The Writer is Out There.

I’m half way through re-writing/ writing a proper update, only I’ve been doing it out of chronological order, so you’d go insane trying to read it if I posted. Next Saturday, for sure. Today 3/4 of the pictures are up, though, so at least you have something to see.

x

Arrival: There’s something magical about our arrival in
Agra. Something festive. It’s like stepping off the Hogwarts express (with all the burping, farting and boob-oggling you’d expect from rampant Wizard –teens) straight into some strange morph of Diagon Alley.

 

As white breath-trails lighten the black night air, everyone – station guards, food vendors and travellers – waits wrapped in woollen cloaks or rugs, bobble hats and scarves. An occasional western jacket makes a show, but everyone I see in one glances half enviously at their rugged-up counterparts, as though, perhaps, looking trendy just shifted down the list of priorities as they stepped out into the cold. Some huddle together, some vigorously stamp their feet and rub hands together beneath folds of cloth. Some crouch low and try to wrap sandaled feet in blanket ends.

 

Steam rises with attractive scents of freshly fried hot pastries, coffee/ chai urns, and peanut-roasting carts, making my mouth water.

 

There’s a fantastical air about night-time travel; something warm and exciting about having someplace to go when you’re out in the cold, passing endless welcoming-lighted windows/ stores, montages clearly put on just for you, and passed by in an instant. It’s the same thing early in the morning, when you rise before the sun, let alone the saner members of the species; up with those who se hardships are more than you could ever guess. You’re half-frozen, and in your semi-conscious state your head pounds from interrupted rest. But it’s worth it for that buzz of purpose. Incidently, the whole of
Agra smells like woodsmoke, or maybe roasting chestnuts. And it’s always stronger in the darker hours.

 

Food: There was a strange contrast of foods in
Agra. First, let me tell you of the phenomenom that is Kashmiri Biriyani. On your plate sits a vegetable biriyani (a drier breed than your
UK takeaway variety). There are small chunks of potato, baby carrots and peas nestled in the spiced, salted fried rice. On top of this are slices of uncooked tomato and banana, sprinkled liberally with dessicated coconut, their coolness combating as much as rgeir sweetness with the rice. It was very, very odd, but very, very good. And the hot fresh lemon was a beautiful thing.

 

Then there was the fish curry at the Rainbow Restaurant, about which I was awfully excited. It was a beautifully decked out rooftop place, almost Grecian with their blue tiles and floor cushions/ low tables. And having lived as I have for 2 months in a strictly vegetarian establishment, I was craving something more. Somehow I had visions of a culinary creation akin to those wonderful fish curries of
Malaysia.

 

Sadly, as is often the case it seems, this upmarket, rather pricy (by Indian standards) place let me down.

 

My hopes fell as the waiter delivered my dish, with the patronisingly understanding statement “we have made it mild for you madame. It is very mild.”

 

Shit. The fragile white girl can’t handle your manly Indian curries, is that it?

 

‘Mild’ was one way to put it. The watery ‘creamy’ sauce had a vaguely, unhealthy fish flavour, but nothing more, at all, and the fish flakes were mushy, locked onto harsh, thich, sharpened bones. Miserable.

 

Finally, I feel I must mention the coffee which thawed us out after an early morning trip to the Taj. In a tiny back-alley, a hole-in-the-wall café advertises coffee, so we gratefully stop.

“you want it strong, or not strong?” the owner asks.

“Strong.” We chorus in unison.

 

For 15 minutes, we sit in this 5-sided concrete cube, on garden chairs, as the man stands over a gas ring, built into the counter next to the till. Warm coffee scents bubble over towards us.

 

When finally our beverages appeared – a welcome sight for my thus-far-deprived caffeine addict self – they were not as we expected. Rather than the gut-wrenching electric jolt of black tar I had imagined, our cups contained a frothy, creamer-coloured liquid. Dubiously, I sniffed at the sugary substance before I sipped it, discovering to my surprise that it tasted like chocolate. A mocha, in the back streets of
India! And as my drink depleted, I found that it still contained the zing I craved; a buzz strong enough to fight away withdrawal for a while.

 

The tourist bit: So, obviously, we went to
Agra for the Taj, as does everybody else; the very reason I was doubtful about this portion of the itinerary. I’m not a ‘buildings’ person, I would much rather spend my time around people going about their lives as they always do, somehow it seems much more relevant, more real, to me. And despite it’s story, despite everything anyone’s ever said about the place, despite the thousands upon thousands who flock through the gates every year, I was convinced that it was going to be just another building; a place I had to see or I would never hear the end of it, but which I’d trawl through with disinterest.

 

I was wrong. Yep, that’s what I said. Wrong. Although I doubt that at the end of it all the Taj will be in my top three most memorable things in
India, it was undeniably amazing.

 

There’s something zany about the ‘logical’ symmetry, something unfathomable about the scale of the design, the hours of work, the fiddly wafer-thin inset designs. And it is, quite simply, beautiful.

 

There was some confusion over where, exactly, you had to utilise the shoe-covers you’re handed at the gate to allow you to keep on your footwear in the freezing cold. Still, that was easily solved.

 

Padding across the huge silken floors beside my kin, somehow, in spite of all the other tourists – or perhaps because of them – I felt like an intruder in someone’s private, innermost world.

 

Perhaps the most surreal thing though, was the moment when I turned around to see something post-box-red flashing through the mist.

 

“Dad, is that – is that an LED screen?”

 

Amidst this ancient creation of serenity and pleasing tones, indeed, an unreadable message scrolled across a large black screen. When we investtgated, it turned out to be a display of the air pollution levels as of three days back. Something to do with building preservation, we assume.

 

As well as the Taj, we took the time to see Agra and the Baby Taj, both fine examples of Moughal architecture and design, and with fewer tourists, both far more pleasant to exploer. I think the baby Taj, though the least impressive, was my favourite of the three. I kinda liked the slight decay of the designs, and the weird networking of rooms; it made it interesting. Whatever, if you’re in
Agra and not too stretched for time, I’d recommend these as addition to the main attraction.

 

Best Bit: my favourite place in
Agra is an unconventional one. To get from one side of the city to the other, you have to cross the river using an old suspension bridge. And it was crossing this bridge in the lunch time rush that I felt closest to the city behind its touristy façade. It takes 17 minutes to get across (and 90 seconds on the traffic free return several hours later), dodging and weaving through snails-pace traffic. Shabby horses pull brightly painted
tongas with well dressed cheery Indians atop. Oxen with painted horns trudge forwards, towing rough carts of grain or fruit, an emaciated form or two perched amongst the produce. Endless black and yellow tuk-tuks of varied repair trundle along; one or two deafen folks with the latest bollywood hits, fuzzy as they blare from crummy speakers. Three donkeys lope past dolefully, bulging sacks of manure-bricks used as fuel, hanging almost as big as they are, swaying threateningly above their straining muscles. Men and boys in shabby sack-coloured clothes lug bundles underarm whilst sari clad women and girls balance miscellany on their heads and deftly find space to walk amongst the larger beasts One man, with a bristled grey beard, heads back the way we’ve come, resembling a plastic porcupine on rollers, for every inch of his calf-length coat and bicycle frame is strung with primanry-coloured brushes, bristles pointing out as a threat to passers’ by.

 

As if this weren’t enough, there was the view. Peering over peoples heads and the tops of rickshaws you could see out across the muddied ground and remaining patchy water trickles. To the left, several hundred cattle waded ankle-deep in grey silt, and to the right, row after row of giant meta drums, glistening with water catching the sun, several leasing steam into the air, and each manned by one or two figures who shined with sweat and soapy suds as they beat, whirled and agitated their prey. All this activity was surrounded by a homage of gently flapping coloured cloths, in rainbow patchwork as they dried. The washing ghats. Awesome.