Jaipur – the pink city. Pleasing to the eye, cool in the hot summer months, a practical choice made by an emperor. The streets are starting to stir as the sun beats down, promising a hot day…
We are told, as we have been before, not to give out of compassion, for begging is a trade that kidnaps, maims, and mistreats. The reality makes me shudder, but I also feel a small measure of relief at this - my absolution, my release from the guilt born out of my inaction.
Imposing, daunting, deserted; power conveyed in the Amber fort’s commanding perch atop the hill. Elephants lumber up the steep path, painted flowers on their faces belying power – I remember the unfortunate Belgian tourist… The handlers palm curving, pointed iron with which they prod. I double-take at a turbaned head bent into a cell phone.
Dusty stones where rich carpets, sparkling mirrors, and multi-colored jewels once cushioned life for the ruling few. Years of history – victories, defeats, jealousy, intrigue…. Towers, tunnels, balconies, steep stairways…. 12 rooms for 12 wives, not allowed contact within their own quarters for fear of assassination attempts…. Intricate pillars covered in limestone for decades to avoid a jealous fit of destruction… watchtowers on the hills to announce an invasion, a homecoming…. A honeycombed window behind which the queen awaited her husband’s return – I curve my fingers in the cool marble openings and try to imagine her hope, for his death would have meant hers as well – tradition dictated she burn herself on his funeral pyre… a victory on the battlefield, the banner of the defeated thrown high in celebration, when it was supposed to be a sign of defeat; the jubilant army returned to barred gates, which when broken open revealed fires burning and all perished in a fiery death, in accordance to the custom of suicide before being taken. Etchings; black ink deface smooth walls – stirring tributes to everlasting love marring in their audacity.
Ping of metal on concrete, thwack of a wooden stick, jingle of coins, the young boy’s patter : “one rupee, look sir, one rupee, now two rupee, now gone,” as coins appear with a tug on my pant leg, a flutter of fingers behind my ear; rocks vanish from overturned bowls….
Wrinkled, tanned skin, white beard, electric orange robe, a shepherds crook – crossing traffic and gone, but not before he caught my eye.
Ancient stone structures find the North Star, discern the future, tell time to the nearest second; a sundial so massive no-one dares climb to the top…
Trying our hand at block printing… rudimentary stamps become beautiful fabric…
A museum full of ancient clothing; it’s easy to see why the queens couldn’t walk for the weight of their jewel-encrusted gowns. Master craftsmen work, the walls covered with their accolades, visits from princes and presidents; we buy new paintings on old paper – stories on top of stories. A boy, an apprentice, shows how he painstakingly hammers intricate brass patterns into polished wood – he is learning from his father, whose work he proudly shows us…
A rust-red courtyard under a fading sky, a cool breeze, lilting music, a surprising peace.
Silent in the dark backseat, I tune out talk of castes and gaze out the window – glittering Diwali decorations cross over-head, neon lights blaze, food steams in huge cast-iron pots, side streets wind away in the dark, light spills from doorways.
Swimming in the dark, bats swoop to the rippling surface, mere shadows flitting away as quickly as they came…
The second leg of the triangle – Jaipur to Agra. I settle in, headphones providing my personal soundtrack, and simply watch… or try to. Swerve, brake, surge, swerve… who needs lanes? The folded-in side-view mirrors suddenly make sense.
Think of chaos – cars, trucks, cars, bikes, motorcycles, people… Then add cows. Unconcerned, hump-backed, wandering, grazing, lounging cows. And garbage. Piled, strewn, trodden, stinky garbage.
A goat perches precariously on a corrugated tin roof. Low stone walls separate furrowed fields. A turbaned, white-garbed man plows, two oxen trudging before him – a National Geographic picture I am now seeing with my own eyes. Livestock grazes. Women work the fields, bent over rows of some struggling crop. Men lounge in groups at roadside cafes, under scrawny shade. (I can see who’s doing all the work around here!). A girl and a woman, bent in a field - the older helps the younger steady a basket on her head, she rises and floats away. Two children walk, hand in hand, down the dusty road, faded clothes flapping in the breeze. Stones with white paint slapped over them serve as construction barriers. Flat disks of drying cow dung look like shingles in the sun. Markets in small towns – bananas in various stages of ripeness, peanuts, piles of orange flowers to offer to the gods. Spigots gush cool water, a boy in blue shorts pours a glistening bucket over his head. Tall chimneys of brick ovens rise, their finished products in haphazard piles. Tall sprays of Indian Paintbrush sway.
Another deserted city, splendor to only be imagined. A lofty throne, from which prisoners heard their sentences, in a day when death by elephant stomping was quite an effective deterrent for murder. A giant game-board, from whose center the king commanded his color-coded concubines, swirling skirts as playing pieces.
Agra – crowded, down-and-dirty… I nap in the backseat.
A bumpy drive for a Taj-Mahal sneak peak, crescent moon slivered in the twilight sky, stray dogs poke their noses in burning trash, white domes beckon from across the shallow river…
Dinner with a bus of senior citizens – we marvel at their courage, their determination to see the world even as they walk with canes, squint blue-shadowed eyes at menus, and speak way too loudly in each other’s good ears.
Up before dawn, coffee cravings pushed aside, anticipation in the cool darkness. The sky begins to soften, the city starting to stir. Shadows gather in lighted doorways, cooking, eating; metal shop doors still tightly rolled down.
Parking lot, battery-operated bus, walk – we take turns eying the horizon, willing the sun to take its time this morning, and quicken the pace. Red sandstone gate, inlaid with marble slabs, in turn inlaid with semi-precious stones. Through the arch, and there it is – the Taj Mahal – wonder of the world, testament to undying love – pearly-white in the pre-dawn light, mist floating gray behind, and it feels like we’re at the edge of the world. We hear of the years, the hours, the care that went into making this monument - this tomb - for the king’s departed wife, how he sat every day, gazing upon it. White marble soars above me. Semi-precious stones – jade, coral, lapis-lazuli – swirl in flowers, onyx curves in Arabic letters, carved figures curl. Inside, a surprising darkness. Marble glows under a small flashlight, lapis shimmers. The whole complex is perfectly symmetrical from gates to minarets. Fountains sit dormant, trees branch gracefully, flowers bloom. Golden sun breaking the horizon, then the wall, adding a golden sheen to the domes.
Passion emanates from every stone.
Agra fort – more deserted beauty, more views to gaze at, more spaces for light and shadow to play, for breezes to blow, for mysteries to call….
Young Indian men trying to take my picture; I feel too blonde in the sunshine.
Eyes exhausted, I don’t see much on the way back to Delhi. Our last day we are stuck in limbo before flying. Along comes Sunny, tuk-tuk driver and unofficial tour guide. He plays us songs from Bollywood films, singing along, hands waving in the air, stops the track to explain what the singer is saying. He tries to acquire Sean’s Twins hat, takes us to a cheap, good (and hopefully not sketchy) place for lunch, takes us to good shopping, a museum, back to the hotel. In our nearest miss, a car almost backs right into us – we are saved by a quick swerve. We write down our email addresses, promise to contact Sunny if we are ever coming back to India, and say goodbye to this bright person we’ve met so randomly.
After waiting at the airport for too long, I feel ready to go home. Winging through the dark, I have to marvel at the things I’ve seen, even as I try to absorb it all. I’ve said it before, but it’s true – I wish my eyes were cameras, that I could capture everything I’ve seen, to be able to replay, remember all my experiences. In lieu of that ability, my words will just have to do.
