TAKE ME TO THE TAJ

Garry Marchant
12th March 2001

The ancient Indian sun hangs like a saffron disc in the sky to our left as we leave New Delhi. Beggars rise along the sidewalks like rag dolls come to life, sacred cows graze in the streets, ancient women in thin saris hunker in the shade making dung patties for fuel. Mother India rises to another chaotic day.

"Take me to the Taj," I instruct Mr. Murkejee, my driver. "Yes, sahib," he says, sliding behind the wheel of his grey Ambassador, a copy of a 1959 Morris. Two-wheeled tonga horse carts, three-wheeled scooter taxis and towering Sikhs in magenta turbans astride khaki Enfield motorcycles race down Delhi's broad streets.

Elegant script on the back of trucks garishly decorated with Hindu gods exhorts, unnecessarily, "Horn Please." Mr. Murkejee honks happily. "To drive in India, you must have good horn, good brakes, good luck."

We finally escape the crowded capital -- for the crowded countryside. Bullocks and bicycles, flocks of goats and white oxen with painted horns clog the narrow road. Ominous vultures with wings like broken umbrellas hop clumsily as they land, to squabble over flattened carrion.

At village wells, country maidens with big clay jugs coyly let slip their veils to peek at passing cars. Camel drivers park their humped mounts at mud huts to squat on charpoys (string beds) sipping tea. Can we stop at one of these? "Of course, sir," Mr. Murkejee nods, pulling instead into a government rest house with souvenir shops and a mahout posing with his elephant for photographs.

"Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;" (Kipling)
India's heat and dust has raised a thirst. Time for a Rosy Pelican beer.

Outside Agra, my driver escorts me through Sikandra, the emperor Akbar's multi-storied, minareted mausoleum where monkeys impudent as street urchins cavort. But the Taj, the marble monument Emperor Sha Jahan built for his favorite wife, Queen Mumtaz Mahal?

"Yes, Sahib," Mr. Murkejee says with a typical subcontinent, broken-necked head wiggle. Crossing the Jamuna River on a narrow bridge, we plunge into the midday melee of Agra, animals, people and machines, sadhus, yogis, gurus and young Westerners in dusty muslin dhotis (the Kharma Kola kids). The hot air in the alleys is pungent with coriander, cumin and camel dung.

"Go straight to the Taj now," I demand.

"Of course, sir."

We next stop at the Red Fort where, like a mad dog or Englishman, I go in the hot midday sun to explore the serrated battlements and turrets. Through the latticework, the elusive Taj Mahal floats like a burnished opal along the sandy riverbank.

Resigned that only a fool would hustle, or hurry, the East I await the single-minded Murkejee's next move. We drive to the bazaar of souvenir shops and carpet emporiums.

Inlaid marble tabletops, lamps, stone elephants and 100-pound Taj Mahal miniatures line the shelves of the damp, tombstone-like storeroom. "Sahib would like model of the Taj?"

"Sahib would not like model of the Taj."

We finally approach the elusive monument -- and drive by, to the river. "Very nice here. You take boat ride."

A young holy man with long matted hair takes me out onto the sluggish on his river wooden boat for a rear view of the Taj Mahal. Spotting two Muslim girls on the far side, he elbows me and winks. The only flesh they display are hands, feet and face. "We can giving them a ride?" he asks, as excited as a teenager cruising the suburbs in his dad's car.

"What will they say at the temple, a Hindu holy man with Muslim girls?" I chide.

"Oh, no, sor, it is not like that," he chortles as he helps the draped sisters aboard.

Back ashore, at last, with late afternoon shadows falling, I pass through the red sandstone gate to see the perfect marble mausoleum reflected in the long shallow pool.

Women with bangled ankles and brilliant saris, clamoring children, Hindus in Nehru hats and black-veiled Muslims swarm around. Inside, the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz lie in soft light diffused by the translucent dome and pierced marble window screens.

This most revered of India's wonders has been described as "The Ivory Gate through which all dreams come, a dream in marble, a sigh made stone."

A perfect Gibson cocktail onion.

And Mr. Murkejee was right. The Taj is best seen not when the glare of the midday sun burns it bone white, but in the softer flush of the dying day. Outside Agra, we pause at an English Wine and Beer Shop to toast the Taj with a Guru beer before turning home.

The ancient Indian sun hangs like a saffron disc in the sky to our left as we enter New Delhi.