Twenty thousand workers over 17 years hauled materials from all over Asia to build the Taj Mahal, a porcelain white memorial to Shah Jahan’s favorite wife in 1653. (There’s no mention of what he built for his other wives.)
But the Taj isn’t as white as it used to be. The marble walls are stained yellow. Pigeon shit stains the temple gemstones. The outer gardens are laced with weeds. The ornamental pools are dry, despite water being a fixture of Islamic Mughal architecture.
There’s so much hype surrounding the Taj Mahal, considered one of the world’s most beautiful buildings, that I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed by the shabbiness. Also frustrating: Indian men kept oggling at Claire and asking her to pose with them for photos.
The Taj has a cameo in the new movie Slumdog Millionaire, when beggar children steal the sneakers of foreigners who have removed their shoes to enter the domed temple. Because of seeing that movie, I chose to leave my shoes on.
Despite the dirt, poverty, and thousands of tourists swarming the site, pockets of serenity around the Taj Mahal could still spark feelings of peace and grandeur.
After getting our fill of the Taj in the town of Agra, we rode north by train to New Delhi. Polluted, crowded, with poor roads and a disappointing National Museum (though supposedly one of the country’s best), New Delhi was not the capital I had expected.
The comedian Dennis Miller rags on India, saying countries that look like the site of a nuclear attack should be spending their time improving their country, not developing nuclear power. Seeing Delhi, I finally got the joke.
New Delhi’s upscale shopping district, Connaught Place, was a circular mall of imperial-design. But aside from a few fancy air-conditioned restaurants and designer stores, the area was dominated by cheap shops selling knick-knacks and knock-off labels. And this was the fanciest area of the capital.
Almost everywhere in Delhi, a chaotic chorus of rickshaws and motorbikes rattles between the narrow streets alongside peddlers and aggressive hawkers.
Maybe my impression was tainted because Claire and I were both battling a nasty stomach bacteria, and also because we stayed in the seedy backpacker’s district of Paharganj. A thick layer of dust, hustlers, and aggressive tour agents hung over the streets.
One of the more peaceful respites in Delhi was the somber Ghandi Smriti museum, which is built around the site of Mahatma Ghandi’s assassination. Like many attorneys, Ghandi had his shtick, wearing only home-woven loincloth even when he visited cold and rainy London, but you’ve got to love this toothless champion of the poor.
At the museum, I followed Ghandi’s footsteps to the place where a fellow Hindi Indian shot him at point blank (because Ghandi felt Muslims along with Hindus deserved political representation and equal rights).
