Alexander and I set off for Mumbai/Bombay in the evening of January 25th, three hours after he successfully finished teaching a two-week course in contemporary book design at NID. By the time we had packed our bags and locked up the apartment we were running a dangerous twenty minutes behind schedule. Luckily we hailed a perceptive rickshaw driver who sensed our anxiety. He weaved through the bumper-to-bumper late night traffic at death defying speeds and played risky games of chicken with oncoming trucks to get us to the railway station on time. As we flew forward– wind-in-hair and heart-in-mouth- I felt the now familiar throb of anticipation pulse through my veins. Adventure ho!
We boarded the night train to Mumbai three minutes before it left the platform. Ten hours later, after a restless night of sleep on a middle berth, we arrived at Chhatrapati Shivaji Station- Victoria Terminus. From there it was a quick seven-rupee ride on the commuter rail to Churchgate in the southern district of downtown.
Immediately after exiting the station, I was struck by a vision of wide brick roads, towering colonial-era architecture and vacant sidewalks. The weather was dreamy: swaths of clouds filtered the warm morning light and a gentle sea breeze carried the scent of salt water. In a city notorious for its relentless crowds, chronic shortage of space, and Asia’s largest slums, my first impression of daybreak in south Mumbai was bewildering.
Alexander and I made our way to the nearby American Center, which was conveniently conspicuous with its kitschy striped awnings. After passing through security we were escorted to the apartment of our friend Lynne. She welcomed us into her home- and what a home it was! The floors were marble and cool to the touch. The spacious guest room had seventh story views and a handicap accessible bathroom. The air was filtered, the fridge was stacked, and the water was purified by a complex system of reverse osmosis. There was even a new issue of Time Out on the coffee table, which listed endless events- from gallery openings to book readings to musical performances.
Unlike Ahmedabad, Mumbai had a bustling, cosmopolitan feel. There was no shortage of events to attend, restaurants to sample, and nightspots to seek out. The city’s composite history was evident in everything from Koli shanties that occupy parts of the shoreline to imposing Art Deco facades. As an island, Mumbai’s only connection with the mainland is several bridges; the surrounding body of water seems to heighten one’s sense of confinement when trying to navigate the crowded streets. Fortunately the ocean views, large maidans (parks), and air-conditioned museums have a calming effect when the frenzied pace of the city becomes too much.
Alexander and I spent the day exploring several districts. A half hour walk from Churchgate brought us to the happening Colaba district on the city’s southernmost peninsula. There we gazed upon the Gateway of India, a striking basalt arch that opens up to the Mumbai harbor and is world famous as the city’s defining landmark. We visited the nearby Taj Mahal Palace and Tower, a grand, water-facing heritage hotel built in 1903. Rumor has it that the hotel’s architect, Parsi industrialist JN Tata, built the Taj when he was refused entry to one of the European hotels on account of being ‘a native.’
We spent the afternoon walking north past Horniman Circle, through Crawford Market, Chor Bazarre and on to Mutton Street, which is lined with antique shops selling old gramophones, vintage Bollywood posters, rusty tins, chipped porcelin, broken clocks and early 20th century postcards. In the evening we walked along the harbor-bordered promenade of Marine Drive before dining at the popular upscale fish restaurant Trishna, where we ordered Padma Laxsmi’s (think Top Chef, or Salmon Rushdie’s fourth ex-wife) dish of pomfret in green masala.
We returned to the American Center at eleven and caught three hours of sleep before hailing a cab to the International airport.
3.06.2008
1.25.2008
A Better Blogger (From Now On)
Dear All,
I apologize for my two-month-long hiatus. I have failed to post consistently, and in doing so, have forsaken the most fundamental objective of blogging! But my silence has its own reasons, some of which I will briefly explain:
The end of November marked my fourth month in India. When Alexander and I returned from our three-week tour through Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Delhi, something changed for the both of us. For the first time, Ahmedabad felt like home, regardless of how transitory or uncomfortable it may be. At first I was excited. I finally felt confident in our new space. I could navigate the city relatively easily and was no longer intimidated by the demands of daily life. In short, I was getting used to living here.
At the same time that life seemed more manageable, it also seemed less interesting. The same objects that once arrested my attention now appeared ubiquitous. My conversations with people, while no less edifying, were quickly assimilated into a perpetual series of daily exchanges from which it became difficult to isolate particulars. Colors started to look duller. Food tasted blander. Even the burning piles of rubbish and human excrement were not quite as assaulting.
My experiences started to feel more like predictable encounters than exciting adventures, and it seemed impossible to retell them in any other way. Activities such as hand-washing laundry, buying vegetables, and ridding the apartment of dust and mosquitoes did not provide much fodder for interesting analysis. They did even seem worthy of a bland summary. On the other hand, anything but my basic routines were too overwhelming to fully digest and regurgitate. My thoughts all seemed embarrassingly incomplete; my observations underdeveloped. I was stuck in a margin between simple actions and their meanings, and my mind felt blocked. It no longer felt possible to describe a walk down the street without talking about the ways my whiteness, gender, nationality and class produced the experience; they were one in the same.
Although I am still trying to figure things out, I feel ready to write. Besides, writing is way of figuring things out in and of itself- a method of inquiry, as Laurel Richardson would say. Alexander and I have accomplished and lived through a lot in the past two months, and much of it is worth mentioning. I will do my best to summarize my favorite moments from recent weeks in the following three posts. I also promise to post more frequently, so please keep checking.
I apologize for my two-month-long hiatus. I have failed to post consistently, and in doing so, have forsaken the most fundamental objective of blogging! But my silence has its own reasons, some of which I will briefly explain:
The end of November marked my fourth month in India. When Alexander and I returned from our three-week tour through Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Delhi, something changed for the both of us. For the first time, Ahmedabad felt like home, regardless of how transitory or uncomfortable it may be. At first I was excited. I finally felt confident in our new space. I could navigate the city relatively easily and was no longer intimidated by the demands of daily life. In short, I was getting used to living here.
At the same time that life seemed more manageable, it also seemed less interesting. The same objects that once arrested my attention now appeared ubiquitous. My conversations with people, while no less edifying, were quickly assimilated into a perpetual series of daily exchanges from which it became difficult to isolate particulars. Colors started to look duller. Food tasted blander. Even the burning piles of rubbish and human excrement were not quite as assaulting.
My experiences started to feel more like predictable encounters than exciting adventures, and it seemed impossible to retell them in any other way. Activities such as hand-washing laundry, buying vegetables, and ridding the apartment of dust and mosquitoes did not provide much fodder for interesting analysis. They did even seem worthy of a bland summary. On the other hand, anything but my basic routines were too overwhelming to fully digest and regurgitate. My thoughts all seemed embarrassingly incomplete; my observations underdeveloped. I was stuck in a margin between simple actions and their meanings, and my mind felt blocked. It no longer felt possible to describe a walk down the street without talking about the ways my whiteness, gender, nationality and class produced the experience; they were one in the same.
Although I am still trying to figure things out, I feel ready to write. Besides, writing is way of figuring things out in and of itself- a method of inquiry, as Laurel Richardson would say. Alexander and I have accomplished and lived through a lot in the past two months, and much of it is worth mentioning. I will do my best to summarize my favorite moments from recent weeks in the following three posts. I also promise to post more frequently, so please keep checking.
Part I- Highlights from December
In early December Alexander and I returned to the region of Kutch, near the Pakistani border, to film artisan and friend Jabbar. As I mentioned in a previous post, Jabbar is a master tie-and-dyer whose products are popular abroad. Unlike the pieces of bandhani readily available in the domestic market, Jabbar’s work is done on silk (instead of cotton), dyed in natural dyes (instead of synthetic), and requires a great deal more labor and skill (one piece can take up to four months). Alexander and I collected nearly seven hours of footage in our attempt to capture the process from start to finish. We also conducted interviews with Jabbar and his family to provide a social context for the craft. Our main aim was/is to illustrate the ways artisans have been able to preserve and innovate on traditional crafts by entering into an international market.
After returning from Kutch, Alexander started to prepare for the course he was asked to teach at the National Institute of Design. Entitled “Contemporary Book Making and Book Design,” the course concentrates on the physical process of book making and highlights current trends in British and American graphics industries, both of which have seen a resurgence in production oriented and material based design. Alexander designed a syllabus, set up “fieldtrips” to a handmade paper factory and a manuscript museum, and brushed up on his own book binding skills.
At the same time we both continued to work on the Rajasthani turban campaign. Because we were unable to scan the turbans (they cannot be subjected to intense lights), we photographed the long objects in segments. As a result, we are forced to “sew” the individual images together in Photoshop. To make matters more complicated, however, the edges of each image were slightly distorted by the camera. We have had no choice but to spend endless hours trying to create yards of seamless cloth. At one point I started to dream about the complex, colorful, crosshatched design!
Around the same time I made a trip to Ahmedabad’s English bookstore and purchased the complete works of Haruki Murakami and Salmon Rushdie. I am currently making my way through each collection.
Towards the end of December I started to fear that the holiday season would be particularly disorienting and depressing. Wilting in the desert heat without the company of family and friends did not seem like something to celebrate. But Alexander and I managed to make due. We decorated a desiccated, potted shrub with stale popcorn and concocted a strangely satisfying brunch comprised of experimental dishes. Christmas proved to be a wonderful, love-filled day, although we missed everyone a lot.
After returning from Kutch, Alexander started to prepare for the course he was asked to teach at the National Institute of Design. Entitled “Contemporary Book Making and Book Design,” the course concentrates on the physical process of book making and highlights current trends in British and American graphics industries, both of which have seen a resurgence in production oriented and material based design. Alexander designed a syllabus, set up “fieldtrips” to a handmade paper factory and a manuscript museum, and brushed up on his own book binding skills.
At the same time we both continued to work on the Rajasthani turban campaign. Because we were unable to scan the turbans (they cannot be subjected to intense lights), we photographed the long objects in segments. As a result, we are forced to “sew” the individual images together in Photoshop. To make matters more complicated, however, the edges of each image were slightly distorted by the camera. We have had no choice but to spend endless hours trying to create yards of seamless cloth. At one point I started to dream about the complex, colorful, crosshatched design!
Around the same time I made a trip to Ahmedabad’s English bookstore and purchased the complete works of Haruki Murakami and Salmon Rushdie. I am currently making my way through each collection.
Towards the end of December I started to fear that the holiday season would be particularly disorienting and depressing. Wilting in the desert heat without the company of family and friends did not seem like something to celebrate. But Alexander and I managed to make due. We decorated a desiccated, potted shrub with stale popcorn and concocted a strangely satisfying brunch comprised of experimental dishes. Christmas proved to be a wonderful, love-filled day, although we missed everyone a lot.
Part II- Kerala with Melisa and Evan
On December 28th my mother and brother made the long 36-hour journey from California to Ahmedabad. Alexander and I were there to greet them at the airport. I could barely contain my excitement when they exited through the terminal’s glass doors! It was shockingly surreal to see them in the flesh; like worlds colliding.
We spent our first week together in Ahmedabad. Alexander and I served as tour guides showing Mom and Evan our favorite corners of the city. We visited the famous Gandhi Ashram, the busy market of Manek Chowk, the renowned Calico Museum, intricate Jain temples, exquisite Mosques, well-stocked khadi bandhars, the congested New City, and NID’s lush campus. A morning Heritage Walk gave us a well-informed tour of the Old City’s tangled streets and its historic architecture. On New Years, the four of us celebrated with a bottle of Brut that Mom managed to smuggle through airport security.
On the morning of January 2nd, we boarded a plane to the state of Kerala, a narrow, fertile strip on the southwest coast. After a five-hour layover in Mumbai, we landed in Kochi (Cochin). Located in central Kerala, Kochi consists of a cluster of islands and narrow peninsulas and is famous for its many historical sites. The region’s maritime contact with other cultures over the centuries has greatly contributed to Kochi’s eclectic scenery in the form of Syrian-Christian churches, Dutch and Portuguese Heritage homes, Raj-era game lodges, a complex system of Chinese fishing nets, streets reminiscent of Medieval Holland and a visible Jewish community.
The four of us chose to stay in the older, quieter district of Fort Cochin, which is linked to the bustling city of Ernakulam by a bridge. We lodged at a beautiful, calming guesthouse that was within walking distance of nearly all our destinations. Our three days in the area were spent exploring the tranquil streets and absorbing the relaxed, tropical vibe. We saw the oldest church in India, watched the cantilevered Chinese fishing nets in action, strolled along the sunny, sea-bordered promenades, examined the graphic murals of Mattancherry Palace, and gazed upon the crumbling gravestones of the Dutch cemetery. Our last day was spent in a region of the peninsula known as “Jew Town,” an area that is known for the antique and spice shops that line the narrow roads, as well as the centrally located Pardesi Synagogue. First built in 1568 and later re-built by the Dutch in 1664, the synagogue is tucked away at the dead end of one of the town’s many labyrinthine streets. It features a gold pulpit, colorful glass chandeliers, and a floor made up of hand-painted, blue and white tiles imported from China. On our last night we enjoyed a traditional Kathakali performance (a dramatized presentation of a play- usually based on Hindu epics such as the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the Puranas- acted out by heavily made-up men wearing extravagant costumes).
Much to my delight, our sweat-inducing adventures were punctuated with excellent meals and retreats into the sanctuary of ocean-view hotels, where we sipped on sodas and cold beer. My favorite dishes included a seasoned snapper steamed in banana leaves and a North Indian inspired fish thali.
On January 7th Alexander, Mom, Evan and I took a morning taxi to the town of Alappuzha (Alleppey). Encompassing laidback markets, groves of palm trees and a system of interconnecting canals, Alleppey was once one of the best-known ports along the Malabar Coast. The four of us stayed outside the town, on the banks of the backwaters, in a cluster of bamboo huts. We spent the day swinging in hammocks strung between palm trees and watching dozens of impressive houseboats drift down the river.
The following morning we boarded our very own houseboat, complete with a personal chef, captain, and navigator. For twenty-four hours we drifted along the network of waterways that fringe the coast, winding their way inland. As the sun made its arch across a cloud-studded dome of blue sky, we passed palm-fringed lakes, lush rice patties, small villages, mosques, temples, children on their way to school, men diving for fish and prawns, and women washing piles of sodden clothes. When we passed a small stall built into the riverbank, Alexander bought a chopped coconut with a pink straw. We played gin rummy and read until our chef presented us with a delicious dinner of cooked spicy fish, vegetables and fried plantains. When twilight descended, and the river water turned ink black, we docked on the bank and counted fireflies before falling asleep to the sound of lapping water.
Our adept captain returned us to Alleppey before noon the next day. From there we took another long taxi ride further along the coast to Thiruvanathapuram (Trivandrum). Trivandrum has a reputation as one of India’s most pleasant cities for its temples, museums and gardens. Mom, Evan, Alexander and I spent a full three days sampling new foods, shopping in the local markets, and visiting the Palace Museum. The highlights of our stay included Patayam, a natural health food restaurant serving multiple mini-courses and tiny shots of blended fruit, and the Swathi Sangeethotsavan Music Festival, where we heard Master Balamuralilkrishna perform carnatic vocals with a violin, mridangam and ghatam.
On the 12th it was time to say goodbye. Alexander and I flew north while Melisa and Evan braved the journey back to the States. All in all, our two weeks together were terrific, but our apartment in Ahmedabad has started to feel a little empty!
We spent our first week together in Ahmedabad. Alexander and I served as tour guides showing Mom and Evan our favorite corners of the city. We visited the famous Gandhi Ashram, the busy market of Manek Chowk, the renowned Calico Museum, intricate Jain temples, exquisite Mosques, well-stocked khadi bandhars, the congested New City, and NID’s lush campus. A morning Heritage Walk gave us a well-informed tour of the Old City’s tangled streets and its historic architecture. On New Years, the four of us celebrated with a bottle of Brut that Mom managed to smuggle through airport security.
On the morning of January 2nd, we boarded a plane to the state of Kerala, a narrow, fertile strip on the southwest coast. After a five-hour layover in Mumbai, we landed in Kochi (Cochin). Located in central Kerala, Kochi consists of a cluster of islands and narrow peninsulas and is famous for its many historical sites. The region’s maritime contact with other cultures over the centuries has greatly contributed to Kochi’s eclectic scenery in the form of Syrian-Christian churches, Dutch and Portuguese Heritage homes, Raj-era game lodges, a complex system of Chinese fishing nets, streets reminiscent of Medieval Holland and a visible Jewish community.
The four of us chose to stay in the older, quieter district of Fort Cochin, which is linked to the bustling city of Ernakulam by a bridge. We lodged at a beautiful, calming guesthouse that was within walking distance of nearly all our destinations. Our three days in the area were spent exploring the tranquil streets and absorbing the relaxed, tropical vibe. We saw the oldest church in India, watched the cantilevered Chinese fishing nets in action, strolled along the sunny, sea-bordered promenades, examined the graphic murals of Mattancherry Palace, and gazed upon the crumbling gravestones of the Dutch cemetery. Our last day was spent in a region of the peninsula known as “Jew Town,” an area that is known for the antique and spice shops that line the narrow roads, as well as the centrally located Pardesi Synagogue. First built in 1568 and later re-built by the Dutch in 1664, the synagogue is tucked away at the dead end of one of the town’s many labyrinthine streets. It features a gold pulpit, colorful glass chandeliers, and a floor made up of hand-painted, blue and white tiles imported from China. On our last night we enjoyed a traditional Kathakali performance (a dramatized presentation of a play- usually based on Hindu epics such as the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the Puranas- acted out by heavily made-up men wearing extravagant costumes).
Much to my delight, our sweat-inducing adventures were punctuated with excellent meals and retreats into the sanctuary of ocean-view hotels, where we sipped on sodas and cold beer. My favorite dishes included a seasoned snapper steamed in banana leaves and a North Indian inspired fish thali.
On January 7th Alexander, Mom, Evan and I took a morning taxi to the town of Alappuzha (Alleppey). Encompassing laidback markets, groves of palm trees and a system of interconnecting canals, Alleppey was once one of the best-known ports along the Malabar Coast. The four of us stayed outside the town, on the banks of the backwaters, in a cluster of bamboo huts. We spent the day swinging in hammocks strung between palm trees and watching dozens of impressive houseboats drift down the river.
The following morning we boarded our very own houseboat, complete with a personal chef, captain, and navigator. For twenty-four hours we drifted along the network of waterways that fringe the coast, winding their way inland. As the sun made its arch across a cloud-studded dome of blue sky, we passed palm-fringed lakes, lush rice patties, small villages, mosques, temples, children on their way to school, men diving for fish and prawns, and women washing piles of sodden clothes. When we passed a small stall built into the riverbank, Alexander bought a chopped coconut with a pink straw. We played gin rummy and read until our chef presented us with a delicious dinner of cooked spicy fish, vegetables and fried plantains. When twilight descended, and the river water turned ink black, we docked on the bank and counted fireflies before falling asleep to the sound of lapping water.
Our adept captain returned us to Alleppey before noon the next day. From there we took another long taxi ride further along the coast to Thiruvanathapuram (Trivandrum). Trivandrum has a reputation as one of India’s most pleasant cities for its temples, museums and gardens. Mom, Evan, Alexander and I spent a full three days sampling new foods, shopping in the local markets, and visiting the Palace Museum. The highlights of our stay included Patayam, a natural health food restaurant serving multiple mini-courses and tiny shots of blended fruit, and the Swathi Sangeethotsavan Music Festival, where we heard Master Balamuralilkrishna perform carnatic vocals with a violin, mridangam and ghatam.
On the 12th it was time to say goodbye. Alexander and I flew north while Melisa and Evan braved the journey back to the States. All in all, our two weeks together were terrific, but our apartment in Ahmedabad has started to feel a little empty!
Part III- Back to Ahmedabad
Alexander and I returned from Kerala in time for Gujarat’s famous Kite Festival, Uttarayan. In preparation, groups of men dusted yards of kite string with a neon pink powder (made from chalk and ground glass) and wound the colorful thread into spools. Other vendors hawked diamond-shaped paper kites, some with bow-tie tails. Before the festival officially began, children would gather before and after school to hone their kite-flying skills. Soon the streets were littered with wads of bright string and the torn shreds of fallen kites.
In kite flying, as in life, the main objective is to survive as long as possible. Staying afloat is not as easy as it seems, however, because the glass-infused kite strings “cut” each other whenever they meet in mid- air. Sometimes the “cut” kite will attach itself to the victorious kite, and then that lucky someone will be flying a double-headed kite! But in most cases, it is either “cut or be cut.” You can either be defensive by avoiding any contact with other kites, or you can be offensive by trying to “cut” down as many other kites as possible.
On January 14th, Alexander and I ascended the stairs of our apartment complex and joined the thousands of people gathered on rooftops all over the city. The site was breathtaking. The sky was packed with the colorful dots of kites. It looked like the air was churning with colorful confetti. The airborne diamonds swooped and spiraled as they caught different drafts while the severed kites floated down to the street like crisp autumn leaves. Groups of neighbors cheered for their family members and friends as they tried to fell the competition. Alexander and I both tried our hand at flying but I cannot say it went well.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the kites turned into silhouettes against the subcontinental sunset. Firecrackers exploded over the city as children lit small explosives. The vision was scored with the Bollywood music that blasted from rooftop stereo systems.
Days later Alexander started to teach his course at NID. He spent an intense thirteen days teaching both morning and afternoon sessions on campus. The class turned out to be a great success. Most of his students produced innovative books and they had a popular exhibition at the end. Alexander says he loved the experience, but is happy to get back to his own work. Also, we learned recently from some student friends that Alexander has earned quite the reputation at NID as a “harsh critic” and “strict instructor.” Not bad for his first time teaching, especially considering many of his students were older than him!
Now we are off to Mumbai. We will be flying to Thailand on January 27th. Check back for more updates!
In kite flying, as in life, the main objective is to survive as long as possible. Staying afloat is not as easy as it seems, however, because the glass-infused kite strings “cut” each other whenever they meet in mid- air. Sometimes the “cut” kite will attach itself to the victorious kite, and then that lucky someone will be flying a double-headed kite! But in most cases, it is either “cut or be cut.” You can either be defensive by avoiding any contact with other kites, or you can be offensive by trying to “cut” down as many other kites as possible.
On January 14th, Alexander and I ascended the stairs of our apartment complex and joined the thousands of people gathered on rooftops all over the city. The site was breathtaking. The sky was packed with the colorful dots of kites. It looked like the air was churning with colorful confetti. The airborne diamonds swooped and spiraled as they caught different drafts while the severed kites floated down to the street like crisp autumn leaves. Groups of neighbors cheered for their family members and friends as they tried to fell the competition. Alexander and I both tried our hand at flying but I cannot say it went well.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the kites turned into silhouettes against the subcontinental sunset. Firecrackers exploded over the city as children lit small explosives. The vision was scored with the Bollywood music that blasted from rooftop stereo systems.
Days later Alexander started to teach his course at NID. He spent an intense thirteen days teaching both morning and afternoon sessions on campus. The class turned out to be a great success. Most of his students produced innovative books and they had a popular exhibition at the end. Alexander says he loved the experience, but is happy to get back to his own work. Also, we learned recently from some student friends that Alexander has earned quite the reputation at NID as a “harsh critic” and “strict instructor.” Not bad for his first time teaching, especially considering many of his students were older than him!
Now we are off to Mumbai. We will be flying to Thailand on January 27th. Check back for more updates!
11.25.2007
Life on the Platform
Express trains regularly run between Agra and Delhi. Despite their frequency, the trains are notorious for running late. Alexander and I had the minor misfortune of waiting two hours for our third class coach to arrive.
Our delay gave us time to examine the station milieu. Plump rats scurried across the tracks nibbling at an abundance of trash. A man with an oversized moustache sold carrot-glucose sweets from a cart. Three teenagers poured hot chai from large silver canteens. “Chai!! Chai Garam!” they called out into the heavy night air.
Despite the excess of distractions, my attention was drawn to the dozens of begging children darting about the platform. They tugged on arms, motioning to their empty tummies and mouths. The girls wore tattered, ill-fitting dresses with broken zippers and missing buttons. Their hair was either cropped close to their head or tied back in long, matted ponytails. I watched as one girl, clad in a ragged, orange shirt, coughed up large amounts of phlegm and spit into the tracks below.
Each time a train arrived at the platform, the children greeted it with excitement. After the passengers boarded, they clung to the sides of cars, waiting for their ride to begin. As the train picked up speed, the kids jumped between the coach doorways and crowded platform. The coughing girl joined her peers, giggling as she ran alongside the train in search of a vacant spot. But the car was moving too fast. Her leg slipped into the dark crevice between platform ledge and train. Onlookers screamed as two young men sprinted to the rescue, violently whacking her back towards safety and away from the lethal chasm. It was all too much for me to bear and I closed my eyes until our train arrived.
Our delay gave us time to examine the station milieu. Plump rats scurried across the tracks nibbling at an abundance of trash. A man with an oversized moustache sold carrot-glucose sweets from a cart. Three teenagers poured hot chai from large silver canteens. “Chai!! Chai Garam!” they called out into the heavy night air.
Despite the excess of distractions, my attention was drawn to the dozens of begging children darting about the platform. They tugged on arms, motioning to their empty tummies and mouths. The girls wore tattered, ill-fitting dresses with broken zippers and missing buttons. Their hair was either cropped close to their head or tied back in long, matted ponytails. I watched as one girl, clad in a ragged, orange shirt, coughed up large amounts of phlegm and spit into the tracks below.
Each time a train arrived at the platform, the children greeted it with excitement. After the passengers boarded, they clung to the sides of cars, waiting for their ride to begin. As the train picked up speed, the kids jumped between the coach doorways and crowded platform. The coughing girl joined her peers, giggling as she ran alongside the train in search of a vacant spot. But the car was moving too fast. Her leg slipped into the dark crevice between platform ledge and train. Onlookers screamed as two young men sprinted to the rescue, violently whacking her back towards safety and away from the lethal chasm. It was all too much for me to bear and I closed my eyes until our train arrived.
Pretty Picture Postcard
Alexander and I took the 6 a.m. train to Agra and arrived four hours later. Although the city was wrapped in a thick morning mist, I recognized the subtle outline of the Taj Mahal as we drove to our hotel. It stood like a distant mirage, luring us closer.
As can be expected, the highlight of our stay in Agra was the Taj Mahal. Alexander and I woke at five a.m. to be present when the sight’s doors opened an hour later. We shuffled past security and several tour groups wearing matching yellow baseball caps. Through a colossal red-stone entrance gate I caught my first intimate look at the world’s most famous monument to love.
The Taj was built by Emperor Shah Jahan to commemorate the passing of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. The elaborate monument took more than two decades to complete and required a work force of 20,000 people from India and Central Asia. Architects were brought in from Europe to help produce the intricate marble screens and inlay work made with thousands of semiprecious stones.
For years I envisioned the Taj to be creamy white with the smooth texture of a meringue. Imagine my surprise as I began to notice the gray swirled marble and intricate inlay work. As we walked along the thin reflecting pool I could distinguish intricate designs on the exterior. Vines of colorful flowers and large Koran passages written in Arabic calligraphy decorated the mausoleum’s entrance. It was beautiful.
Alexander and I spent five hours wandering around gardens and mosques. We took pictures from every angle and sketched pieces of the structure in our sketchbooks. In the central mausoleum we admired the lace-like marble screens and dragged our hands over the flawless inlay work. The Taj changed colors with the rising sun. Under our gaze the central dome transformed from pale blue to a golden yellow to a subtle cherry-blossom pink. At noon the Taj turned a brilliant cotton-white, framed by a cloudless, autumn sky. By the time we left, however, a thin haze had settled over the gardens, veiling the monument in a thin lavender curtain.
As we departed, I felt a twinge of discontent, as if I had somehow failed to absorb, capture or retain the Taj’s beauty. Here I was: Standing halfway around the world and in the presence of one of the world’s most celebrated wonders, the image of which I have seen reproduced on stamps, calendars, book covers, postcards and on TV. But how can one consume such a significant landmark? How can one preserve an impermanent moment? Staring, wandering, taking pictures, sketching, meditating, touching, smelling- all yielded fleeting pleasures that immediately congealed into memories. When we exited the monument’s gates, the Taj Mahal had already converted itself into an imprecise image projected against the black of my mind.
As can be expected, the highlight of our stay in Agra was the Taj Mahal. Alexander and I woke at five a.m. to be present when the sight’s doors opened an hour later. We shuffled past security and several tour groups wearing matching yellow baseball caps. Through a colossal red-stone entrance gate I caught my first intimate look at the world’s most famous monument to love.
The Taj was built by Emperor Shah Jahan to commemorate the passing of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. The elaborate monument took more than two decades to complete and required a work force of 20,000 people from India and Central Asia. Architects were brought in from Europe to help produce the intricate marble screens and inlay work made with thousands of semiprecious stones.
For years I envisioned the Taj to be creamy white with the smooth texture of a meringue. Imagine my surprise as I began to notice the gray swirled marble and intricate inlay work. As we walked along the thin reflecting pool I could distinguish intricate designs on the exterior. Vines of colorful flowers and large Koran passages written in Arabic calligraphy decorated the mausoleum’s entrance. It was beautiful.
Alexander and I spent five hours wandering around gardens and mosques. We took pictures from every angle and sketched pieces of the structure in our sketchbooks. In the central mausoleum we admired the lace-like marble screens and dragged our hands over the flawless inlay work. The Taj changed colors with the rising sun. Under our gaze the central dome transformed from pale blue to a golden yellow to a subtle cherry-blossom pink. At noon the Taj turned a brilliant cotton-white, framed by a cloudless, autumn sky. By the time we left, however, a thin haze had settled over the gardens, veiling the monument in a thin lavender curtain.
As we departed, I felt a twinge of discontent, as if I had somehow failed to absorb, capture or retain the Taj’s beauty. Here I was: Standing halfway around the world and in the presence of one of the world’s most celebrated wonders, the image of which I have seen reproduced on stamps, calendars, book covers, postcards and on TV. But how can one consume such a significant landmark? How can one preserve an impermanent moment? Staring, wandering, taking pictures, sketching, meditating, touching, smelling- all yielded fleeting pleasures that immediately congealed into memories. When we exited the monument’s gates, the Taj Mahal had already converted itself into an imprecise image projected against the black of my mind.
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