Day Twelve

We rose in darkness and climbed the few steps onto the bus in silence. Every day we rode this bus to and from bawana; an hour and a half each way. The ride home, with our tired muscles turning to stone felt twice as far. But today we embark on the five hour journey south to Agra. We don’t know what to expect. No one talks about the ride ahead. We eat our box breakfasts (eggs, always eggs) an pass back bananas and oranges. I brought a pomegranate from the day before. I slole an hour of sleep with my scarf wrapped around my head; protection from the looming sunrise and the chill.

I took the easy way out and escaped into a few movies I brought alone. First was The Ugly Truth. It’s rare that Hollywood is so honest in titling their product. Almost refreshing. And a more creative title than “Crap”. I almost finished Funny People also. I’d been looking forward to that and saved it for a time i needed a treat. It was melancholy and fit nicely with the mood my last few days in Delhi fostered. It’s been not just the Habitat project, but also missing my girlfriend that put me in a mood. For a few weeks, Areya thought she might be able to meet me and come along to Rajathan. But with each day it seemed less likely. There’s still hope for Goa next week, so the nervous anticipation persists. It is nice to hope for something though. Keeps the blood flowing.

Rounding out my exploration of tragic romance could be no better story than Shajahan and the construction of the Taj Mahal. Our guide began about an hour from our destination to have time to tell the story and let us wander with it in mind when we get to the tomb. Shajahan was the fifth Mugul emperor. As the story goes, he was browsing the market on the royal day it closed to the public. He came across a poor bead seller who may have been set their as a romantic trap for him. Either way, he fell madly for her with a love that would outlast a lifetime. For some reason he had to marry a Persian princess, but met with the bead seller under secret darkness of night. After a few years of this he was able to divorce her queen and marry the bead seller. Her name was changed to Mumtaz Mahal, meaning crown of the palace. Their love was intense and intimate. Mumtaz traveled with Shajahan to battlefields so they would never be apart. It was on a battlefield where, in the nineteenth year of their marrage, Mumtaz died delivering their fourteenth child. On her deathbed she obtained three promises from Shajahan. He would keep all their children in his heart. He would never remarry. And he would build for her a memorial that would never be rivaled in all time. It was these three promises that sealed Shajahan’s fate, and in turn that of the Mugul dynasty. Grief stricken, Shajahan moved his capital from Agra and back to Delhi. He could not bare the surroundings so full of memories of the love he lost. Inconsolable, it was only his promise to memorialize Mumtaz that brought him out of hiding. Artists and architects from the world over submitted proposals for this monument never again to be matched. What was selected has become the pinacle ofthe Islamic-hindu style. Each piece designed and crafted by the greatest specialists in the world. The Indian marble, hewn 200 km away would never stain and never need cleaning. It’s foolish to spend time describing the structure. I might as well dance about it. Suffice to say, it took twenty thousand laborers twenty years to complete. I compare this to the brick Habitat house I’ve been working on. All in, that took eight people twenty-five days. I’m not sure what conclusion to draw, but the contrast is wide and helps me measure the scale of this epic. Shajahan’s other two promises we’re meant to protect Mumtaz’s children from the threat of future offspring by another wife. It would be common for those children to be favored and one to assume the crown. Keeping Shajahan faithful to her memory insured one of her four sons would inherit the empire.

The youngest, Auranjeb had grown bitter of his fathers spending on the memorial and his new capital in Delhi. In a fit of brutality that would last fifty years, Auranjeb murdered his three brothers and imprisoned his father. Seizing rule, he locked his father first inside his fort in Delhi, and then later at his father’s request in the Red Fort of Agra. There, from his guarded rooms over the Agraford river, Shajahan looked out at his memorial to his one true love. It had been two months since the tomb’s completion.

Shajahan chose the site for the Taj Mahal because it was there where he stole away in secret with a poor bead seller whom he loved dearly. It was two kilometers from that site that he died alone and powerless behind mammoth walls of red sandstone.

Auranjeb’s opressive rule was followed by two weaker kings before the country was lost to the British East India Company. Seeing the Taj Mahal, walking the grounds and taking in the site of so much labor, considering how one love lead to this and that and brought a country into the modern world as a colony instead of a power, I think not only of the cost of love, but also the value. It is a beautiful building to be sure, but also a symbol of what visions can be realized by a singular power. A power undivided and answering to no one. Not just Shajahan’s power over India, but love’s power over him.

We spent our afternoon at the Red Fort, touring from room to room and across the expansive couryards. The red sandstone speaks to me in a way the gold and marble of the taj mahal do not. In the same way I felt about the Islamic tower, this massive barricade of earth and stone holds an honesty of purpose that trumps the make believe of the spiritual monuments. The mosques and tombs are modelled after Mohammed’s vision of paradise, whereas the forts are tied to this world as their sole purpose for being. The mosques and tombs raise us up to the heavens. The tombs anchor us on earth.

Walking the fort was an inspiring joy. It made me yearn for sites like Petra and look forward to my travels in Rajasthan where I’m not only visiting similar forts, but staying in some. But I’m sheepish to admit that my favorite part was the frolicking monkeys dotting the grounds. They’re still so novel to me. I can’t stop staring. I measure their features and behavior against our own, looking for that common thread that ties us. They are dangerous. Our guide was bit as a child. But I edge close for photos I can zoom to a few inches and look into their eyes. I don’t know if they understand cameras, but they do not smile. Often they turn away. One shivered as if my attention creeped him out. But when I do get a good look, I see down a well of sadness and a good measure of boredom. They look out over our invasion of what is now surely their fort, and I see the face of Shajahan looking out at the Taj Mahal.

The ride home was a bit easier. It was nice knowing that our ten hour wager had paid off so well. I also had Funny People to finish and Away We Go to keep me occupied. I found it so sweet and romantic. It made me wonder what sort of tomb Jim-from-The-Office will build for Maya Rudolph when she dies.

I also watched Monsters vs. Aliens. I enjoyed it more when I realized it was a sequel to The Ugly Truth.

Home to the YMCA for the very last time; the team tired from the ride, contemplating our departures, already planning our goodbyes. A quick call to Areya and then a deep sleep.