Toes on the Taj

This image is what I will remember most from the Taj Mahal:
Does it embody the Taj’s greatness, its painstakingly detailed flowered mosaics, its gasping onlookers, and its intended purpose – a tomb for the second wife of Shah Jahan who died while giving birth to their fourteenth child? Does it show what Rudyard Kipling called “the embodiment of all things pure”?

Absolutely not. What it does represent, though, is my own personal moment with the Taj, a few fleeting minutes where the separation between it and me was minimal.

I arrived in Agra via train on Wednesday morning. Not knowing what to expect of the two-hour journey from Delhi, I giggled when all of the passengers were given a single tiny rose. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it, but nonetheless I smiled as I weaved its stem between the straps on my dirty, patched backpack. It was a Rolls Royce hood ornament on a Chevy Nova.

Such a graceful nicety, though, was in stark contrast to the city of Agra itself. Besieged with rickshaw drivers, children, “guides”, restaurant owners, there was a constant hum of Hello, sir! Where are you going? Helloooo! Sir, go to Baby Taj? Cheap price. Hello, sir! Money. Sir, HELLOOOOOOO. Postcard? Necklace for your girlfriend? Hello, sir! Where you staying? Change money? What’s your good name? Hi, sir! You need guide to see everything. HELLLOOOOOOO. It was relentless and I – normally used to a certain level of chaos – became overwhelmed. Maybe I would have been fine if it had only been the perpetual pestering, but since stimulating only one or two of your senses is never enough, the occasional child would pull at my arm and some putrid combination of food, urine, and animal waste would snake its way up to my nostrils. Watching a couple literally scoop up cow manure with their bare hands – presumably to fertilize their meager crops – forced me to turn away. I sought refuge in the Agra Fort and the Jama Masjid, two red sandstone structures saved from sensory overload.

As dusk fell, I found myself in the company of three lovely Parisian women at a rooftop restaurant directly south of the Taj. As we snapped endless photos and watched monkeys jump from roof to roof, I realized I was anxious. Impatient. Nervous. This Taj view from afar was a taste. It was foreplay. Fun, intriguing, but not the main course, right? It was that hint of skin you can see when a sari blows to the side in the wind.

And then Thursday morning came. 6:00am. Wow.

There are a few things that have made me cry tears of amazement just upon seeing them for the first time. Isaac and Sydney, my nephew and niece. The Iguaçu Falls. The Perito Moreno Glacier. And now – the Taj Mahal. It is unequivocally the most beautiful piece of architecture to grace this spinning rock we inhabit.

Why does it take a monument of this magnitude and beauty to cause me to stop and reflect? Breathe? Think? Feel? One of the books I’m currently reading is called How Proust Can Change Your Life. Basically, it’s for people like me who aren’t smart enough – or patient enough – to read Proust. The author gives us the gist of Proust’s one-and-a-quarter million word saga, In Search of Lost Time, while simultaneously applying it to our current lives. Apparently, Proust tells us that we must suffer intelligently. That is, we must use the less than ideal moments as a foundation for appreciating the more idyllic. We cannot appreciate sleep until we experience insomnia. We cannot appreciate the spring until we experience winter. We cannot appreciate the silence without experiencing chaos.

Okay – I’m starting to get it, India. You’re smart. You have provided me with the necessary sensory overload so that I may then appreciate the serene. Proust was right, then. I must suffer wisely – and my meanderings are forcing me to realize this.

Like other Muslim monuments or mosques, you must take your shoes off before entering. However, perhaps in a move to appease Western tourists, you also have the option of putting on these ridiculous paper slippers over your shoes. I mean, as if the cargo shorts and tank tops didn’t make the Gringos stand out enough, now they look like they’re human Swiffers. I declined the pippers, as I started to refer to them, and slid my sandals into my bag. As I slowly shuffled across the smooth marble, my toes spread out like roots, feeling every groove and every tiny puddle from the previous day’s rain. There was no separation between me and the stone, a blissfully intoxicating feeling. My jaw, typically clenched and rigid, relaxed. My spine straightened. I sat down, no longer restricting contact to just my toes, and my thoughts became even quieter. Finally, I lied down, prostrate, in total awe of human capability. I suppose this is what people talk about when they refer to spiritual moments.

And that’s where the photo comes in. A quick snapshot of my view before I sat back up.

As I finally left, I couldn’t help but appreciate the juxtapositions of the Taj. It’s withheld nearly 400 years of monsoons and regime changes, but still begs us to examine its intricate marble inlays. Women wearing orange, turquoise, and fuchsia saris, red bindis on their dark skin, float past the stark white marble forcing your eyes to decide where to focus. Just like the rest of India, you’re presented with worlds that don’t seem to fit, but magically and perfectly interlock.