One Week, Ten Stories: Travels Through India's Golden Triangle

Prelude: Shortly after we began dating over nine years ago, Marianella informed me that her dream destination was the Taj Mahal-my response was a scrunched face and a trio of reasons not to visit-too hot, too far, too dirty. Over time it became part of our repertoire-when Marianella wanted to get me going, she would bring up visiting the Taj and I would respond with my mantra of reasons not to. Our little act extended to Anna & Dave, in which I found a compadre who was more resistant than I to a trip on the other side of the world, and Marianella found an ally in Anna. It was decided, Marianella and Anna could visit the Taj Mahal together while Dave and I remained behind in Minnesota, feasting on whatever sports were on TV and whatever food could be delivered.

And then we moved to Bangladesh. A new twist was added to our little back-and-forth. Now we were in the backyard of the Taj, a mere two and a half hour flight from New Delhi. It no longer was some fantastical journey, but a foregone conclusion-we would be going to the Taj Mahal. The first three years in Dhaka sped past and we found ourselves traveling throughout Southeast Asia except for India. Recognizing that this would be our last year in Bangladesh, it was time to get off the figurative pot. Joining us were Anna and her friend Janet, as we traversed through the cities of Jaipur, Agra, and Delhi.
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Hawa Mahal (Palace of Winds)-Jaipur:

Sunday afternoon, 11th October. Anna and Janet are back at the hotel, resting from a full morning of tours and shopping. Marianella and I are at a Cafe' Coffee Day, India's version of Starbucks, just as sleek and modern. We find a table near the door to watch the passing scenery, only to be disappointed with the constant cars and motorbikes whizzing past. After awhile, an older Indian woman, with gray hair and a black and white sundress patterned with irregular sized polka dots opens the door and enters with a blue plastic basket in her hand. She sits at a long table just to the left of my vision and entirely out of Marianella's. We are enmeshed with the books and our coffee, but it registers that the woman has not approached the counter nor left her chair since she first settled in. I glance to my left, noticing the cover of the basket has been removed and is laying upside down on the table. Curious, I let me glance linger and I notice a chipmunk resting on the woman's chest, contentedly being stroked behind its ears by the woman. I don't risk bringing Marianella's attention to the scene, for fear of having it disappear. I turn back to my book, reading a few more sentences in the story that previously had my sole attention, but I am distracted. My eyes slide back to the woman and the question emerges-how do you tame a chipmunk? I glance again and see that the chipmunk is now on the woman's shoulder, dancing across her bare skin onto the back frame of the chair, flaring its tail with the friskiness of freedom. I wonder if the cafe will soon find the little rodent streaking through its interior, but the woman seems unconcerned. Instead, she greets a young man, in his late twenties or early thirties, who I presume to be her son. She stands, gently scooping up the chipmunk and placing it into the basket with ease. As she stands and turns, I notice her left eye is blackened. She loops her arm into her son's, as they begin to exit the cafe. She turns towards me and with a warm smile says goodbye and I watch her son lovingly guide his mother out the door and down the steps of the cafe.
Amer Palace-Jaipur:

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Sunday evening, 11 October. We are making our second trip to the Amber Palace, located just outside of Jaipur, for the light and sound show that will take us through the expansive history of this spectacular fort. But first we need to stop at the jewelry store to pick up orders placed the day before by Marianella and Anna. The traffic has been heavy and as we arrive, Marianella leads the charge into the store while I remain in the car, seated in the front passenger's seat. My window is rolled down and knowing Marianella as I do, I expect she will come bounding out of the store and rush towards the car, as she is the most eager among us for the show at Amber Palace. As thought, her stay in the store is brief and as she descends the three stone stairs with her head down, I notice the lone headlight advancing down the alley in her direction. I tell her to watch out for the motorcycle, but it's not the bike that is of most imminent danger-instead a black cow camouflaged by the dark ambles down the road, its protruding horns passing mere inches from Marianella's face. She lets out a shriek which doesn't cause any pause in the cow as he continues towards his destination. Marianella reaches the car and asks me why I warned her about the motorcycle but not the cow, to which I respond, how could I warn her about something I couldn't see?
City Palace-Jaipur:

Cute kids at the ISKCON Temple-Jaipur:

Goats heading to their feeding:

Appropriately, at the Monkey Temple, outside of Jaipur:

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Monday morning, 12th October. We are driving from Jaipur to Agra, a full day's drive with a couple stops scheduled along the way. We are an hour outside of Jaipur, watching the countryside pass on by when I spot a smattering of camels about a hundred yards away through the trees alongside the highway. I start to voice the sighting, but stop myself, as we have already passed them by. Our driver Ajay pulls the car to the shoulder as the thought finishes, and points to us the camel herders behind us who are leading a pack of approximately seventy camels in our direction. We scramble from the car with our cameras and begin clicking away as the camels calmly pass on by an arm's reach away. Bubbling with excitement as we climb back into the car over our unexpected companions, we advance a few feet back onto the highway before we are stopped by the camels. They have surrounded the car and my concern is brief but real-are we going to be trampled? Have we wronged the camels somehow and vengeance will be theirs? No such drama ensues, as the camels impassively flow around our stopped car, climb over the median and cross the other two lanes of the four lane split highway.

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Fatephur Sikri:

Monday night, 12 October. While we were embarking on our tour of the Golden Triangle via Jaipur-Agra-Delhi, our friends Mary and Dave were covering the same territory, except their itinerary was Delhi-Agra-Jaipur. Our paths crossed for one evening in Agra, as we arrived into the city housing the Taj Mahal and they prepared to leave the next morning towards Jaipur. Marianella and Mary had been aware of this intersection on our schedules and scoured the internet to find a place where we could meet, which turned out to be Sheroes Hangout. Sheroes is a coffeehouse that recalls one you might find in a college town-colorful walls, dog-eared paperbacks available to peruse, handmade jewelry and clothes for sale. The distinction is this coffeehouse is staffed and run by survivors of acid attacks through the group called Acid Attack Fighters. Acid attacks are a particular hateful and misogynistic crime that still has strong currency in this part of the world (although a quick search on Google tells of incidents through North America and Europe also). The attacks are generally aimed at women and children and most often because a sexual advance or marriage proposal was denied or the marriage dowry was deemed unsatisfactory. I cannot imagine the physical pain that these acid attacks invoke; even more heart-rending is the emotional pain that endures afterward, when the victims bear the scars for life of the attacks perpetrated upon them.

But on this night, that gravitas is set aside. The drinks are refreshing, the conversation is lively, and the energy within the coffeehouse is kinetic as a host of locals and tourists pass through the doors. When it's time to leave, the cameras come out to capture our shared hour and a half in Agra. One of the girls enthusiastically clicks away with our three different cameras and also snaps shots from a friend's camera seated at the next table. The three acid survivors then join Marianella, Mary, and Anna for photos. The smiles are resplendent and without a shred of self-consciousness.

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Tuesday, 13 October. We are at the Agra Fort, the second most popular destination in Agra. As we approach, my energy for the fort is lukewarm-we had seen our fair share of forts already on this trip and how could anything top the splendor seen earlier this morning at the Taj Mahal? Fortunately we resisted the pull of returning to the hotel for breakfast and visited a fort that would fulfill any young boy's fantasy and sketchbook of what a fort should look like. Before entering, our guide points out the dry moat below, which was once patrolled by crocodiles and mentions that beyond the moat in the tall grasses were stationed lions and other predatory animals to ward off intruders. A massive wooden drawbridge allows visitors into the first ring of the fort, but then further access to the inner sanctum involves a somewhat steep ascent, designed as such that defenders of the fort could pour hot oil down the path to repel any invading forces. I ask once, twice, three times-was the Agra Fort ever invaded? The answer of "no" never changes, so my schoolboy imagination of clashes between medieval knights is subdued.

As we walk through the interior of Agra Fort, we can view the Taj Mahal through the stone carved windows, which seems further away than it actually is because of the hazy sky. Earlier this morning we were told the story of Shah Jahan's desire to build an identical Taj Mahal, this one made of black marble and across the river from the original he had created for his favorite wife, but that his son, realizing the exorbitant cost of such an endeavor, instead kept his father under "house arrest" at the Agra Fort for the last eight years of his life. For the time (the mid 1600's), it probably wasn't too oppressive of a sentence, but the image of an aging man gazing across the horizon towards the testament to his beloved does strike a melancholic romantic chord.
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Wednesday, 14th October. We are driving from Agra to Delhi on the expressway that opened three years ago, which reduced the travel time from roughly 8 hours to 4 hours between the two cities. What was gained in efficiency is replaced with quite boring terrain. Our steadfast driver Ajay, who throughout the week has nimbly maneuvered around cows, cars, camels, beggars, auto-rickshaws, goats, and through narrow alleys and bumpy roads, is at his most cautious driving the sparsely populated lanes, resistant to pushing up to the speed limit of 100 kph (62 mph), convinced that it will cause the tires on the car to shred. The flat and featureless drive reminds me of driving across Interstate 90 in western Minnesota towards South Dakota. We pass a family of four on a motorbike, the oldest child wedged between father and mother, the mother sitting side-saddle with the youngest child cradled in her arms while anchoring the seat. Hindu temples dot the landscape. Sugar cane, the current crop in rotation, is being harvested. Two women, one wearing a pink sari and the other a yellow sari, carry hand scythes as they cut weeds in the median. So, it's not exactly like that drive across western Minnesota.
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At the Sikh Temple, Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, in Delhi:

The traveling party:

Each day the Sikhs feed hundreds of people a free lunch, prepared entirely by volunteers:

Thursday, 15 October. We have arrived at the India Gate, which stands exactly 3.5 kilometers (slightly over two miles) on the boulevard from the presidential palace. A few comments on Trip Advisor stated that it was barely worth stopping for, with recommendations to take your photos from the car window. We don't follow that advice, but I figure it will be a quick stop. As we walk towards the gate, we are struck by the immensity of it; it stands to figure that this gate we saw when standing in front of the presidential palace was huge, but up close, it truly registers. We take a slew of photos, rotating around the sandstone structure, admiring the eternal flame that burns within for the soldiers it honors. As we move around the back of the Gate, we come upon a birthday party commencing, the father struggling to light the candles on the chocolate birthday cake for his seven year old son. Candles lit, "Happy Birthday" starts up-we join in, because, why not? The mother and aunts and the entire family widen their smiles while singing and arrange the circle so that we can be included in the serenade. The song ends, the boy is lovingly fed cake, pictures are taken, hands are shook, and chocolate cake is passed about. Four slices of the delicious cake are cut for the unanticipated interlopers and we depart wiping chocolate from our fingers and warm smiles of gratitude.

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Thursday, 15 October. We are heading to Gandhi's last home, where he was living when he was assassinated by an Indian nationalist. As we arrive, we see four or five buses parked at the entrance, and upon stepping out of the car we view a mix of colors from the various school uniforms and our ears are greeted to the din of several schoolchildren on a field trip. We enter into the house, where the cacophony increases, the children mixed in with other tourists, as we advance through the narrow hallways and into the rooms of the house which are plastered with pictures of Gandhi, poster boards with detailed writings on Gandhi's role in the building of the nation and his last twenty-four hours alive. We step into his spartan bedroom, which remains as is with his bed, bedroll, and a couple small tables. On the wall is displayed the handful of possessions Gandhi owned at his death, including his eyeglasses. We walk down a hallway and into a room with several dioramas spanning the timeline from India's move towards independence to the funeral pyre for Gandhi. We step out of this room into the heat of midday, processing all the information we can about this amazing man's life as we walk into the backyard where the noise from the home has entirely dissipated. The lawns are meticulously cut and as we arrive at the back of the estate, we follow custom and take our shoes off and feel the finely shorn grass massage our toes as we walk towards the pagoda that marks the spot where Gandhi was felled. Leading up to this spot are replicas of Gandhi's final footsteps, preserved in sandstone. We come across a group of schoolchildren once again, entirely quiet save for the soft flapping sound of the pamphlets they received at entry that they are using to fan themselves against the relentless sun. They number about twenty and they are listening to a tour guide explain to them in Hindi the final journey of Gandhi, shot by his assassin as he walked through a throng of admirers towards the spot where he said his daily prayers. When the tour guide finishes, he leads the students in a prayer, all hands folded and eyes closed as he offers reverence to the father of their nation. A schoolboy opens his eyes, gazes about, and notices all his peers remain with eyes closed, so he quickly follows suit. We put the camera away and absorb the quiet affection displayed for this man who was killed over sixty-five years ago.

Qutub Minar, Delhi's most popular destination, constructed in 1200:

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Tuesday, 13 October, 5:50 a.m. We woke at 4:30 a.m. and made our way out of the hotel at 5:30. Ajay dropped us off at the gate where only pedestrian traffic is allowed and we walk in the dark towards the entrance to the Taj Mahal with large fruit bats flying overhead, their flapping wings reminding me of the spooky cartoon bats that would open every Scooby Doo episode. Marianella and I are queued a line apart, split up for the gender specific pat-down which awaits us. She is three people ahead of me in her line, too far away to engage in a conversation. I look at the back of her head as the dawn rapidly breaks, providing more light by the moment. I am tired, but anticipatory. I stare at Marianella's head, sense her anticipation, the realization of a dream she had long before I arrived in her life, the lighthearted parries we would have about visiting Taj Mahal back when we were first getting to know one another, when we were advancing towards falling in love with each other. I think of that span of time, less than a decade, where we have come, literally and figuratively. A life I never imagined nor dreamt. My eyes water-for the Taj Mahal and for us.
Taj Mahal at daybreak: