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Susmita Das

The journey from Delhi to Agra by bus, is literally like a journey through time. I took the bus from the Hyatt Regency early in the morning and we set off, through the soft haziness of a Delhi morning.

There were about six of us in the bus from all over the world. A pretty mixed bunch -- two scientists from France, a British air stewardess, two hospital superintendents from Saudi Arabia and me, an artist.

As the bus trundled on into the rising sun, its warmth spread out to the passengers. We made friends, asking questions about each others countries and cultures. But the focus was on me -- the only Indian. Questions were directed towards me about India, her people, her economy and culture. And it was all upto me to make or break their idea about India.

The French scientists had come to India to participate in seminars on AIDS, the dreaded disease of the cyber age. "Why do Indian women wear sindoor and mangalsutras?" they asked. How do the Indian men put on a turban?

I tried to explain our traditions and customs to them. And they informed me about silk being a protein and how we Indians would never starve to death as we have such vast collections of silk sarees just waiting to be eaten!

"Look, a peacock," Diandre, the British stewardess pointed out, excitedly. The majestic bird was basking in the sun, in all its finery. Truly, only in India would you find such exotic scenes.

We stopped at a dhaaba for some chai-paani and encountered, wonder of wonders, a dancing bear ! The excitement was palpable in the bus. Our lot rushed out to gape in awe, at a live bear, standing on its head, doing somersaults and begging for money. Money changed hands quickly.

Yes, these tourists had never seen anything like this before. But it was sad to see the pain in the bear's eyes, its scrawny little master, scrambling for a few pennies.

The bus hit the highway again for Agra after the chota break. We passed many villages now. The sun climbed higher into the sky. The landscape now had a baked quality. But we were comfortably cocooned inside our air conditioned bus, viewing the outside world from a detached distance.

Slowly, we made our way into Agra. The first monument to greet our eyes was the Sikandra, Akbar's tomb. Diandre immediately whipped out her Lonely Planet guide and read aloud the history of this mausoleum. We all nodded reverently and gazed out of the window again.

At last we were in Agra -- the land of the Taj Mahal, of eternal love and reverence, of architectural perfection and aesthetic excellence. To think that centuries ago, Shah Jahan had chosen this place to immortalise his love for his departed wife. To think that thousands artisans must have toiled here, building with great fervour this expression of sublime devotion.

We reached Agra Fort, the place where Shah Jahan breathed his last, his eyes transfixed on the distant Taj Mahal, on the other side of the river Jamuna.

As we made our way out into the fort, the hawkers zeroed in on us. "Postcards, only Rs 150, sir, take it. Take it."

"Here madam beautiful marble inlay box. Original. Take, only Rs 300, okay 200?"

These peddlars jostled us and almost demanded that we buy their wares. The foreigners were enticed, but I knew their game. "Don't get lured," the tour guide warned us, and shuffled us into the fort.

We did a quick round there, imagining what it must have looked like in all its glory. And yes on the way out a few of us getting lured into buying, 'original marble inlay' boxes! It's all part of the deal!

From there, we made a quick dash to the Taj Mahal. We were all seeing it for the first time.

And believe me, it is nothing like the mere images that routinely pop out of the glossy magazines and on television. For a moment after I entered the grounds and looked up at it, my mind just went blank. I did not know what to think. How does one react to this perfect mammoth structure gleaming in the afternoon sun? A man's expression of love? An architectural perfection.?

Some how it did not fit in with the surroundings. Could human hands have actually built this structure? Or was it placed there by heavenly bodies, on this earth, for all to see and understand what heaven has in store for us?

In the scorching heat, the Taj stood, proud in all its splendour. But then, a sense of sadness prevailed. And pain and cruelty. Not just for the reason of its existence but also on learning that every single artisan and builder connected with it had his hand cut off. So that he could not produce another Taj. Fable or fact?

You simply cannot pinpoint the feelings that occur when you look up at the Taj Mahal.

After lunch at the Maurya Sheraton, we visited various handicraft shops. My foreigner friends just let loose their credit cards, while I watched from a distance. Being an Indian, I cannot afford Indian handicrafts.

On the way back to Delhi, the bus was full of animated chatter. But slowly, as the evening descended upon us, each of us withdrew into our own little space, thinking about the day in retrospect.

As night fell, the landscape had a different charm to it. The lights shimmering in the distance... A goatherd bringing his flock back home. And long stretches of highway lit by the headlights of our bus and cooled by the evening air.

As we reached the city, we got ready to move one -- to our respective hotels, our respective countries, our respective lives. "Keep in touch," Diandra said, as she hugged and kissed me. We had a special bonding now, this entire group. We had experienced The Mughal Grandeur together. Together for a day, we had a chance to appreciate each other's way of life and learnt so much.

Yes we were now a special bunch on this planet.

Collage by Dominic Xavier

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