CHAPTER EIGHT
The Hindi word for monument is smarak.
Eventually, after an amazing two and a half hour journey, we arrived in Agra, the proud city of the magnificent, world-renowned Taj Mahal. After we had departed the train and collected our luggage, I remember thinking our journey on the Shatabdi Express was one of my finest memories from both times I had been in India.
It was a marathon effort flying from New Zealand to Delhi, straight onto the train to Agra and now, without stopping, we were going to see the famous monument.
We decided to hire a taxi with a driver who would stay with us because, after feasting our eyes on the Taj Mahal, we would be straight on the road again. Traveling through Rajasthan would be a five-hour journey to Jaipur, and we hoped to arrive in the city that same evening.
We intended, along with the driver, to spend one night in Jaipur and leave early the next morning for New Delhi. So far we were not tired and in good spirits, and felt energized. We hoped the driver we chose also possessed such stamina.
We approached a group of men who were smoking and talking near their taxis outside the train station. Deciding to use a different tactic, Kishore approached the whole group, telling them all he wanted a driver to take us on our entire journey, from Agra to Jaipur then Delhi. A few drivers showed their interest by stepping forward. Kishore asked to see the car of the man standing closest to him. Upon inspection his car seemed reliable, it was clean, tidy, and had air-conditioning – which was a priority - it was not summer but it could still get hot and stuffy sitting inside a car for a long length of time.
The two men negotiated a price for the whole journey. The final leg to Delhi would depend on Kishore's confidence in the driver’s abilities up to that point. The other benefit of hiring a taxi meant we could take our time, stop whenever we wanted to look at sights, eat, have comfort-stops, and stretch our legs.
Kishore pulled me to one side, he told me he liked this driver, his car was sound and seemed well looked after, and they had agreed on a reasonable price. I nodded and Surinder was introduced to me. He looked like a nice man, almost a gentle fatherly figure. His hair had the tell-tale salt and pepper colouring of maturity and his little pot belly gave him a jolly appearance. His smile displayed white teeth, which showed he did not chew the beetel leaf. I liked him immediately.
With our suitcases safely stored in the boot of Surinder's car, we were on our way. Driving through the city streets, I realised Agra was not as busy or as populated as the bustling cosmopolitan capital city of Delhi. The traffic was not as chaotic - although it still had no order to it. This city was aimed at tourists, after all, the Taj Mahal was one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Having never been to the famous monument, Kishore was just as eager as me to see it, maybe more so because he had heard about the story behind it all his life, at school, in history books, and of course in many Bollywood, and some English movies.
Surinder drove the car into the massive grounds which surrounded the Taj Mahal where there were many parking areas. He found a spot to park his car; we left him and began walking along the main path towards the entrance to the grand monument. We trusted this complete stranger with our luggage, which in retrospect may have possibly been a little bit naive on our part. After a fifteen minute walk the crowd became thicker and we saw foreign tourists, as well as many Indian people milling around the gates to purchase tickets. The Taj Mahal is also an attraction for thousands of people from all over India: school outings and families from other parts of the country came to Agra to see the monument, just as much as overseas tourists have this city as a definite stop on their travel itinerary. We quickly discovered there were two lines to buy tickets, one for tourists and one for residents of India. Which category did Kishore fall into?
He was not a resident of India anymore, he was a NRI (Non-Resident Indian). We stood together in the same line; the tourist line. Even if he wanted to pretend to be a resident Indian, it was now impossible because he stood out like a sore thumb, and not just because he was with a red headed, pale-skinned English woman. A person living in India could tell by Kishore's manner, his clothes, the way he stood, the colour of his skin, his body movements, the way he talked, and even his facial expressions showed that he was now a person who lived outside of India.
After purchasing our tickets (tourists pay more than citizens) we discovered the queue we had just left was not the only one we would be standing in that morning. We tagged onto the end of the long line of excited people waiting to get through the large entrance gates leading into the Taj Mahal itself.
If Kishore were wearing a flashing neon hat, it could not have made him stand out from the crowd any more than he did right then. This became apparent as a man dressed in a suit appeared at Kishore’s side, "Nice watch," he murmured, while nodding his head in the direction of Kishore’s watch. Glancing at his wrist, Kishore was shocked, was it really that noticeable he was a tourist in his country of birth? Not receiving an answer, the man tried again, "Good morning Sir, where are you from?"
Feeling uneasy Kishore put the hand that contained his watch behind his back, "I’m from Delhi, but I’m now an NRI, I live in New Zealand," he finally answered.
"Ahhh, New Zealand, rugby and sheep," the man said, smiling at his own knowledge, he gestured towards me, "And the lady is she with you?"
Placing his hand reassuringly on the small of my back, Kishore replied, "Yes, this is my wife."
The man turned to walk away replying, “Okay, Sir thank you."
Kishore looked at me as the man disappeared into the crowd. He raised his eyebrows mouthing, "Pick-pocket?" I shrugged my shoulders. I wondered if the whole conversation was just a way of sussing us out. My inkling was the man was part of the staff of the Taj Mahal. Maybe some sort of incognito security guard, it was probably his job to check people were in the correct queue. I am sure some visitors 'accidentally' bought the wrong ticket.
The line shuffled slowly forward until we finally walked through the entrance gates. Before we had a chance to blink our eyes and comprehend the scene in front of us, another man quickly approached. I looked him up and down, he was wearing a purple suit and his silver boots were very pointed at the toes. "Sir, Madam, would you like a guide?" he asked in an accent that was not quite Indian, but hard to place where it came from.
Kishore, still cautious after our last encounter, gruffly replied "No," and we kept walking.
After taking only a few steps, he stopped in his tracks, "You know Julie," he said, "Coming here is maybe a once in a lifetime opportunity, even I have never been here before - I think we should hire the guide."
I wasn't going to object, so Kishore called Purple Suit back, and after a bit of haggling they decided on a price for a guided tour which would include a commentary. He introduced himself as Samir, and his first question was "Sir, Madam which country are you from?"
"New Zealand," Kishore answered.
"Ahhh, New Zealand, rugby and sheep."
Putting my hand up to cover my mouth, I couldn't help but giggle at this obviously standard answer to the New Zealand tourist.
Our experience began with Purple Suit - the name had by now stuck in my head, I couldn't think of him as Samir - informing us that the name Taj Mahal means Crown Palace.
Following him a short distance, we found ourselves standing in the well-maintained gardens with the grand monument in the distance, a formidable feast for our eyes. I took a deep breath – it was astonishing to see the famous, reverent, and most beautiful monument here, in front of us, for real. This was not a picture in a history book or travel brochure.
Purple Suit continued his commentary as we strolled after him along a concrete path that ran adjacent to the lush gardens, and what our guide referred to as the ‘reflecting pool’ that led up to the Palace itself. As he spoke, I tried to place his accent. I eventually decided it must be an act, his 'work' voice, it was too fake and overly dramatic, some sort of blend of Indian, American and English.
The three of us arrived at the steps leading up to the monument itself. Purple Suit advised us to remove our shoes and place them on a bookcase type shelf that stood at the bottom of the stairs. After doing so, with Kishore in socks and me in bare feet, we mounted the marble stairs and approached the entrance.
I couldn't help myself, I had to make sure that I was truly about to enter the famous Taj Mahal. I placed my hand on the white marble and shuddered as a chill entered my body, it felt so cold, just like I imagined a corpse would feel. Peering closely at a delicate purple flower inlay set into the marble, I wondered, after all these years, with thousands of tourists touching these walls, maybe at this very spot, how the flower still retained its brightness and perfect form.
We entered the open area of the building itself, which was surrounded by marble with a breath-taking huge dome ceiling towering high above us. I gazed at more tiny flowers and other intricate designs that were etched into the white walls. Kishore and I peered over a fenced area at the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal below. Our guide talked to us as if he were reciting from a history book. I was overwhelmed by the mere presence of literally being inside this world famous declaration of love by a man for his wife. We exited the monument and still without shoes walked around the outside of the building. Ice-like white marble surrounded us while Purple Suit continued his commentary as we made a circuit of the entire huge awe-inspiring Taj Mahal.
Descending the stairs we found our shoes from the shelf. I slipped into mine and while Kishore bent to tie his laces I turned to stare at the grand monument and found my eyes welling up. It was a breathtaking and truly incredible sight but I decided the story of love behind it was just as enchanting as the Taj Mahal itself. We tried to capture every memory of that remarkable place by camera, and then it was time to make our way back across the garden towards the exit.
It turned out that hiring Purple Suit had been the right decision. Throughout our tour he had been so informative and explained so much of the monument’s history, facts we would have never known if we had aimlessly wandered around by ourselves.
Kishore and I separated so he could go to the area where the men’s toilets were and I headed for the ladies. Unfortunately, I could smell the toilets before I saw them. I screwed up my nose, it was overpowering.
A long line of women and girls led to the squat toilet and a shorter line led to the next cubicle containing a ‘modern’ toilet. I couldn’t bring myself to use either, was I being a snob? I’d been to India twice now and I knew how the country worked. I understood India had its extreme poverty and extreme wealth, but the Taj Mahal was a global attraction with thousands of visitors every day from all over the world. Surely the toilets could be kept in better condition. I headed back the way I came and met Kishore.
"How was it?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"You didn’t go?"
"No," I sighed, "Did you?"
"Yep," he said, "But, I had to pay the attendant a tip before he would let me in."
Well, at least he went, luckily I wasn't that desperate, thankfully I was able to hold on.
Purple Suit was waiting for us; we made our way towards an exit. I felt sad, was that it? Was our long anticipated experience of this famous monument over? It had all happened so quickly. We trailed behind our guide through a long alleyway which emerged into a small street completely littered with souvenir shops. Kishore and I were a bit surprised, it wasn’t what we expected. We didn’t know where we were as we thought Samir would take us back to the main entrance where we started our journey. He shook our hands and said his job was done - our tour was over. Kishore opened his wallet and paid him the amount they had agreed upon. Bidding him goodbye, we thanked him for his commentary and knowledge. Every tourist he brought to this area would result in him receiving a monetary payment as a commission.
Kishore and I entered the first shop, it was overflowing with little, wooden hand carved Taj Mahals. We watched a man, holding a knife skillfully with one hand, chip and carve with precision, the shape of a tiny replica of the monument out of a small block of wood he held in his other hand.
As we meandered from shop to shop it soon became clear that the proprietors were not just selling souvenirs but almost all of them were making them onsite. Marble, wood, glass, clay, crockery, metal, and stone… in fact as we strolled in and out of every shop in the little enclave we discovered they were chock-a-block with every conceivable Taj Mahal keepsake. Kishore explained it was most likely that generation after generation, son after son, would have been taught his craft and taken over the family trade when his father became too elderly to carry on.
We didn’t buy anything, and decided we had our fill of the Taj Mahal and all that came with it, and wanted to get back to where we started from. We felt thoroughly disorientated; we searched and searched but could not find the alleyway that Purple Suit had brought us through. I briefly wondered if he’d led us through some sort of magical tour guide portal that closed and disappeared with each tourist that passed through it. The mysterious door would only reappear with a secret password or key that only the tour guides had. Or, because we didn’t buy anything, the secret portal was closed and would only open if we bought a souvenir.
We breathed a sigh of relief when we found another alleyway which led us into a side street. We kept going, Kishore must have felt a little apprehensive because he took my hand, I felt his tight grip and his pace quicken. Following the windy back street we observed clusters of men squatting on the ground, deeply inhaling cigarettes and peering at us through the haze of smoke coming out of their mouths. Women with brooms, made from tightly held bundles of sticks, bent their backs as they swept the area surrounding their front doorsteps, when they saw us they shyly hid their faces behind their saris.
We stopped to watch a gang of little children playing with a pile of dirt on the roadside. They were grubby and barefoot but their eyes sparkled and their smiles were huge as they happily dug with sticks. We were almost tempted to join in their game but upon seeing us they ran over and held out their hands. Kishore did not like begging. He believed it was a business, on busy city streets women held stolen babies and tried to gain sympathy from tourists who were sitting in taxis. As soon as the car stopped at red traffic lights they’d tap on the window and hold out their hands for money.
But these children were different, they were just neighbourhood kids. Kishore reached into his pocket and distributed a few coins into their hands as they giggled with delight. Continuing on our journey, the street seemed to interweave and coil. We kept walking, feeling more and more uneasy as we followed each twist and turn. Eventually, greatly relieved, we emerged into one of the parking areas surrounding the Taj Mahal, but unfortunately, our relief did not last long as looking around, nothing seemed familiar and Surinder was nowhere to be seen. It soon became clear we had come out at a different parking area to where we had left him.
We found and followed a footpath, stumbled around a bend, and entered another parking area but much to our dismay, we couldn’t see our driver in this one either. Our eyes scanned lines upon lines of cars but there was no sign of him, his car or our luggage. Panic began to rise within us as images flashed through our heads of Surinder having taken our suitcases and leaving us abandoned. Kishore anxiously turned to face me and took my hands in his.
"Julie," he said, "I didn't say anything before because I didn't think it would be an issue, I didn't want to alarm you."
"What, Kishore, tell me, what’s wrong?"
"Surinder did mention to me that once we had gone inside the Taj Mahal, he was going to drive to his house and pack an overnight bag. He said he would meet us where he dropped us off. I am getting a little bit worried now."
My hand flew up to my mouth in concern, "Oh dear," then seeing the frightened look on his face I said, "It's okay, Kishore, I don't think we have found the right parking area yet anyway, there’s no need to panic yet. Let’s just keep searching."
To the side of us was a road, we began briskly walking along it. Our situation was beginning to feel surreal. Surely, I thought, lightening would not strike me twice? The last time we were in Delhi, Kishore and I lost each other in a busy market place. At the time, in my panicked state of mind, I decided my best option was to get into a taxi and go to the New Zealand embassy. During the entire nerve-wracking dash with a creepy cab driver, all I could think about was arranging an emergency passport, ticket, boarding a plane and flying home to New Zealand. But luckily, I got no further than the driveway of the embassy where Kishore and I had thankfully found one another.
As Kishore and I entered yet another parking lot, the real possibility emerged in our minds that we may never see Surinder or our luggage again. But something had told us we had made the correct decision in hiring Surinder. He felt right, his eyes were kind and trusting - not devious. And, as if to prove that point, we soon found out that the third time was lucky. This parking area looked familiar and we suddenly saw him leaning against his car. His arms were folded across his chest and he was grinning at us like we were long lost friends.