It only takes a monument to take your breath away

Things to do before you kick the bucket:
1) Visit the Taj
2) Try justifying your happiness on seeing it to a
mad crowd of tourists and a mystified photographer

It felt like my feet had grown roots as I paused at the Darwaza-i-Rauza. I had to. It was too much to take in at one go. Against the words “O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you,” what Rabindranath Tagore calls "a teardrop on the cheek of time," unfolded as one beautiful painting across the vast blue canvas.

She was the child of their love and she stood there for all to see – wholesome in appearance, clothed in white marble from Makrana and embellished with patterns of lapidary - every precious stone I could possibly think of - carnelian, black onyx, mother of pearl, jasper, agate, lapis lazuli, amethyst and sapphire, guarded by four towering minarets, laced with calligraphy on her pishtaqs, nestled amongst gardens of cypress trees, casting her magical reflection into the central pool. She was a royal - rich, beautiful and famous. She had proud, passionate parents. Yet, she stood there humbled by their love, bearing testimony to it.
There was something about her. She was the essence of peace although amongst people not of her time. It didn’t seem to bother her. People leaned against her, flashes going off, posing as though they could hold her in the palm of their hands. She was in every photograph that people would preserve, in every promise a lover made and on every tour guide’s lips. She blushed, turning a shade of amaranth as the sun began to set.

The smooth Indian marble veneer of the Taj was luminous as it responded to the movement of light through the day. Her varied moods were a dance of mystical light - Tender blues during dawn, the amaranth hues at sunset, the tinge of apricot flecked with gold at dusk or almost translucent pearly white under a full moon. The ever-changing sky and ominous clouds that compose the backdrop assisted in sharing her story.

I had spent a whole day here in her presence, listening to a story of the greatest love affair.  Arjumand Banu Begum (Mumtaz Mahal to us) had borne 14 children before her and she, Taj, had been her final wish. After her mother’s death, Shah Jahan’s only reason to continue living had been his wife’s memory and he had honoured it with Taj. A few years before his own demise, he viewed the Taj Mahal soaring to a height of 74.21 meters, from the fort where he had been imprisoned by his own son. Though incarcerated, he had always been at liberty to love and continue loving in the only way he knew.

Taj was a mausoleum. She housed her dead parents, but she was not cold as one would imagine her to be. She burned with the heat of their passion and the warmth of their undying love.
I stood near her heart that housed the sarcophagi as she allowed the last rays of the sun to stream through her intricately patterned and pierced jali screens on to the ninety nine names of the God on her mother’s casket and the words "He travelled from this world to the banquet-hall of Eternity on the night of the twenty-sixth of the month of Rajab, in the year 1076 Hijri..” on her father’s, paying homage to them for the day. 

She had been vandalized. Her visitors had felt a dire need to leave their mark and had declared their names, scribbled hearts and offered their love, precious stones she cased were plucked out and fragments of her skin were chipped, exposing her bare. She was hurt and I was too, because I couldn’t fix her.
I hold the emotion of love in a special place and she allowed in me, yet another amorous soul treading upon her regal path, the warmth to surface and rekindle my senses.

It is indeed best described by the English poet, Sir Edwin Arnold, as "Not a piece of architecture, as other buildings are, but the proud passions of an emperor’s love wrought in living stones." It is a celebration of a woman built in marble and that’s the way to appreciate her.

In her father’s words:
“Should guilty seek asylum here,
Like one pardoned, he becomes free from sin.
Should a sinner make his way to this mansion,
All his past sins are to be washed away.
The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sighs;
And the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes.
In this world this edifice has been made;
To display thereby the creator's glory.”

Yes, she is a piece of art, a grand romance. Novalis was right. Love is the supreme poetry of nature and she stood there, a monument telling the story, living the memory.

Another sea story

I was there just for a day. We had spent most of our time driving around the carefully planned perpendicular streets, trying to find a good place to stay. Streets with French names, Stately villas of colonial style in the French quarters, the language – Puducherry, so fancy.

Although dinner at The Promenade was an option, none of us took it quite seriously considering our tight purse strings; instead we chose a French home turned restaurant named ‘Rendezvous.’ I pondered over the menu until the waiter gave me a stern look. I quickly chose a quiche Lorraine stuffed with spinach, cream cheese and chicken and Crème Brule for dessert. I was set. The portions were tiny and delicious. While some of my friends ordered Poulet frites (chicken and fries), most others chose a thin crusted, barely there pizza. How the French would frown upon it!

What I was looking forward to was the Serenity. It was dark and late as we stood by the rocks strewn across the sea front. The waves collided with the boulders with all their might and quickly fell, retreating with white, pearly foam. It seemed like the tides were furious but it was only just the moon, trying to lure them towards him. But they still rose and fell in one fluid motion like a string let be in mid-air. And then, it simply poured. So impromptu. Not a sight of a purple split in the sky, revealing the depth of the heavens, no sound of the deep roar. It was all a blur. Such an experience makes me ponder. There are ups and then there are downs and like the rain, they come unannounced. The lessons we can take away that add a gentle touch of meaning to our own lives…
As I walked away, nothing could be seen but the mass of wet rocks, a strip of surf and the drops of rain curdling the sea, adding to its volume in circles of foam.
They tried to look tough and I smiled. They were just like me.

World's best - money and mommy

I thought my phone was going to die. It blinked and buzzed incessantly, trying to catch my attention. It does that a lot when I don't want to look at it. Some texts inquiring about how well the studying was turning out, some with their party plans, some, already drunk to their noses.

With pressure building, I (tried) to study for a subject which requires me to know the whole world inside out in just under a couple of hours. Just then, the whole (usually quiet) neighbourhood goes mental. It is 12 AM and a whole New Year. All over again. Memories rushed back in break-neck speed – What could have been, what didn’t, what should have, what will never be. And then the, what actually did.
"Hang in there”, I told myself. “There's light at the end of this tunnel. This is not how you're going to die." 

I needed a study break. I opened a new tab, looked at some more beautiful people and apparel. I talked to myself again, "It's the power of Photoshop and they don't own it all."

So negative. I didn’t like how this year was unfolding. 

The next couple of hours were a blur. I didn’t remember anything. I remember falling into a deep slumber only to wake up the next morning. You know it’s going to be a kick-ass year when on the second day of a brand new year the first thing you open your eyes to is your mom counting, what looks like (a lot) of money, and then she says, "Here. Now go get yourself some retail therapy. You look like shit."

And then I grinned, all my evilness leaving me. I thought of all those things that those heart-shatteringly beautiful people don’t own, but like to show off.

World’s best mom and money to shop. Enough said.