Majorly behind on updates but slowly catching up after a gruelling week of gurukula life at a Himalayan ashram….
In what’s been a very steep learning curve, I’ve become familiar with the Indian education system of gurukula, an ancient process where children would live with a guru until adulthood, learning and leading a very disciplined life. I was less aware that the ashram I booked for my yoga teacher training considered this style of learning essential to becoming a true yogi. Let’s just say the experience felt like a yoga prison and depleted my energy for writing – it’s nice to be back…
En route to Agra was my first experience of the harmonious chaos of Delhi traffic. It’ll come as no surprise to hear it was a jaw-dropping, heart-stopping commotion; where vehicles seem to drive as though encased in an (extremely) thin force field, which defies the laws of motion and somehow makes it impossible to collide with others. Most had very little protection, whole families travelling via scooters or hordes of people crammed in tuk-tuks; and yet it was unfathomably harmonious. It helps to have an ingenious custom to raise awareness: where on approach, every vehicle sounds its horn before overtaking like a lunatic.
The innate beauty of India is the way colours are employed to embellish most colourless aspects of life; heavy industrial vehicles are with vibrant mantras and inviting (yet dusty) tassels weaving with the hustle and bustle. Driving assertively, ensuring everyone else is acutely aware they answer to no one. Drivers also seem to have double vision, treating two lanes as though it were four, bullying small twin-engine vehicles to the side of the road in a clear pecking order. I use the word harmonious as I didn’t see a single traffic incident - at least not until the Himalayan mountain roads in peak pilgrim season…
I’d started to feel faint in the back of the Uber, suspecting malice from the pink dental water I’d acquired Mahipalpur (see “Delhi layovers” post), hoping it was just the extreme heat and dizzying driving style. Thankfully, the car slowed and I made out the word “fuel” from the driver’s mumbles. Getting fuel (or CNG gas rather) involved a state of civil unrest, with huge lines of overheating drivers (and cars) who don’t express rage from within a locked car like British drivers, they respectfully confront each other face to face, talking at a speed that is incredibly amusing.
In a strange attempt at health and safety, I was asked to vacate the car into the Delhi crucible, standing less than one meter away whilst the gas was being refilled. Given my nervous system was on red alert, I was imaging a Narcos style situation, half expecting to be left stranded in the hostile fuel station, watching my belongings drive off into the distance.
Most vehicles are powered by CNG gas (at least in Delhi) after a measure introduced by the government to improve air quality back in the early 2000s. I found every driver I interacted with to have a really nasty cough (my offer of Polo mints went down well), and people here check the AQI (Air Quality Index) before planning trips. Clearly, more needs to be done for the most populous country in the world.
I’m at least glad backpacking was the right choice, as every trunk is occupied by a large CNG canister. I’ve had to reassure myself multiple times that the fuel gauge is useless here and it doesn’t mean we’re about to be stranded; melting away in the desert heat or hanging from the edge of a mountain road to avoid oncoming spirited drivers.
Nearing Agra, I hadn’t yet learned how intricately interconnected the tourist network here is, a beautifully collaborative approach to earning income. My driver speaks almost no English, but gathers enough intel to inform me he has a friend in Agra who can be my guide, I have to ask several times to get an idea of the cost, settling on something in the region of Rs700, we stop to collect him en route to my hotel. They both take pleasure in lecturing me that the Taj Mahal is closed tomorrow and my schedule is ludacris. Operating on Robyn time, this is exactly how I’d planned it, to catch the final 1-2 hours after the crowds and heat had dispersed, with minimal waiting and sweating. A few more raised eyebrows, and we starting heading towards the Taj Mahal, aiming for a sunset view.
I’d ended the Uber trip, but the taxi driver and guide inquired about my return transport to Delhi—clearly seeing an opportunity. The taxi driver said he’d wait for us outside the Taj Mahal, but I was told that no electronic items with a keyboard, notepads, or Kindles were allowed (supposedly to avoid religious texts being read aloud). This was the moment I realized I had no choice but to trust strangers, leaving my new Remarkable 2 and Kindle behind in the taxi. Interestingly, the head torch I’d packed for power cuts was scrutinized and confiscated on entry. I was lucky the guide vouched for me and was allowed to store it in his pocket.
Salman, a well-dressed, smooth-talking 30-year-old tour guide, takes pride in his collection of spoken languages and familiarity with foreigners. Despite still feeling like a scam was yet to unfold, Salman began to build a little trust by warning me about the barrage of scamming photographers. Even so, I still managed to get scammed for five shots rather than the one I intended to get—there’s no escape without buying the ‘signature’ photos… even if your face glistens in the heat.
Confused, Salman asks me, “Why did you say yes to the photographer? I’m not allowed to advise you in front of other tourist workers, but you should have said no—I take good pictures!” He then adds helpfully, “You need to be direct and specify what you want. If you’d said you only wanted one, the photographer wouldn’t have taken any!” My first lesson in India is to be very assertive (my weakest personality trait) and never to be overly nice (wonderful)!
Salman, who gets his name from a hugely famous Bollywood actor (thankfully his enthusiasm isn’t deterred when I admit I’ve never seen a Bollywood film), begins his polished act. He beams with pride, talking at length about his “handicraft city,” named after the highly skilled craftspeople who’ve passed on their stone carving abilities through generations and still reside inside the Taj Mahal today. The Friday closure allows Salman and other Muslims to pray in the mosque (women are only able to pray at home) and for the craftspeople (in reality, craftsmen) to conduct maintenance.
I don’t tend to be overly inspired by architecture, but this modern wonder’s connection to the elements by consuming light (marble’s translucent qualities) was a gratifying experience. It appears yellow in the full moon, bright red in a feisty sunset. The exquisite marble carvings are filled with intricately carved precious stones produced by hand, “without a single imperfection,” Salman remarks. Construction took over 20 years, in the name of a symmetry-obsessed king’s loss. He had many wives but only one whom he revered, and gave him fourteen children. The Taj Mahal is the product of a man’s intense devotion to one woman, who asked him to prove his devotion and to never re-marry after she died giving birth to child number fourteen. Mumtaz Mahal’s tomb is placed at the very center of the structure, which feels like a poetic representation that she was the center of her king’s world.
We explore the symmetry from every side and witness an unexpected sandstorm thieve various belongings.
My heart swells when a little girl’s mum asks, on her behalf, to have a photo taken together (we say goodbye with a fist bump).
In contrast, the tour ends harrowingly, teaching me another lesson: avoid walking in Agra during the low season where they are no Western tourists, even with a chaperone. A small boy violently latched onto my arm and followed me, refusing to let go until I gave him some money.
Salman wanted to make one last stop to see Agra’s craftsmen in action. After a (very) brief demo by a salesman, I was welcomed into their one-way showroom, essentially a haunted house of crafts. Once inside, the only way out was to suffer through each and every single room. We started with high-value items and gradually descended from grand marble coffee tables to chess boards to leather shoes. Trying on my assertive tone, I quickly learned that the word “no” only translated to “I’d like to see the next option, please.” Since I already wanted a shawl for camouflage, I thought that might be a shortcut out.
Bargaining took an age. I was shown a dizzying amount of saris and shawls and told to try them on in a very isolated room filled with around ten or so men who I couldn’t believe were just ‘hanging out.’ Startlingly, when I later recounted this story to a male Indian friend, explaining why I’d never before felt so unsafe, he met me with hysterics. “India is all about mindset. A tiny little girl could beat away dozens of men with a stick if she just approaches them with a glint of madness.” This culture is utterly perplexing.
Indian people are fueled by connection and family. The modern lens seems to materialize those values into taking very polished photographs and multitasking while indefinitely talking or watching content on mobile phones. Salman asked me if I get lonely living alone and seemed perplexed by the concept of choosing not to live in one home with every generation of your direct family (Muslim faith). He’s single and interested in meeting as many foreigners as he can, hoping to someday travel outside of India and see where things go if he meets a foreign girl… I quickly changed the subject. The day is summed up by a notification resurrecting my Instagram account, reminding me again that I should be much less ‘pilot’.
Peace and Love,
Robyn
Reassuring to find you can trust strangers but as Sgt Phill Esterhaus used to say at the end of every daily briefing on Hill Street Blues 'be careful out there' ....before your time