It is not always possible to understand what a monument means to a city or a town. But ask any lover of history to gauge the importance of the Taj for Agra, and the poet in him is likely to answer: “Agra is the body, Taj Mahal its soul.” This monument to love has failed not a lover, nor a lover of history. Happily falling in the latter category I drove down to Courtyard by Marriott in Agra last week as much for a rejuvenating weekend as a date with history. Of course, that did not prevent me from playing some of the choicest songs music director Roshan ever composed all along the Yamuna Expressway. As I tapped the dashboard to “Jo wada kiya woh nibhana padega” and then to “Paoon chhoo lene do pohoolon ko inayat hogi”, I was transported to another world. The wheat fields waved in affirmation, the mustard ones gleamed, and I moved on. It could as well have been a drive from here to infinity.
I was in the zone. I wished to stay there. Soon, reality raised its head though. Gone was the Expressway and we were in Agra, some potholes, plenty of stagnant water, cesspool on one side of the road, disused stalls of sugarcane juice on the other. Negotiating the curls and curves, we reached a road not too wide, not too used; just ideal. It encouraged me to down the panes for a minute, take in fresh air. There was a papiha calling. We were in luck, I thought. As we entered Marriott, the feeling did not change. Only a few weeks old, it is still early days for the hotel. Reason enough for the staff to fuss over every little thing, making sure that the first-time guest turns into an every time guest. Seems a sound decision too, considering Agra gets guests almost all through the year, from Italy and Spain to China and Japan, Germany and England to Latin and South America. Many are elite ones who come by chartered flights, others take the more conventional flights. Matters not a bit, for once they check in it is all the same. I was really in luck; of the 189 rooms at the hotel, only a handful face the swimming pool. Mine did. I sat by the window watching the rays of the sun merge in the water, some ripples, no splash.
However, I was not there for a leisurely swim; leaving the kids to make a splash, I headed towards the Taj. On any given day, there are thousands of visitors from across the globe; I followed in their trail to take in the monument built over 22 years. My affable guide informed me that the Taj has 22 domes too, one for each year of construction. It has three gates and a masjid close by for prayers. All are surrounded by well spruced gardens. The graves of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz are adjacent, together in death as in life. All around, white marble gleams, there is inlay work of leaves and flowers which holds attention.
Ultimately, I stood overawed. Can love really conquer it all? Well almost all things, but not death.
Soon I headed towards Agra Fort where in an example of the great vicissitudes of times, Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb following a titanic battle for succession with his brothers. Shah Jahan, from his more humble abode, though, could still see the last resting place of his beloved across the calm waters of the Yamuna. My heart overcome with sorrow, I headed back to the hotel. Time to take in some Mughlai delights on the dining table.
The food tasted awesome, the ever courteous staff making sure I had more things than I planned for. Not that I was complaining. And the kids? No kids’ zone but they made up for it with a round of doughnuts, ice creams, juices. And of course a little history the next day when we stopped by Itmad ud Daulaj’s tomb on the way back. The tomb, like the Taj, has a red marble complex before one reaches an all white tomb proper. Not quite the Taj — well, there is none like the Taj across the world — it still is worthy of a history student’s visit.
Taj, fort, tomb, Marriott. I took them all in on a leisurely weekend.
