Shah Jahan has a lot to answer for
In building one of India’s – and the world’s – landmarks monuments as a token of love to his dead wife, he has created a monster.
On the banks of the Yamuna river, the Taj Mahal, is something to behold. Created out of marble from all corners of the planet, this is an opulent, indulgent, stunning work of construction.
It is also a magnet for the hawker, the tout, the peddlar, the hassler, the hustler, the beggar – all those that dog your every footstep before you have set eyes on it
Perhaps it’s the cynic in me, the symptons of travelling alone across the hectic plains of India, or just plain old intolerance…
…but the Taj’s majestic beauty seems somewhat tarnished by the sprawl that rests directly in its wake.
However this shouldn’t dispel from the fact that this enormous eulogy to love lost – with its sheer size, its decadence, its beauty – is something India and ol’ Shah himself should be proud of.
Even if he did get thrown in the slammer to die by his son. Its amazing the lengths people go to to avoid putting their parents up.
This is Day 7 – and its been a week since I departed.
I write on the top of Hotel Kamal, overlooking said monument, in the heart of the Taj Ganj in Agra, negotiating power cuts, ghekkos and persistent flying nuisances.
On my return from Amritsar on Saturday night, I stayed in Delhi and caught the Hockey and Rugby sevens at the Commonwealth games. I made friends, a couple of enemies (will explain) and already a suitcase full of memories to send back.
Several people warned me about Delhi, but leaving the city I realised I’d made a good home there. True, the government have done a massive clean up job, and I’ve avoided the muddy carnage of monsoon season, but its still far from perfect. However Delhi’s randomness, its personality, its whirlwind of colour and smells (which aren’t all pleasant) consistently charmed me.
My only issue was that it kept me there for so long. But that’s the fault of the Commonwealth Games.
Which isn’t the only thing its at fault for.
The stadiums are half full, but try and get a ticket to some events, and all you get is a ‘Sold Out’ followed by a sympathetic side to side roll of the head.
‘But there’s loads of empty-‘
‘Sold Out’
‘Surely you can’t be –‘
‘Sorry sir - sold out’
The Rugby Sevens are a classic example. Following a heated exchange with the tickets office (I tried to pull ‘the lost ticket’ ruse – failed) me and a French Canadian girl called Caroline had to stand outside the stadium holding a sign saying ‘tickets wanted’.
Luckily one kindly soul (or money making tout – whichever floats your boat in 32 degree heat) offered to sell us his spare tickets to go in. Still only paid 300 rupees (about £5). But on entering we had a huge pick of empty seating to choose from – and eventually joined a few new and old faces a whole stand away from our designated places.
There’s more. The neurotic security also prevented you from taking any water inside the stadium – even though the outdoor events are without shade, leaving you to suffer the consequences of the heat and an uncompromising sun beating through a cloudless sky.
For the Rugby there was a group of about 7of us cheering on England, Wales, Canada and New Zealand and we made several attempts to sneak water to our seats. However many of those were scuppered by the snitching stewards who bought forward tyrannical police to take away any hope of rehydration. One of these stewards in particular caught the brunt of our anger. There’ll be a fair few Indian spectators that day who’ll know how to enunciate ‘You sneaky little shit!’ in a brummie accent should the opportunity arise.
Ironically if beer had been available I think the atmosphere would have been a lot more subdued.
Anyway our group consolidated, and as the evening drew shade, cooler temperatures and the classic England vs Australia contest I was able to savour what a wonderful day it had been.
We even met the Indian Rugby team, joining us in the stands after their several tonkings (including Rohan!, Rohan! – their revered no 7), a Bollywood star and director…
… and one even got to shout abuse at the Aussies (‘Oi, I can hear a Dingo eating your Baby!’)
The boys and girls that made up the rest of our seven – Chris (Taff), Nick, Laura and Vicky (Kiwis), Caroline (Canadian) and Dash (a not so sauntering Brit apparently – did a half marathon in 1hr 18 – you have competition Si) – puts me in a great frame of mind for the rest of my travels. If I can meet and enjoy time with a group of people this warm after mere milliseconds of contact, then I’m sure I’m going to be just fine. Thanks guys – hope you enjoy the blog x
Oh yeah and to those wondering (ie Stoo), Delhi Belly’s hit – not with a vengeance (I knew all that undercooked chicken I made at Uni would pay off), but enough for me to scope out loo escapes at every juncture. The culprit was a late Sunday night Veg Chow Mein, wolfed down hungrily after a few beers with a female Cricket-loving, Wolves fan of all people. Great company, lousy food.
So after staying far too long, but not regretting a thing, I finally make my way south. Agra now, overnight to Udaipur – the lake city – tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll find a place that I can actually relax and stroll through the streets at leisure, where I can put my feet up and taste that timelessness that extended travelling offers…
…that is until Mumbai rears it ugly, beautiful head.
I cannot stress how absolutely fascinating India is, how it polarises life at every turn.
From the way that men show such natural, genuine affection to each other, holding hands, lying on each other - comfortable with their displays…
…to the tangible awkwardness they have with their wives invading their private space
From massive, majestic monuments…
…standing a gnats breadth from squalid inner city street life, open sewers, floating turds, stray, diseased dogs and street smart monkeys.
And then there’s rail system. A mighty machine of track and train, a jewel in India’s crown. But in this country its not just from getting from A to B.
Each station hosting whole communities of people – of homeless – who sleep and live on the platforms, as the seemingly oblivious working Indian commuter blindly steps over them (or on them in some cases) as they negotiate their way across the platform. And though they share the same air, never the twain shall meet.
It’s hard going.
Especially when you leave newly made friends behind and venture solo. Especially when you leave one busy, smelly town…
…to be faced with another busy, smelly town.
But India’s beguiling charm never lets you down. So far anyway.
As the going gets tough, the tough just have to get tougher.
And pack plenty of bog roll.
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