The Taj did finally appear through the dust and smoke, mid morning, and even veiled in sepia it was indeed beautiful. Much like The Eiffel Tower, because there are no other tall buildings in the city, it is the core of everything in Agra.
Approaching from the south gate, the non tourist drop off gate, winds you through the real city as ordinary people go about their ordinary lives. Here there is no dawn opening time strip lined with souvenir stalls, few touts for guides, and the best straight ahead view of the gateway and forecourt.
As with everywhere in India, there's the foreigner price, here R/- 750, and the local price, R/- 20. But this does avail you of a 500ml bottle of water, shoe covers, and the left hand stairs (no rhyme or reason discernible here) ... plus free use of the toilet, paper included.
There is no question that The Taj Mahal exudes a mystical energy: it's a tomb of love, an edifice of perfection, a work of art. Perhaps it's my western vintage, but I found myself thinking of Princess Di in a sort of melancholy way. In a confluence of events of course we'd had our royal brush with Charles and Camilla just days before.
Even amidst the crowds it was ... something ...
But outside the precincts, tourist India hits you like a tonne of the ubiquitous red clay bricks. These are the ones baked in the kilns, chimneys numbering many more than trees, in the countryside. Puffing out gritty smoke from the fires of cow dung pats. Responsible for much of the pollution.
The smog seeps through the camel carts and electric autos. It embraces the Taj Snow Globe sellers and the 'best quality' whip vendor. It settles on and around you and dulls the senses and the sensitivity,
On another government bus we see sanitised tourists smiling and taking pictures of the locals, us among them, from their 'glasshouse' bus. For all the exhaustion and sheer overwhelming journey this is, there's no way I'd want that instead.
But maybe, just for a moment I think, 'Where's The Taj? Who cares?'
Approaching from the south gate, the non tourist drop off gate, winds you through the real city as ordinary people go about their ordinary lives. Here there is no dawn opening time strip lined with souvenir stalls, few touts for guides, and the best straight ahead view of the gateway and forecourt.
As with everywhere in India, there's the foreigner price, here R/- 750, and the local price, R/- 20. But this does avail you of a 500ml bottle of water, shoe covers, and the left hand stairs (no rhyme or reason discernible here) ... plus free use of the toilet, paper included.
There is no question that The Taj Mahal exudes a mystical energy: it's a tomb of love, an edifice of perfection, a work of art. Perhaps it's my western vintage, but I found myself thinking of Princess Di in a sort of melancholy way. In a confluence of events of course we'd had our royal brush with Charles and Camilla just days before.
Even amidst the crowds it was ... something ...
But outside the precincts, tourist India hits you like a tonne of the ubiquitous red clay bricks. These are the ones baked in the kilns, chimneys numbering many more than trees, in the countryside. Puffing out gritty smoke from the fires of cow dung pats. Responsible for much of the pollution.
The smog seeps through the camel carts and electric autos. It embraces the Taj Snow Globe sellers and the 'best quality' whip vendor. It settles on and around you and dulls the senses and the sensitivity,
On another government bus we see sanitised tourists smiling and taking pictures of the locals, us among them, from their 'glasshouse' bus. For all the exhaustion and sheer overwhelming journey this is, there's no way I'd want that instead.
But maybe, just for a moment I think, 'Where's The Taj? Who cares?'
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