From the first moment that Ami stepped through the gate after paying the exorbitant fee—$20 for Americans and 20rupees for everyone else—she was stunned by the looming figure. It crept up on her, which she didn’t expect, coming away from the entry, up a walkway between two red walls, and then suddenly the Taj and its gardens were right there in front of her, the lovely property extending out in all directions with the white palace centered just beyond the rows of reflecting pools.
It was exactly what she’d expected, and then nothing like it. Dev had persuaded her to go, to spend the money for a ticket. “Visiting India, you must see Taj Mahal,” he’d explained, as if there really was no other option.
She’d argued that it couldn’t look any different than all the National Geographic spreads, that she could just purchase a post card booklet and call it a day, but he’d insisted, driving her to the gate.
“Inside, you are not needing a guide,” he told her. “Only looking, walking around. Only going inside to see the tomb of the queen.”
And then he’d told her the story of Shah Jahan who’d built the monument for his wife, Mumtaz Mahal; how he’d loved her so deeply that when she died in childbirth, his hair turned grey overnight. His one goal was to enshrine her in a tomb worthy of their love. However, Shah Jahan was soft hearted only in regard to his dead wife, and after the workers finished the marble mausoleum more than twenty years later, finished inlaying the walls with fleur de lis of semi-precious stones, finished polishing the rock to a smooth gleam, he’d ordered some of their hands mutilated or chopped completely off so they could never duplicate the work of art. And then, as karma would have it, Shah Jahan was overthrown just three years after the Taj was completed and imprisoned in the Red Fort.
It is said, Dev explained, that the emperor wished to have his own tomb build just across the river from his wife’s grave. His was to be a duplicate of the Taj, but crafted from black marble. It was never to be, though, and the fallen monarch lived out his days gazing at the monument he’d built from his room in the fort. He, too, was interred in the Taj Mahal; buried by the same man who’d toppled him from power.
So, of course, the romance was what convinced Ami. To walk into a testament of such love; to see it with her own eyes.
She’d left the Ambassador and crossed the street, running the gauntlet of beggars waiting by the entry gate. A man crippled by clubfoot, his leg withered and the extremities twisted into a cruel knot onto which he’d tied a rubber sandal to protect him as he limped through town, supported by a crutch.
Ami handed him ten rupees, and then ten, as well, to a boy who crouched in the dust, both of his feet swollen to comical proportions with elephantiasis. Neither looked up to see where the small bit of money came from. They both continued to gaze into the unseeable distance, crouched in wait.
But inside was different. Not altogether free from the hubbub of the outside world, but somehow calmer, slower moving. Well-dressed families strolled around the grounds. Other picnicked in groups, opening the multi-level metal lunch boxes to reveal feasts of curry and naan.
Ami wanted to sit, too. She wanted to see familiar faces and be invited to join them on a blanket, soaking up the winter sunlight, enjoying lunch while gazing at the wonderful contours of the celebrated tomb. But there was no one to recognize, no one to call out to.
Some did call to her, though. As she passed one of the reflecting pools a young couple—he in western clothing and she in a sari—asked her to snap their photo with the Taj at their backs. And then the husband took a shot of his dainty wife posing stiffly next to the gangly American.
Again, at the promenade around the building, clusters of Indian tourists beckoned Ami into their photos. She wondered how many scrap books and family albums she’d appear in, the random white girl in wrinkled clothing. She smoothed her ponytail, hoped pointlessly that she looked alright.
Dev thought of calling his mother—it had been a long time since he’d visited and there he was Uttar Pradesh, farther than his mother had ever traveled. But she had no telephone at her house—saw no use in the noisy things. If he needed to relay a message, he had to call her neighbors and hope that their lazy teenaged daughter would walk across the street and tell Mrs. Marugan her son’s news. But there was no reason to disturb anyone to say… to say what? That he was working? That he was standing outside the Taj Mahal, where he’d been a thousand times? No, there was no sense in that.
He went to a tea stall instead and sat on the crude bench with a group of men. A couple of them were old enough to be his father, and to them he offered a nod of deference. The others were his age at best, entry-level business men dressed in ill-fitting suits with badly tied neck ties. Dev looked at them and thought of his boss in Delhi, of the man’s wavy, slick-backed hair and crisp white shirts.
And then his mind wandered and he wondered, as he sipped at a scalding glass of chai, whether Ami would prefer a business man and if he were to move to the US, would he wind up working in some office? No, he doubted that. He hadn’t any education past high school, though he read books and magazines when time allowed. He wasn’t interested much in news and politics. He left his fate in the hands of Ganesh, prayed diligently that the elephant-headed god of luck would protect him on the road.
No, if he were to live in the US, he’d no doubt be a taxi driver. He was a shoe-in for that profession, though he wasn’t sure he’d like it. His mother’s village was full of stories of prodigal sons giving it a go as cabbies in New York City. The terrible long hours, the angry, drawn-faced people, the stress.
Then again, his job in India came with plenty of stress. He’d certainly thought, plenty of times, that he should just give New York City a go. Surely he had a distant cousin already there, someone who would let him stay at their apartment, put in a good word for him at a taxi company. What kept him from making the move wasn’t that he was daunted by the idea of menial work or difficulties—it was that he dreaded the mind-crushing loneliness of it.
India was lonely enough. But the thought of being in a strange country without even his friends to meet and talk to—he couldn’t bare it.
And still, there he was at a chai stall, imagining Ami viewing the Taj for the first time, and considering himself in her country, seeing the place with new eyes.
Philadelphia. He liked the complex name, the softness of it. Sounded like some minor Goddess, one worshipped by a remote village. Goddess of mixed marriages and low-end jobs. He smiled to himself. There really was no job not worth doing—it was all karma yoga. He didn’t mind being a driver, didn’t think maneuvering a taxi through a foreign city would be beneath him. He would climb into his cab each day with a sense of pride, lightly touching his figurine of Ganesh affixed to the dash.
The problem was, would Ami see it that way? Would she want a cab driver boyfriend? And really, what could he offer her? Free rides to work? She probably owned her own car. No, chances were that a woman like Ami would want to meet an executive, someone with years of college under his belt and flawless English. Someone with expensive after shave, impeccable clothing, and tight, shiny shoes.
Dev downed the rest of his tea and tossed a few coins onto the upturned box that serves as a counter. He took a deep breath, let it out, and attempted to sweep the clutter of thoughts from his mind.
image from www.traveljournals.net
Ami was surprised to find Dev waiting for her at the gate when she was finished viewing the Taj. She’d expected him to be with the Ambassador in a shady spot across the street, but instead he was standing near the entry way, his brow furrowed.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He looked confused.
“I mean, am I late?”
“No, not late. Time is no problem.” He shoved the dry ground with his toe.
“You are liking South Indian food, yes?”
She nodded.
He seemed relieved. “Then I am taking you to very nice place for lunch.” He gestured and a wizened old man peddled up on a bicycle rickshaw.
“Are we really riding in this?” Ami surveyed the scene—the antiquated rickshaw, the driver wheezing, his thin legs shaking as he stretched them.
“Yes. For something different. I am leaving the Ambassador with my good-friend.” Dev pointed vaguely toward the lot across the street where a couple of scrawny, disheveled teenagers hung around the parked vehicles. She could easily imagine Dev returning to find his car stripped, graffiti scrawled across the black paint, but she didn’t argue.
Dev helped her into the rickshaw and she perched uncomfortably on the slippery vinyl seat, which was tilted—inexplicably—forward. Dev then climbed in beside her, seemingly unbothered by the seat, and leaned forward to exchange a few words with the driver.
The driver bobbled his head, spat to the side, and pushed off, using every muscle in his thin body to propel the contraption into traffic. But soon they were moving, cruising along at a decent clip, and Ami relaxed a bit, letting the wind toss her hair.
The restaurant Dev had chosen was away from the center of town on a particularly deserted stretch of road, but despite the inconvenient location (as indicated by the gasping rickshaw wallah), the place was crowded. The inside wasn’t fancy, though uncharacteristically clean and tidy. Neat tables were arranged as close together as possible, and white-shirted waiters squeezed up and down the narrow aisles carrying plates of steaming dosas.
“I can’t even read this menu,” Ami announced, holding the piece of paper away from her face.
“But the writing is in English.”
“I can see that, but I haven’t a clue what any of it means.”
“Then I am ordering for you?” Dev sounded tentative.
She agreed quickly. “Whatever you think is best. You have my full trust.”
The driver spent the next few minutes in deep concentration and looked up from the menu only when the waiter arrived with glasses of water.
Ami gazed longingly at the clear liquid, her throat feeling sandy with the proximity. But she requested bottled water and tried to ignore her thirst while Dev went about ordering.
Masala dosa, paper dosa, idly sambar. Ami liked the way the exotic words rolled off his tongue. She liked sitting across from him in the restaurant, conversing over nothing in particular. Her impressions of the Taj. His memories of seeing it for the first time, as a driver, wanting to know what it was the tourists were seeing. “I was like you before,” he said, leaning toward her. “Thinking Taj is only like post card. But now you are knowing why this is so important.”
She couldn’t help but agree, the magnificence of the tomb still with her.
“Most romantic story, too,” Dev continued. “India is full of the love story. You will see.”
She wanted to ask what he meant, but their food arrived, the dosas so large they hung off the plate on both ends. And then Dev was busy with showing her how to dip bits of rice idly into the spicy sambar soup and how to break off pieces of dosa with her right hand, folding the curried filling into the crisp graham shell.
They finished the meal with cups of chai, sweet and milky, and then sat in awkward silence when the bill arrived.
“Let me treat you,” Ami announced, fishing for her money. “This has been such a nice meal…”
“No, I am buying,” Dev said abruptly, sliding the check from her fingers and walking toward the maitre de.
Ami wasn’t quite sure what to do. She hated to think of him spending his hard-earned wages to feed her, but she was also touched by the gesture. It was the first time they’d acted like a couple having a date. She left a few notes as a tip, wondering if that was the right thing to do, and then went to meet Dev at the front door.
When they walked back outside, into the day, their rickshaw was waiting for them.
“My God, it’s been well over an hour,” Ami cried. The poor old man had probably thought it more prudent to wait on a sure thing than peddle all the way back to town on his own dime.
The pair climbed back onto the slanted seat, Dev offering the man some directions, and then they were off again—starting slow and slowly building momentum until the rickshaw was bumping steadily along, pointed back toward Agra proper.
image from www.traveladventures.org
For awhile they’re free, sweeping through the afternoon, splintering sunlight with their exhilaration, their uncontainable joy. For awhile they forget themselves and fall fully into the moment, the day almost not wide enough to catch them.
The air is warm with a crisp breeze, still pure and sweet, not yet tainted by the heat that pulls the smog close to the earth. They float, at ease in their bodies, his arm draped lightly across her shoulders, her head resting into him. He leans down, says something low in her ear. It doesn’t matter what he says—a joke, an observation—she responds to the sound of his voice, laughs warmly.
They generate warmth between them, hips pressed together in the narrow rickshaw seat. She’ll remember it later—red with brass tacks all along the edge. The vehicle itself painted long ago in once-grand hues of black, green, gold and blue.
The little rickshaw man, scrawny and racked with emphysema, carries them through the city. They race to nowhere in particular, born by the strength of their happiness. There’s no way, she’ll recall, that his skinny calves could have taken them so far into the day. But somehow it happened that way and they rode as if the destination would never arrive, as if time stood still as there was only the cloudless sky, the river of traffic, their bodies touching, jostled together, creating imperceptible sparks from the friction.
image from www.travelindiasmart.com
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