A trip to the Taj also deserves a must mention of the most sought after and the luckiest marble bench in the world. For it is continuously polished by the eager bottoms of newly married couples and at times by an old foggy, like myself, who want to be photographed with the best view of Taj.
After the visit to the Taj, when one sees this memorable photo, it seems that you are sitting on a bench with the Taj looming large and hardly anybody in sight, smiling in your romantic loneliness. However, the ground reality is totally different. There are hundreds of people waiting for their turn and dozens of photographers making sure that nobody jumps the queue. The experienced photographers instruct the couple to be romantic, the newly wed bride reclining on the bench with her head in the lap of lucky, or unlucky, bridegroom. Thereafter both gaze into each other’s eyes with eternal love and with the Taj in the background. As soon as the camera clicks the couple is almost pushed away to make room for the next candidates.
In the olden days there used to be a flock of photographers beside Mayo Hospital, Lahore, with black hooded strange boxes and for the background crudely painted curtains depicting either Shalimar Gardens or Taj Mahal. Whenever I expressed a desire to be photographed with the Taj, my father would take me to the “Egyptian photographer” on Nisbet Road because that was the proper thing to do. Gentlemen never sat on a footpath to be photographed. However, now after almost sixty years I could fulfil that childhood desire and pose in front of the real Taj for a bargain.
I was not fortunate enough to have a pretty damsel leaning on my shoulders and looking at me with adoring eyes. Instead it was the bulk of hairy and moustached Shahji smiling like a love stricken Himalayan bear. We intentionally did not look at each other with adoring eyes lest we were dubbed gays.
After the photo session we walked towards the Taj, sizzling in the heat of the day. It was a strenuous ordeal to enter into the main building as there were thousands of people pushing and cajoling through a single door. I fear there were some women who fainted due to the heat and lack of air inside the Taj. It was just impossible to offer Fatiha or to observe the exquisite tombs closely. Children crying, women shouting and some hooligans laughing. Most of them were touching or slapping the inlay work with their sweaty hands. The harsh voices and shouts, I am sure, hurt the delicate dome and those two buried underneath.
In Florence you cannot touch the David of Michelangelo or can you imagine sweaty hands being wiped on the lips of Mona Lisa? A work of art is meant to be viewed not to be desecrated with hands. Absolutely nobody should be allowed to go inside the Taj Mahal let those poor things rest in peace.
By now I felt that if I do not immediately quench my thirst I will be resting in peace along Shahjehan and Mumtaz Mahal. So we hurried out.
A mere two hours visit is an insult to the Taj; one should have at least two days to view it from all four sides and from across the Jumna, experience its mornings and sunsets. And if lucky, view it during the full moon, Kal chaudwein ka chand tha shab bhar raha churcha tira sort of thing.
On our way back, our chauffeur driven car, courtesy Vinod Dua, passed underneath the great citadel of Agra. Perched on a high plateau we saw the magnificent spectacle of white palaces and red fortification. In it somewhere was the room in which Shahjehan was imprisoned by his son Aurengzeb. And in there was that historical window framing the distant Taj for the eyes of dethroned emperor. According to Ibne-i-Nsha: “Auregzeb was so pious that throughout his life he never left a namaz or a brother”.
We had to make a quick decision, do we turn left and visit the great fort of Agra or proceed straight for Fatehpur Sekri, the red stone capital of the great Mughal Akbar? We did not have enough energy and especially time to visit both. We opted for Fatehpur Sekri and drove straight on. We were still on the outskirts of Agra when we passed a road sign that read “Emperor Akbar’s Mausoleum”. How could we ignore the grave of Mughal-e-Azam?
The delicate and impressive three storied structure of the mausoleum was designed by Akbar himself, intricate but simple in its grandeur. A low-roof tunnel lead to the grave of the great Mughal and there he lay underneath a plain marble slab without any decorations or epitaph underneath a huge windowless dome. It was a lonely and gloomy abode, even the lightest whisper resonated not finding any opening to escape and came back in a loud melancholy form. Shahji and myself were totally alone and we felt, as if we were entombed alive in the burial chamber of some Egyptian Pharaoh. Suddenly I remembered a dialogue from the film Mughl-e-Azam, delivered by the inimitable Prithivi Raj when on top of an elephant he orders his armies to march on against his Anarkali-struck son Prince Salim. I don’t know what got into me but I uttered it loudly with a theatrical flourish: “Yalghar ho Maan Singh.”
Shahji almost jumped with fright as the dome of the tomb reverberated with a series of Yalghar Ho Yalghar Ho. It was a good thing that the great Mughal was in no position to protest otherwise he would have ordered me to be trampled underneath his own personal elephant!
A few kilometres outside Agra, a road turned right towards Fatehpur Sekri. It was supposed to be a mere forty kilometres away but we travelled on and on through dirty little villages and uninteresting landscape with no Fatehpur Sekri in sight. It was late afternoon and we had to be back in Delhi before nightfall. Just then a milestone gave us a fright for it said that we were headed towards Ajmer. Another fright was in store for us when a high arch welcomed us into Rajhistan. Where in the name of Dickens were we heading for? The final nail in our coffin, so to speak, was another milestone which gleefully informed us that we were on our way to Jeselmeer. In one day we had traversed through the capital territory Delhi, then into Haryana and Uttar Pardesh and finally we were in Rajhistan.
We heaved a sigh of relief when eventually we entered Fatehpur Sekri. I had visualized ruins of a vast city as far as the eye can see. But there perched on a hilltop was a palace complex in brand new condition and the magnificent Bulund Darwaza Mosque, housing the remains of Saint Salim Chishti. We did not have enough time to ponder over the intricacies of red stone wonders. So we rushed through a palace which according to our guide was of Jodhabai, the mother of Jehangir. But at the same time, a notice declared that it had nothing to do with Jodhabai! We also hurried through the vast Bulund Darwaza Mosque which looked fabulous and it was vast. The shrine of Salim Chishti was indeed a jewel of architecture but the caretakers were not too happy with us because we did not offer a nazrana. A bearded caretaker was selling pieces of strings to foreign tourists for Rs10 each. “Tie a string with the jali of Saint and you will get your wish.” It was not a bad bargain but I refrained. Actually one should visit Fatehpur Sekri first and then proceed towards Agra because after seeing the Taj every other building pales in comparison. Perhaps that was the reason of our slight disappointment. There was one consolation though; while we were distancing ourselves from Fatehpur Sekri, we looked back towards the red city perched on a hillock and it turned rose red, courtesy of the setting sun.
The driver sensing our urgency of reaching Delhi as soon as possible suggested that instead of going back to Agra we can take a short cut through Bharatpur. We readily agreed without inquiring from the good man whether he had ever driven through this route previously or not. He had not.
Bharatpur was the domain of some ferocious Jat tribes who during the decline of Mughal Empire invaded Delhi and on their return brought with them two huge Mughal guns. These rusty guns are still the pride of Bharatpur resting on a hillock outside the town.
Although a slight drizzle had started while we were leaving Fatehpur Sekri, it had now turned into a heavy downpour. Sheets of stormy water descended from the heavens and despite full lights it was hazardous to drive on a bumpy road. All around us was black desolation and the road was totally deserted when the driver decided to give us the happy news; we were lost. We were somewhere in Rajhistan but where, only the pouring heavens and the pitch-dark night around us knew. At that particular moment of desperation I realized that our passports carried a visa for Agra only and we had no business to be in Fatehpur Sekri. And on top of it we were wandering in some part of India rather illegally. We could be arrested if checked on some road block as enemy spies. I conveyed this information to Shahji who was equally terrified. The rains came down in torrents. A milestone on the edge of the road appeared that read that we were approaching a place called Peeli Bheet.
“Shahji in my childhood I had read a book called Dacoits of Peeli Bheet. May be it is the same place and may be it is still infested with dacoits.”
“Chaudhry sahib why don’t you shut up?” he growled. “Don’t talk to me till we reach Mathra, if we reach Mathra.”
A trip to the Taj also deserves a must mention of the most sought after and the luckiest marble bench in the world. For it is continuously polished by the eager bottoms of newly married couples and at times by an old foggy, like myself, who want to be photographed with the best view of Taj.
