The Taj Mahal

I didn’t want to go to Agra. It was out of the way and expensive to get to. I only went because deep down I needed proof that romance could ruin empires. In the 16th century, Emperor Shah Jahan nearly bankrupted the Mughal kingdom by constructing the Taj Mahal in honor of his favorite dead wife. He became so obsessed with the construction his son overthrew him and locked him high in a tower with one window facing his beloved monument. I've done some pretty stupid things in the name of love and its cost me too. I guess I wanted to verify that some people in this world are even dumber than I am when it comes to love. So I went. I wore my favorite “A lot of art is boring” t-shirt, but I went nonetheless.

Agra was awful. It confirmed all of my worst suspicions. The touts were relentless, the city was filthy, lodging was expensive, the air was thick and hotter than exhaust… in fact, Agra is every one of India’s worst stereotypes come to life in one place. I was in a terrible mood when we finally reached the entrance gate, then I saw the price. 750 Rupees! On our budget that equalled two weeks travel in India. We had a serious decision to make: either see the Taj or spend another two weeks traveling. Looking around at the army of mopes trying to force Taj postcards up the ass of every tourist in sight, we decided the last thing we wanted to do was extend our stay. So we paid up, donned our requisite surgical scrub shoes and entered.

I was pretty bitter by the time we came through the last arch and into the gardens. I felt violated by the extravagant price tag, not to mention all the postcards aimed up my ass. I was in no mood to enjoy the Taj Mahal. I'd embraced my bitterness and I wanted to keep it. I wanted to say, “The Taj? Eh, it’s just like the postcards... sorry about the smell,” but even my Irish-bred stubbroness was no match for the beauty of the Taj Mahal. To walk through the gardens and gaze upon the angelic white monument is to walk through every one of Sheherazade's thousand tales. Nothing I've ever seen, from the pyramids at Giza to palace at Versailles, prepared me for its arresting magnificence. Anyone who writes this place off is an idiot. I came very close to being an idiot myself, but that’s nothing new. I guess the real arresting fact is that I didn’t pull it off.

Picture glowingly manicured lawns, laughing fountains, blue sky, and a massive white marble monument surrounded on three sides by an honor guard of thick red monuments whose proximity to the Taj will forever thwart any honest recognition of their own splendor. The only thing that detracted from my ethereal experience was, on the inside, the Taj Mahal smelled overpoweringly like feet; thousands of year old feet to be precise. So don’t spend too much time inside, unless of course you enjoy the smell of ancient feet, in which case linger by all means.

As the sun sets the Taj grows more beautiful by the minute until its magnificence strikes dumb all of the tourists yapping and snapping photos and only the muted drumbeat of hundreds of awed hearts echoes in the twilight. As the final rays light slip from its face, the monument fades into darkness like a dream upon waking, to be reborn in equal splendor in the coming dawn.