Agra (7/11/12-7/14/12)
We were to be at the train station early again for our train's departure to Agra at 6 AM. We asked the guard at the Buddhist centre to do us a favor and knock on our door in the morning at 5 AM as, again, we have no clock. But as a back-up plan, we drank plenty of water before bed in the hopes our bodies would just wake up themselves. This worked well, except my body decided to wake up at 3 AM. So I thought, "Well, what do I do now?"
On the train, there were a group of people seated adjacent to us who were particularly interested by us. Being white in India is what I am imagine it is like for a movie star: people think you are important. They get giddy and awkward and often ask to take a picture with you. It is a bizarre phenomenon (and inflation of the ego).
The one guy in the group was the only one whose English was proficient, as so he was cockily showing off to his friends by conversing with us. He told us he was going to find us in the next city were were headed by using a telescope. When he got off the train he said to me, "You thirsty? Do you want me to drink you?" Perplexed, I said, "No thanks." He said, "No...it would be my pleasure to drink you." I cannot say anybody has ever offered to drink me before; not sure whether I should be honored or concerned. For my own amusement though, I joked, "We just met, let's take it slow." He didn't get the joke.
We arrived in Agra to the home of the Muslim family we were staying with at night-time, just in time to have a wash and a late dinner; a proper way to unwind after an Indian Railways experience. Beforehand, Agra was the city I looked forward to lease. Being situated nearby Delhi, I expected it to be a miserably hot and crowded city. To my surprise, Agra only has a small fraction of the amount of people Delhi does, it was not too unbearably hot because the rains had cooled the area off, and there was actually a lot of greenery. Agra had quickly become one of my most enjoyable experiences thus far, in large part due to the fact I had gotten along quite well with the Muslim family I stayed with. They were lovely.
In the morning, Matt and I walked to the Taj Mahal; an experience I did not initially plan on having before arriving to India. I am glad I gave in to my inner-tourist, though, because the Taj Mahal is a timeless piece of beauty which certainly does not disappoint.
Islamic geometric art is profound and magical. There is something about perfect symmetry which relaxes the mind; it is like the perfect uniformity allows the mind to temporarily rest and turn off from its constant decodings, discursive motor reasoning, and confabulations. Even the minutest details of the Taj Maha-- ones smaller than the size of your fingernail-- are in perfect symmetry. It is relaxing.
But even more than the obvious external beauty of the architecture and design of the Taj Mahal is the silent beauty which is emanated from the very experience of being there. I walked around the perimeter reading a book of poetry by Rumi, and thought about how this monument has been standing for nearly 400 years. Having been created by a man in memory of his beloved wife who passed away while giving birth to their 14th child, I thought about the force which drove this man to have a monument built for his wife. A force of love and perhaps fear too. Transience and mortality freak us out. We want to have something left behind in memory of the lives which we've led.
I sat by the river Yamuna in silent observation of the Taj Mahal and continued reading Rumi, and I was reminded of his one poem entitled "Story Water." It goes like this:
"A story is like water that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire and your skin.
It lets them meet, and it cleans you!
Very few can sit down in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham.
We need intermediaries.
A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread to bring it.
Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it.
The body itself is a screen to shield and
partially reveal the light that's blazing inside your presence.
Water, stories, the body, all the things we do,
are mediums that hide and show what's hidden.
Study them, and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know and then not."
Rumi had it down to a science, and this was some several hundred years ago. Beauty surrounds us everywhere, but usually we need to "be in a garden" or perhaps beside the Taj Mahal to recognize it.
When I was walking around Agra before I even entered the Taj Mahal gates, there was a tour guide trying to sell me a tour of the Taj Mahal for 1000 rupees. He was so persistent in selling me a tour that he was even willing to "cut me a deal" and give me the non-white people price: 500 rupees. Uninterested, I denied him. I think he was shocked I did not want a tour, and he said in full seriousness, "But ma'am, how will you understand?"
How will I understand? I think I will have an experience and understand that quite well to be my own experience. I do not need to be told what to look at, told how to feel, or told what are the most important aspects of the monument. I wonder if the busy-bodies getting tours and taking pictures ever stopped to notice how musical the monument can be; that if you stand in the mosque and tell a secret through the wall, someone on the other side of the room can hear it by pressing their ear to the wall. When Matt and I discovered this, we were absolutely amazed. You can hear one another perfectly through the wall, but not in the room. What a great way to tell secrets.
Later that day I returned to the home I was staying at for dinner. A massive rainstorm came through, which we each took solace in because boy has it been HOT in India. The father of the family seemed so happy it was raining; he took me to the rooftop of the home overlooking the city of Agra, and he gave me a giant hug with a huge smile on his face. For no reason at all. It was such a kind and hearty gesture that I nearly forgot I was standing in the monsoon rains on the top of the roof.
Overall, my stay in Agra was peaceful and wholesome. I loved sitting on the rooftop listening to the Muslim call for prayer. It is beautiful. I was bummed to be leaving the family after a quick, short few days, and we all exchanged hugs in goodbye. Their motto was "Come as a tourist. Stay as a family. Leave as a friend."
That sums it up nicely.
We were to be at the train station early again for our train's departure to Agra at 6 AM. We asked the guard at the Buddhist centre to do us a favor and knock on our door in the morning at 5 AM as, again, we have no clock. But as a back-up plan, we drank plenty of water before bed in the hopes our bodies would just wake up themselves. This worked well, except my body decided to wake up at 3 AM. So I thought, "Well, what do I do now?"
On the train, there were a group of people seated adjacent to us who were particularly interested by us. Being white in India is what I am imagine it is like for a movie star: people think you are important. They get giddy and awkward and often ask to take a picture with you. It is a bizarre phenomenon (and inflation of the ego).
The one guy in the group was the only one whose English was proficient, as so he was cockily showing off to his friends by conversing with us. He told us he was going to find us in the next city were were headed by using a telescope. When he got off the train he said to me, "You thirsty? Do you want me to drink you?" Perplexed, I said, "No thanks." He said, "No...it would be my pleasure to drink you." I cannot say anybody has ever offered to drink me before; not sure whether I should be honored or concerned. For my own amusement though, I joked, "We just met, let's take it slow." He didn't get the joke.
We arrived in Agra to the home of the Muslim family we were staying with at night-time, just in time to have a wash and a late dinner; a proper way to unwind after an Indian Railways experience. Beforehand, Agra was the city I looked forward to lease. Being situated nearby Delhi, I expected it to be a miserably hot and crowded city. To my surprise, Agra only has a small fraction of the amount of people Delhi does, it was not too unbearably hot because the rains had cooled the area off, and there was actually a lot of greenery. Agra had quickly become one of my most enjoyable experiences thus far, in large part due to the fact I had gotten along quite well with the Muslim family I stayed with. They were lovely.
In the morning, Matt and I walked to the Taj Mahal; an experience I did not initially plan on having before arriving to India. I am glad I gave in to my inner-tourist, though, because the Taj Mahal is a timeless piece of beauty which certainly does not disappoint.
Islamic geometric art is profound and magical. There is something about perfect symmetry which relaxes the mind; it is like the perfect uniformity allows the mind to temporarily rest and turn off from its constant decodings, discursive motor reasoning, and confabulations. Even the minutest details of the Taj Maha-- ones smaller than the size of your fingernail-- are in perfect symmetry. It is relaxing.
But even more than the obvious external beauty of the architecture and design of the Taj Mahal is the silent beauty which is emanated from the very experience of being there. I walked around the perimeter reading a book of poetry by Rumi, and thought about how this monument has been standing for nearly 400 years. Having been created by a man in memory of his beloved wife who passed away while giving birth to their 14th child, I thought about the force which drove this man to have a monument built for his wife. A force of love and perhaps fear too. Transience and mortality freak us out. We want to have something left behind in memory of the lives which we've led.
I sat by the river Yamuna in silent observation of the Taj Mahal and continued reading Rumi, and I was reminded of his one poem entitled "Story Water." It goes like this:
"A story is like water that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire and your skin.
It lets them meet, and it cleans you!
Very few can sit down in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham.
We need intermediaries.
A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread to bring it.
Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it.
The body itself is a screen to shield and
partially reveal the light that's blazing inside your presence.
Water, stories, the body, all the things we do,
are mediums that hide and show what's hidden.
Study them, and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know and then not."
Rumi had it down to a science, and this was some several hundred years ago. Beauty surrounds us everywhere, but usually we need to "be in a garden" or perhaps beside the Taj Mahal to recognize it.
When I was walking around Agra before I even entered the Taj Mahal gates, there was a tour guide trying to sell me a tour of the Taj Mahal for 1000 rupees. He was so persistent in selling me a tour that he was even willing to "cut me a deal" and give me the non-white people price: 500 rupees. Uninterested, I denied him. I think he was shocked I did not want a tour, and he said in full seriousness, "But ma'am, how will you understand?"
How will I understand? I think I will have an experience and understand that quite well to be my own experience. I do not need to be told what to look at, told how to feel, or told what are the most important aspects of the monument. I wonder if the busy-bodies getting tours and taking pictures ever stopped to notice how musical the monument can be; that if you stand in the mosque and tell a secret through the wall, someone on the other side of the room can hear it by pressing their ear to the wall. When Matt and I discovered this, we were absolutely amazed. You can hear one another perfectly through the wall, but not in the room. What a great way to tell secrets.
Later that day I returned to the home I was staying at for dinner. A massive rainstorm came through, which we each took solace in because boy has it been HOT in India. The father of the family seemed so happy it was raining; he took me to the rooftop of the home overlooking the city of Agra, and he gave me a giant hug with a huge smile on his face. For no reason at all. It was such a kind and hearty gesture that I nearly forgot I was standing in the monsoon rains on the top of the roof.
Overall, my stay in Agra was peaceful and wholesome. I loved sitting on the rooftop listening to the Muslim call for prayer. It is beautiful. I was bummed to be leaving the family after a quick, short few days, and we all exchanged hugs in goodbye. Their motto was "Come as a tourist. Stay as a family. Leave as a friend."
That sums it up nicely.
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