Agra-vated Glory

We spent our last day in Puri watching a beach soccer tournament, which seemed very odd here in the East. Sure enough, the evidence that people here hold melanin-challenged humans in high esteem walked up and slapped me in the face. Or rather, it walked up and asked me if I'd like to answer a few questions for Calcutta Z-Sports television program. If you happen to be among one of the area's 13 million viewers, tune in and see my answer to: "What would your reaction be if we asked you to form a team for next year?"

38 hours on a train may seem like bliss, but it's not. I'll tell you right now, it's really really not. Samosas, curried potatoes, puris - they're all fantastic the first day you arrive in India. On day 14 they're to be treated as one would treat furry colorful caterpillars that look like they have eyes at both ends and a forest of porcupine needles growing out of their backs. The stuff becomes downright repulsive...and it's all they sell on the infernal trains.

Nevertheless, the seemingly endless whose pain and agony I blatantly hyperbolize eventually do end, and the travelers eventually emerge onto the final railway platform of the journey. And all the while in the autorickshaw that pulls us to our hotel, I think of the trivial question asked of me in the restaurant last winter with the intention of settling a bet. Next time someone says "What's special about Agra?"...well...

As you walk through the outer gate you can't believe you're really here - this isn't one of the seven wonders, it is THE wonder, and here I am just strolling on up to it like I deserve to be here or something. In the meantime, the marble magic towers at the end of its fountain pools, beckoning its beauty toward the sky in celebration of love.

There truly is no way to do the monument justice - you've seen the pictures, read the accounts, heard the stories, loved the tale. But when you walk right up to the Taj Mahal and rub your fingers on the precious stones inlaid in the marble; and as you walk through its massive arched doorways to gaze upon the elaborate tombs of the lovers past, you are stuck in a moment of exhilaration. You walk back out to the pools to get a view again from far away, only to immediately be beckoned closer again, and farther, and closer - as though somehow you'll find the gateway and dive in and become a part of the mysterious perfection. You pace around the perimeter to see more more more more of the massive structure, and eventually give up. Accept that this architectural wonder is beyond hype, beyond the sum of those who made it (and had their limbs removed so they could never replicate such a work), and beyond your attempt to understand the essence of the being.

So you retire to the lawn and sit in silent awe; then further back you go to your hotel's rooftop where you watch the night engulf the gleaming white stones. You lift a glass to each other while saying for the eight millionth time today, "I can't believe we're looking at the Taj Mahal."