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The noise from the street never died down, and nor did the incessant tooting from the nearby trains which yielded just two hours of interrupted sleep. An hour of zombie-like shuffling in my clean and spacious room saw me ready to catch my train. I was an hour and a quarter early for it but anticipating a repeat of the night before I didn’t want to risk missing it. It was still dark outside, there were still people sleeping in puddles, still rabid dogs trying to chew their own legs off and the platforms were still swollen with hundreds of people presumably waiting for trains. I once more made my way over the footbridge and was very pleased to see electronic signs displaying train information in English. I found my platform and started patrolling it to pass time and observe the locals but I think they were observing me more than the other way around. I was surprised how many people lay on light blankets or coats asleep, there was little room to move and even whole rooms were dedicated to it. Every platform was the same, people sleeping and standing, men with overladen wooden carts with goods to go on the trains, women selling fruit and fried pastries. Armed police, carrying pieces of pipe, marched up and down occasionally threatening the more dishevelled looking people, of which there were many. It looked like bullying to me but there may have been a good reason. I stood watching trains come and go but was disappointed not to see anyone sat on the roof of a train; it might have been something to do with the overhead cables. Time passed quickly and the black sky turned lilac and then grey. I realised that there were markers on the canopy that would correspond to the coaches when they arrived. It took a bit of time to work out what they all meant as some were just letters, others had numbers too but they did not initially seem to be in any logical order. I caught sight of another white man and thought he might be travelling in the same coach, I was right. My number was E1 (the ‘E’ stood for Executive I later discovered) and it was hiding at the other end of the platform but when I got there I found a small cluster of westerners looking far too excited for that time in a morning. The train pulled in ten minutes early but left 6 minutes late. Not bad considering the constant announcement of late trains, the magnitude of which ranged from 15 minutes to 6 hours. The train was dated but comfortable and spacious, it didn’t even smell. We made slow progress for the first hour as we headed out of the capital but things picked up once we reached the paddy fields. We were first each given a single red rose, a curious gesture, then a paper, a litre bottle of water, tea and biscuits, fruit juice, cereal, ‘brown’ bread and a stuffed flat Indian bread which was very nice. I did decline the cornflakes and I was glad I did as they were served with hot milk! We passed sleeper trains that were fit for bursting and commuter trains that were even worse. The bars on the windows reminded me of my fantastic train journey in Burma, the unglazed windows allowed people to partially hang out as if in prison. Looking at the stocking density inside I’d say it wasn’t far from the truth. I didn’t see what the rest of my train was like but I think £9 for First Class made it a good deal. Rush huts and resting oxen punctuated the flat wet landscape as we hurtled along the rails towards Agra. I wasn’t really thinking of the Taj Mahal to come, more just enjoying the 195km train ride.
I hopped off the train onto a platform, walked out of the station which was very much a carbon copy of Delhi, to find an expectant mob all vying for the few westerners’ attention. We’d pulled in an hour late and so the taxi, and similar, drivers were all eager to start earning. Having more of an understanding of the taxi situation at Agra I opted for a prepaid auto-rickshaw. They’re far less comfortable and safe but they’re cheaper and an awful lot more fun. We set off towards the Taj Mahal. He seemed to be racing everything that was on the road be it animal or vehicle. The roads were appalling so I was being jostled in the back whilst trying to cling on to my precious goods – that’s my camera, lenses and laptop (just thought I should clarify that). He did, however, make conversation and his English was good. After some idle chit-chat he started to tell me about the last Brits he had and how he spent the day with him. He handed me a small notebook of testimonials from past customers but I wasn’t sure to believe him or not. I knew he was fishing but I let him continue but to do so he said he needed to pull over which sounded a little dubious to me. Pull over he did and he talked me through how he could make the day easier for me. He wanted to drive me to the Taj Mahal, allow me time to look around and take photos while he waited, then he’d take me to Agra Fort for more of the same, he’d take me for lunch at a decent Indian restaurant then finish off with a trip to some traditional craft centres where I would see the workers making their wares. I caught a waft from a big smelly fish in the form of commission from the craft shops but I didn’t mind, he wasn’t pushing me to go anyway. They were similar ploys to the ones used in Thailand but he seemed fairly genuine so I asked how much. For about £5 I could have my own driver for the day plus a decent place for lunch. I agreed. Vikram restarted his motor and we were once more hurtling through tight side streets dodging beasts of burden, children, dogs, other vehicles and the occasional friendly-looking goat. The subcontinent really was like other parts of Asia, well, Delhi and Agra anyway. I felt much more relaxed with that assessment made. There were a couple of differences though which became more apparent as the day went on. Firstly, the smell was very different. One might expect strong aromatic scents of cooking spices wafting from every doorway. Alas no, Malaysia was far more kind to the nose on that front, what I got, not constantly but often, was the unmistakable smell of urine. Not surprising really, considering the amount of livestock that roam the streets, but I later saw numerous men pull up next to the road and just wee on whatever happened to be there! The other difference was the people. I’m used to moderate amounts of staring while I’m away but this prolonged judgemental staring. This combined with the serious lack of awareness of personal space and you’ve got an uncomfortable foreigner in a land where it’s deemed acceptable to grab a strangers arm, pull them to one side and whisper “you buy, you buy.” Creepy or what? That being said, on the pushy purchase-front, I think on the whole India wasn’t nearly as bad as southeast Asia.
We parked near the south gate to the grounds of the Taj Mahal where Vikram gave me a briefing on what to do, what not to do and a short history. I was released to explore but I couldn’t see the Taj through the impressive gatehouse building which was not far from where I stood. I was carrying my tripod, or camera stand as the locals liked to call it, along with all my other camera gear including my laptop. I purchased my ticket, which included a bottle of water and some shoe covers to protect the marble inside. I knew my tripod couldn’t go into the Taj Mahal but didn’t realise that included the grounds as well, which was a bit disappointing. They obviously didn’t want anyone but their licensed photographers getting decent shots of their building. I wasn’t sure what to do as Vikram had said he would look after it for me or I could leave it in the lockers at the ticket office. I decided to hand in my tripod to an elderly man in a small dirty room. My teeth nearly shattered as he took out a white colouring pencil and wrote on part of the metal the number token he gave me to reclaim it. It didn’t even get put in a locker, just on top. I swallowed my paranoia and proceeded to the entrance where I walked through an airport detector after which I was frisked and my bag searched. They were thorough, much to my dismay, not because I had something to hide but because I didn’t want the rough handed military man to touch my sensitive equipment. He pulled out my laptop and said it was not allowed which I questioned. I could just about deal with leaving my carbon fibre tripod behind but my laptop as well? Effectively two thousand pounds worth of kit in the hands of an Indian man that I’d seen throwing bags around in his little room. Again, I could go back to Vikram but even though my laptop is fingerprint and password protected and my personal files encrypted he could easily flog it, wipe it and I may never see him again. After all, 128,000 Rupees is better than 400 so again I opted for the lockers. My laptop was put in an actual locker this time where it was locked and the key given to me, which made me feel a bit better. I was searched a second time at the entrance but this time I got through.
The grounds were walled with three entrances which were on the south, east and west sides. To the north was a wide muddy river. The walls had a roof attached with columns supporting it and a walkway underneath all made out of a dark red sandstone. Another wall sectioned across the middle with a large impressive building that allowed people to cross through to reveal the magnificent Taj Mahal. People crowded inside the single room trying to get their first shot of the Taj Mahal. I tried to avert my eyes, saving myself for a better view as I wanted the impact I knew it would have. Out of the building I found myself on a raised stone platform with steps that led down to the gardens that provided an extensive frontage for the Taj and helped frame it by allowing for more perspective. I squeezed my way to the front and looked up.
There it was, one of the wonders of the world, pristine in white, shining back towards me. To say it had presence would be an understatement. It dominated its surroundings without being tall or brash. It was if it had an aura that radiated out and touched every person around it. Like a beam of sunshine on a cool spring morning it had that enriching, uplifting feeling. I couldn’t help but smile. The view was so hypnotic I had difficulty tearing my gaze from it. The almost iridescent white marble was addictive but graceful with the bulbous curves of the dome roof and the delicate minaret towers, one at each corner, protecting the central mausoleum. It was an impressive sight that was worth marvelling at for some time, time which I had, so I did. Thinking critically it is very plain but there was so much character to it that is was almost magical. Something to be revered by all that are lucky enough to see it. I could have admired it for hours in that one spot but I didn’t want to be selfish. There was a platform ahead, built in the same white marble as the Taj itself, that delivered an even better view. A long thin water course, like a miniature runway and lined by perfectly trimmed conifers, led the eye exactly where it needed to be, on the building itself. To call it a building is unfair. Of course it is one but when stood directly in front of it, it felt like so much more than that. It feels like it has enchanting qualities that only the makers could understand. I continued down the red marble footpath to the base, the dome now mostly obscured by two walls. It was the point at which one either had to remove or cover the shoes. I covered mine since I’d heard stories of people stealing them, one that was easy to believe. I was now on the same level as its foundations, to the west and east were two very similar buildings, in the style of the Taj but still very different, mainly due to the predominant use of red marble. One of them was a chapel of some sort but I wasn’t sure of the others’ purpose. They were fairly small but very imposing with a big open archway, that had an indented domed ceiling which had some white decorative lines and no doors. A main room led to two smaller ones with numerous archways ripe for taking pictures. The dark unlit rooms inside were atmospheric and some Indian people lay there absorbing it. I walked around for some hours, taking pictures, thinking, admiring the views and generally absorbing to ambience.
There was one thing that I felt compelled to do, which I never thought I would have to. I seemed to attract a lot of attention from the Indian people. They would look, even stare, and smile as they walked passed. Many people, though, asked me if I would have my photo taken with them. They asked where I was from and what my plans were and then wanted a picture of me stood with their group. One person would take the picture of us then they would swap so the photographer got a picture too. I was baffled by this behaviour. I’d experienced it before in Southeast Asia but this was crazy. For the first five times I was a little embarrassed, not really enjoying the attention though it was nice to talk to everyone. But by the thirtieth person I was confused, even more embarrassed and feeling rather like a celebrity, which I really didn’t like. I could understand the peculiarity of seeing a westerner in more remote locations but I was at the Taj Mahal, one of the great tourist attractions (though it shouldn’t be described as such) of the world. There were far, far fewer white people than I’d imagined which actually pleased me. It was nice to see Indian people appreciating their own culture with relatively few westerners. Perhaps the people visiting were from places where tourists do not really venture. Perhaps I was their first siting of a white man. The answer remained a mystery as I didn’t like to ask in fear of offending or embarrassing them. It didn’t matter, I was happy to oblige really I just felt like a bit of fraud since I am really not worth taking a photo of.
I walked through some ornate heavy brass doors, up some steps and onto the walkway which encircled the Taj. The clouds had been there all day but with the reflection from the white marble I could hardly see. I wandered around taking photos and having yet more photos taken of me. Each side was almost identical with indented windows and Hindi writings inlayed in a black stone. It was impressive but I really did prefer the distant view of the whole picture. Before visiting I expected many rooms all painted vividly with ample use of gold leaf but there was only one proper room, in the centre and it contained three tombs. It was remarkably small and very plane, there were no lights and the walls were grey. There was a crowd surrounding the cordoned off tombs, making walking difficult, as they obviously meant an awful lot more to the Indian people than it did to me.
There were many photographers employed but the attraction to take photos of visitors and then charge them to buy them. A good service if that’s what you were looking for but I took mild amusement by the fact that I was not approached once. I made my exit, with several more photos on the way. I’d been there twice the time Vikram said I should be so I was hoping he hadn’t gone. I collected my goods from the lockers, undamaged, then walked quickly through the numerous people using every line possible to try and get me into their shops. Even a goat had a go. They were trying in vain, of course, and I found Vikram watching TV with his auto-rickshaw driver friends, he waved and then we sped off to find some overdue lunch. He took me to my chosen restaurant, from his approved list, which was a good place to eat non-vegetarian Indian food. The underground restaurant was traditionally furnished, clean and well maintained with a good menu. The heavy mahogany furniture sat on the highly polished marble floor surrounded by brass goblets, urns and plates. I had a lamb dish with garlic naan bread. I was pleased to see lime juice on the menu, a favourite of mine from Southeast Asia and one that I still miss. It’s just pure freshly squeezed lime juice with sugar on request, though I never do. It’s so refreshing. Vikram left me to eat my curry as he’d eaten while I was in the Taj. It was the nicest curry I’ve ever eaten and I’ve eaten many.
My next stop was the Agra Fort. Outside were street vendors selling juices, fruits and fried pastries. Emaciated ponies ate ravenously on cut grass and vegetable peelings before having to cart around tourists. Again, I got a brief history of the fort that had been extended over the years, mainly when Agra was still the capital. The fort was a large affair and featured no less than sixteen palaces plus fortified walls and towers and an impressive but mainly dry moat. It was made from a red stone which really made it stand out on the landscape - spicy version of a British castle. I managed to achieve a fifty rupee discount on showing my Taj ticket but had to put my tripod in the locker room again. I walked through two walls with gatehouses and then up a ramp to find a third where locals sat resting. The grounds were large and varied featuring white and red marbles and different types of architecture. It really was a random mix of buildings and I struggled to make out the sixteen palaces that had been claimed. It was also part ruined, with some maintained gardens making for a nice walk around. It too backed onto the river and from the walls I could see the Taj Mahal stood proudly glistening in the distance. I was again asked for photographs with people putting their arms around me, standing close and sticking their thumbs up. One gentleman even asked for another lady if she could have a picture of her children taken with me.
A young child ran up to me as I sat resting in the heat. She was asking me all sorts of questions about my background and my trip, much like a lot of the adults did. I was more than happy to talk to her, and did so for several minutes before she said thank you and ran back to her parents. Chipmunks, like a cute version of pigeons, scurried around the paths, bins and trees looking for morsels to eat. It was late afternoon and the weather was deteriorating so I headed back for my final ride. I’d said previously that I’d like to visit the local shops to see how they make some of their products in the traditional way. We arrived first at a carpet makers. The shopkeeper explained the process and showed me people actually weaving the carpet together and then went downstairs to see new designs being painted onto squared paper. They would only use designs taken from buildings like the Taj. Agra was supposed to be renowned for its crafts and so there were rules about what and how things should be made. It took two and a half months just to make one rug but coming from the source they were relatively cheap. I was asked to sit and remove my shoes to test the many rugs that were rolled out on display for me hoping that I might buy one. I was even offered a rug the size of an A4 sheet of paper, complete with tassels, that he thought I might like to put my camera on. I felt a little awkward but insisted that I didn’t want one and he kindly said thank you and showed me out.
I felt a little uncomfortable about refusing to buy and said this to Vikram. He was very understanding and reassured me that they all know that only a small amount of people can buy their goods and they are not offended by people that don’t. Placated, we moved on to a marble mason who produced all sorts of marble products that were colourfully inlayed with different precious and semi-precious stones. He showed me the process of all the steps involved which was genuinely interesting and labour intensive. The shop was full of table tops, elephants, boxes, Buddha’s and much more besides. It was an impressive collection but quite expensive. He too was out to sell but in a respectful way and was keen to get some pounds from me once he knew I was English. I did have some pound coins on me and so I bargained hard to be able to afford a small box inlayed with blue flowers on the lid. I gave him the pound coins which he then passed to his boss that approved the reduced price who then asked if they were worth a pound each. I laughed, confirmed, and walked out. I doubt he will be able to change them into rupees, being coins, but he was the one that wanted them, perhaps for his children or family as gifts.
It was time to leave so Vikram took me to the station, I took his portrait and we said goodbye and gave him a tip. He hired the vehicle every day for three hundred rupees but only asked for four hundred so his tip was appreciated. I still had an hour to wait at the station before my train so I stood amongst the people watching them busy themselves. Shoe shines roamed the platforms waiting for a dull piece of footwear to appear ready for buffing. I was approached several times for such a service, one even started polishing my left sandal after I’d said no several times so I had to be forceful. He eventually got the message. I stood on the platform edge as if the train was about to arrive in the next ten minutes but I still had more than an hour to wait. People were staring at me as I stood clutching my tripod, a device that caused much bemusement amongst the people. Some people even asked about it. Trains came and went before mine eventually turned up late. It was dark by then and the rats on the tracks were out in force. I didn’t get a rose this time but did get an Indian banquet for dinner which comprised of several curries, rice, sweet yoghurt and bread. For desert I got chocolate ice cream. The nine pounds was money well spent in my opinion. I managed to get a few words written down before being too exhausted to think. I resorted to attempting to sleep but I only got about ten minutes. Still late, we pulled into Delhi, the train squealing as the two metals of the wheels and rails met. I was glad to be back at the hotel but it was very late and the chance of an adequate amount of sleep had again been missed.
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