Understand up front that I’m not going to fudge on my resolution to avoid adjectives to describe the Taj Mahal. But the photos in the mini-album embedded in this post deserve explaining. At times I may need a “word that describes a quality of a thing” to clarify what’s in those pix. Sometimes I’ll need to modify something in the experience, other than the building itself.
The genius and artistry of the Taj Mahal is not limited to placement, form and scale. The masterful exploitation of light, within and without the tomb, raises the site to a level not seen, before or since, anywhere in the world.
I was the first person at the ticket window when it opened at 6am. Once inside the gate I lingered briefly along the pathway to the portal that frames the Taj Mahal itself. I wanted a little more light before I encountered the view.
Birds in the trees that lined the tiled path were warbling musically to each other. The air was calm. The heat of the day had not yet intruded. A fountain splashed water on the flowers at its base.
As I passed through the portal, I saw a couple who had preceded me by a few minutes. They were on the raised marble platform that is halfway between the portal and the still higher platform of the Taj itself.
There was not one person between them and the monument.
For that moment, and forever thereafter too, they owned the Taj Mahal. Click on the photo below to see what I saw.
The sun was still ten minutes below the horizon of trees to the right. But there was enough light to capture the scene. Click on it to see the full-sized view from which it is cropped.
After the crowds behind us had pressed forward to the monument, after the intimacy of the moment was gone, I spoke with them. They are from Chicago’s North Shore. They were celebrating a wedding anniversary that I might have been marking with someone had things gone differently.
Yes, I envied them. They have seen a Taj Mahal I will never see.
After a nap, a great hot shower, fresh clothes and an excellent sandwich in the garden of the amzingly cheap and cheerfully green garden of the Guest House, I climbed into the back of a three-wheeler and roared off to see the Taj Mahal before it closed at 6pm.
The authorities have wisely banned motor vehicle traffic at a point some 200 or so yards short of the western gate to the grounds. This not only cuts down on the air pollution and motor noise, but it requires that tourists walk the narrow street lined with souvenier shops and food stands, and even a few guest houses whose rooftop patios promise special views above the wall.
I’m not going to try to describe the Taj Mahal. To do so is impossible. Far better writers than me have said so.
Confronted with it at dawn, and then at sunset, and again in the moonlight, Mark Twain declined to describe the monument except in an oblique way. The handful of pages he devotes to the Taj Mahal include the most candid passages he ever wrote about the limits of his skills.
Last night at twilight, as I was standing on the balcony of my hotel room, high above the broad sweep of the Ganges River, temple bells were tolling and puffs of the late freshening breeze carried small gusts of distant chanting. (Now tell me, honestly, could there ever be a more promising start to a story than that?)
The wide balconies of the Scindhia are the very definition of what American southerners call “a catbird seat,” the perfect spot where one sits just high enough to be un-noticed from below and just enough to the side that you can see faces, not merely the tops of heads. Life on the path and plaza and nearby temples and schools flows as steadily as the river itself.
Directly below to the left, stairs lead down from the heights and continue right on into the river. Next to them is a patch of land that is literally covered in cow dung. When I say literally, I mean literally.
There is an unstructured dung pile that is constantly added to by collecting the dropping of some huge beasts that wander the plaza and nimbly clunk up and down the broad steps. Next to the pile there are rows and rows and rows of carefully shaped and hand-decorated cow-patties, laid out to dry. When dry enough to be sold as fuel, they are as hard as a rock and will burn like a lump of charcoal.
A double decked rowboat – something I have never known to exist – passes up river, powered by one man. A dozen or so men on the upper deck, unshaded from the blistering sun, are happily chanting and and clapping to a complex beat.
On the far shore, a bleak flood plain stretches without shade or mercy for miles in each direction. The group you see in the photo remained there, uncovered to the fire of the day, from late morning until shortly before sundown.
Over the course of my days in Varanasi I learned there are other places to stay along the river. Some of them will appear high up and in the background of photos taken during the Dawn on the Ganges below. But, as the photos here and in other posts demonstrate, none have the broad, open-air balconies that give virtually every Scindhia room these awesome vistas. Click on photos to expand them.
For example, look at the range, down and across the Ganges. These are the views directly outside the door to my room.
The hotel layout offers one long, common balcony on each of the five levels. As you can see other guests also think them an excellent vantage point.
The double-ended rowboats are used in the dawn and dusk rowing tours along the ghats. I’ve scheduled that tour for the morning. Strangely, the hotel books the 5:00am tour, but doesn’t offer a wakeup service. I’ll depend on the help of another guest who has an alarm clock (A German, of course; they and the English are the keeprs of apointments.)
At the moment, 9am on my first morning, I’ve had a hot shower, clean, dry clothes and I’m revived. I’m late for breakfast in the common room. But first, a few more photos of this scene from another world . . .
As I was taking my final shots of this first morning, a lovely young woman from the next room appeared on the shared balcony. She was taking her last look before checking out. She’s Mexican, obviously from a privileged family, on a six-month tour of the world. We chatted in Spanish.
Once again, I silently thanked my patient and persistent high-school Latin teachers who told me that someday I would be glad I had studied the key to most European languages. Decades later I found Spanish needed only just a slight adjustment in vocabulary.