There & Back Again

When I was around five or six years old I accompanied my dad to pick up an Indian takeaway from a place just outside of Dukinfield, where we lived at the time. I don’t believe I first ate Indian food till my teens so I suppose, retrospectively, that I just went along for the ride. While we waited for the takeaway to be dished up and bagged, a large photo of a spectacular scene adorning the wall caught my eye. It was like something out of a fantasy, something that, at that time, I couldn’t believe possibly existed in this world; not my world of school playgrounds and canal-side bike rides. It was the Taj Mahal.

When, on Sunday, I finally came face to face with the fantasy in real life, that same feeling of sheer awe took hold of me again. Not only was it far from a disappointment, which was always a risk, but it completely took my breath away. In many cases of famous monuments around the world, size is the predominantly determining appeal; superlatives grant their status—tallest, oldest, largest, most visited etc. The Taj Mahal, despite actually being larger than I expected, possesses something else, a sort of transcendental majesty that leaves you gawping. The manicured lawns leading your eyes and your footsteps up to the glowing white marble monolith; the striking symmetry of the towering minarets that lean ever so slightly away from the central structure; and, as you draw nearer, the glimmering swirls and embellishments of the intricately ornate patterns decorating the facades—vibrant shades of ruby, emerald and sapphire still glistening in the setting sun after nearly four centuries. Built over twenty-two years, by twenty thousand men, often working twenty-four hours at a time, and surely costing many lives as well as rupees, without the aid of today’s construction abilities and technology—it stands not only as one of the most important and recognisable spiritual and religious landmarks in the world, but as a testament to human ability at the hands and purse strings of one man’s vision.

What, in the first few instances, was bemusing and humbling, soon became a little tedious; many natives, in particular younger males, found the band of six white Westerners, some of blonde hair and blue eyed appearance, as fascinating as the glorious monument overshadowing us! Continuously we were picked out individually or in various combinations and shyly but with a barely contained sweet excitement recruited to pose with couples, lone males or groups or groups of giggling grown men gushing with bashful appreciation like a bunch of teenage girls meeting their favourite pop band! On more than one occasion we were humorously compared to both Hollywood and Bollywood stars. Adding to the oddity of these scenarios was the fact that besides being far from the only white tourists, we appeared to derive the most attention.

Tainting the incredible Taj Mahal experience only slightly was the sly, but perfectly common, post-sightseeing trip to, in this instance, a local jewellery boutique. Disguised as part of the tour, the commission-driven con is a staple trap of these sort of trips. I find in most cases that smiling and nodding with feigned enthusiasm at their sales pitch, accepting a complementary cup of chai and praising their goods before politely escaping without parting with a penny eases the experience, and it can even be educational and fun, for free.

The following day, Monday, was effectively a write-off as we bundled once more into the truck at the hands of our trusty guide Anand for another six hour journey to the city of Jaipur; thus completing (if you’ll excuse the omission of returning to Delhi which technically satisfies the metaphor) the popular backpacking triangle of the central cities—Delhi, Agra and Jaipur. With the comfort of no further travel for three nights, we unloaded our bags and our weary bodies (who knew nothing but sitting in a car for endless hours could be so exhausting) and settled into the city.

Tuesday. Waking early from another relatively sleepless night, the standard breakfast of chai and toast kick started the engines for a packed schedule. We were carted out of the city to the majestic honey-hued Amber Fort, a huge sixteenth century palace straddling a mountain ridge overlooking a vast valley of saffron gardens and the run-down, haggard town of Amber. Not content with simply walking up the slopes to the sandy battlements, we hitched rides on elephants, as you do; a novel but relaxing and enjoyable experience as we gently lumbered along, swaying with a powerful rhythm atop the obedient tucked beasts. It’s not the first time I’ve ridden an elephant, and it’s not the first time that I’ve questioned the ethics of their exploitation; but I believe trying to take a moral high ground would only render me a hypocrite—so I jump on board and enjoy the ride, pushing my conscience aside.

The Amber Fort was another sterling attraction. Once again demonstrating immense man power and persistence and boasting surprisingly advanced facilities within its coconut-glazed marble walls: primitive but functional cooling systems; a steam room; jacuzzis; and even a discotheque with complimentary disco balls! Home, several hundred years ago, to the Raj, his many wives and his many more mistresses, the impressive structure is today a sturdily standing example of excess. It only adds to my idea of the contradictory nature of this country—striking poverty and immeasurable wealth, awe-inspiring excess and shattering nothingness.

Upon descending from the fort we were ushered into a nearby carpet and textiles manufacturers, once again smiling politely through the sales pitch, admiring the charming rugs and dutifully accepting the offered beverages, before making our leave to spend an afternoon left to our own devices without the appreciated, but sometimes exasperating, ward of Anand. We used the free time to tread the endless lanes and alleys of the overgrown bazaar in the old city (also known as the Pink City, attributed to the lavish overuse of a watered down salmon coloured paint pasting most buildings in a warm coat of beige-pink). Exploring the knocks and crannies, bartering with exuberant salesmen and sampling an array of nameless pan-fried street food, we wore ourselves out over several hours, and after hopefully navigating our way through the littered streets and long shadows of the dying sun back to our accommodation, we stopped for a quick hit of chai at a grubby outdoor roadside cafe as hordes of inquisitive locals stared at us (it appears staring is not considered rude in India), mystified by the unusual presence of such seldom seen pale-skinned people. After humouring the crowd and bowing out from our imprisoned street theatre, we collectively opted, with immense shared relief, to complete the journey by tuk-tuk, picking up a few well deserved beers on route.

Sleepless nights had persisted since my arrival in the country until days of exertion and the medication of several bottles of beer eased me into the depths of a much needed ten hour slumber. Even the persistent referee whistling of the neighbourhood night watchman couldn’t keep me from such a heavy dreamless sleep. I lay in till eleven before ’showering’ in the cold tap water and giving some of my clothes a rudimentary but necessary wash. Then it was off to Bollywood dance lessons and a henna class, which all told proved to be a bit of a farce. The dance tutor took the whole thing far too seriously as we rolled around in hysterics, whilst the henna class, in contrast, consisted of little more than being supplied with a tube of the shit-coloured substance, scrawled on by a moody teenage girl and then pestered for money, of which none they received, having already been paid.

However, the day was salvaged by a sunset trip, of our own accord, to the fabled ‘Monkey Temple’. As opposed to being a temple in adoration of the monkey god (yes, there’s one of those) as I’d expected, it was actually a hilltop shrine to the sun god, the preceding slopes and steps to which were populated by hundreds of gnarly simian residents. It was a bloody zoo! Picking our way between the feeding and fighting apes, we climbed to the shrine to be treated to truly breathtaking views of the city through the thin veil of haze. For a long time we stood absorbing the vista as the warmth of the day descended into the cool air of dusk, as the streetlights and campfires ignited creating a speckled twinkling blanket across the geometric mish-mash of neighbourhoods and the faint symphony of the city, of hundreds of thousands of lives, swept up to us under the ephemeral wisps of cloud lacing the fleeting candy sunset.

It was the perfect way to complete the triangle.