stonework. Each looks like the sand-castle it is. The wealthy Jain merchants who built this secure trading depot competed in decorative extravagance. Unfortunately, the fort has not conserved its water or its architecture adequately, and is in danger of becoming a sandpile again. I stayed outside the town (the only ethical option, Lonely Planet says), in a small inn run by an ex-pat New Zealand woman and her Indian Muslim husband (much younger, with another, "village" wife much younger than he--younger, in fact, than the Kiwi's daughter back in Australia). If I were a novelist, I'd return for a month of note-taking on her story.
On my habitual walks, this time in late afternoon, I struck out to the edges of the town, where the scrub began, along a street of thatched mud-cement houses seeming to emerge from a scarp. Although I strode with the brisk step necessary to discourage the constant curiosity of every inhabitant, I was so persistently and charmingly invited to take tea in one home that I feared a repeated refusal would damage US-Muslim relations. So I climbed the sandy slope, removed my sandals, and sat cross-legged (an empty cement bag having been spread for the guest) in the tiny packed-dirt courtyard . My host (a hotel worker who spoke some English), his mother, his aunt, her two young daughters, his bare-bottomed toddler son, and eventually his father, a lean, craggy-faced, turban-and-lungi-clad exemplar of the Rajasthani tribesman, were all introduced. Smiles and gestures replaced chat. My host was probably in his twenties, a fine-featured, small but handsome man, with brilliant teeth and sparkling eyes. His wife and another child were in their village: they would move when his house (which was being constructed out of sand and cement next door, about a foot high at this point) was finished. Every drop of water to mix the cement (and make the tea--and, perhaps, wash the steel tumbler?) had to be carried by hand. I drank the sweet milky chai, with no ill effects. Nothing was requested. (I gave a small amount of money, "a gift for the children.") This will be one of my best memories of the desert.
The air was fresh and cool, there were few (relatively speaking) tourists, and I even managed to be ALONE in one chamber of the tomb for five whole minutes. [It's difficult to be alone in India at any time, much less at the Taj.] I was prepared to find this icon over-hyped, but was actually moved by its perfection. As the sun rose, the building's color changed, through all shades of pearl. The jalis, stone screens, made lacework patterns on the floors. Thanks to an expert guide I heard the amazingly prolonged echo under the double dome.
Another sound effect was potentially more sinister: the whispering gallery in the Agra Fort (a walled Mughal palace complex even larger than the Lal Qila in Delhi), evoking the machinations of court life. Machinations like the imprisonment of Shah Jahan by his un-filial son Aurangzeb. The usurping emperor did provide dad with a beautiful marble pavilion from which he could gaze downriver at the monument he had built to Mumtaz, although his eyesight had almost completely gone. Poignant, and just another strike against Aurangzeb, my least-favorite Mughal.
The human scale of the "Baby Taj," built by Nur Jahan for her parents' interment, was very pleasing: similar in plan to all Mughal tombs, but small and delicate, with lacy jalis, it has colorful floral motifs as well as the endless geometric patterns. [Forgive me, dear math colleagues, but the relentless geometry and horror vacui did get a bit wearing.]
Fatehpur Sikri is another World Heritage site notched on my counting-stick. More compact and better preserved than Hampi, and in a completely different [non-Hindu] style (google for photos), it again displays the astonishing Mughal taste for splendor and good living. Unfortunately the water ran out, and the court had to abandon it after only 15 years' use.
Rajasthan memories: the desert from the train window turning pink at sunrise; antelope springing away in the scrub; men in colorful, loose (non-Sikh) turbans; women in swinging skirts, bodices, arms weighted with silver bracelets to the shoulder, heads and faces veiled with translucent scarves in brilliant colors, spangle-edged.
Jaisalmer, my destination, is a 12 c. fortress-city (of 99 bastions: it resembles Carcassonne) filled with butterscotch sandstone haveli [mansions], in fanciful forms (colonnades, turrets, cupolas, balconies, bays, etc.), all fretted with filigree stonework. Each looks like the sand-castle it is. The wealthy Jain merchants who built this secure trading depot competed in decorative extravagance. Unfortunately, the fort has not conserved its water or its architecture adequately, and is in danger of becoming a sandpile again. I stayed outside the town (the only ethical option, Lonely Planet says), in a small inn run by an ex-pat New Zealand woman and her Indian Muslim husband (much younger, with another, "village" wife much younger than he--younger, in fact, than the Kiwi's daughter back in Australia). If I were a novelist, I'd return for a month of note-taking on her story.
On my habitual walks, this time in late afternoon, I struck out to the edges of the town, where the scrub began, along a street of thatched mud-cement houses seeming to emerge from a scarp. Although I strode with the brisk step necessary to discourage the constant curiosity of every inhabitant, I was so persistently and charmingly invited to take tea in one home that I feared a repeated refusal would damage US-Muslim relations. So I climbed the sandy slope, removed my sandals, and sat cross-legged (an empty cement bag having been spread for the guest) in the tiny packed-dirt courtyard . My host (a hotel worker who spoke some English), his mother, his aunt, her two young daughters, his bare-bottomed toddler son, and eventually his father, a lean, craggy-faced, turban-and-lungi-clad exemplar of the Rajasthani tribesman, were all introduced. Smiles and gestures replaced chat. My host was probably in his twenties, a fine-featured, small but handsome man, with brilliant teeth and sparkling eyes. His wife and another child were in their village: they would move when his house (which was being constructed out of sand and cement next door, about a foot high at this point) was finished. Every drop of water to mix the cement (and make the tea--and, perhaps, wash the steel tumbler?) had to be carried by hand. I drank the sweet milky chai, with no ill effects. Nothing was requested. (I gave a small amount of money, "a gift for the children.") This will be one of my best memories of the desert.
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