Day Nine: The Big Pile of Ice Cream

We pulled into Agra late that day, and stayed at a back-up hotel (the usual wasn’t available for some reason), the Hotel Kumar Grand Casa. The lobby was nice. The rooms were dirty and generally horrible. The Muslim call to prayer was piped in from just outside the window (we were expecting a very early wake-up call wailing through the mosque’s loudspeakers). Good hot showers almost made up for it. We went to dinner at a new restaurant, Maya, that promised air-conditioning. It kept its promise—all seating was outside, where we were treated to Agra’s massive evening pollution. Never trust a place where you can chew the air. However, I had Kashmiri Pullao for the first time, a rice dish with both sweet and savory elements. I still dream about it.

I didn’t wake up with the Muslims for first prayer, a good thing. We had breakfast upstairs and headed out to Agra Fort--a pleasant surprise (horde of hucksters, check). This is where Shah Jahan spent his days as a ruler, and also his last days, imprisoned by his own son after the death of Mumtaz and the building of the Taj Mahal. On clear days (I’m sure they happen once in a while), the view of the Taj from the towers is breathtaking (not a pollution pun). This day, we could see the outline in the distance, across the Yamuna River. The Fort was a wonderland of intricate stone carving and inset stonework, with pleasant gardens and a peaceful feel.

And then: the prize we had all come for. We left the fort and went over to the Taj itself. (Major horde of hucksters: check). It’s hard to imagine a building that looks beautiful from any angle, any time of day, but this one does. The shining white marble that cloaks the façade of the sandstone building gives it the appearance of a perfectly symmetrical mound of vanilla ice cream against a soft blue sky. Inside, Mumtaz’ marble sarcophagus lies in state in the center; Akbar’s is a few feet to the east, on a raised platform as befits his elevated position in life. It is as beautiful as advertised.

Here at the Taj, and in many other places in India, we would sometimes catch people taking pictures of us, and didn’t know if it was supposed to be insulting or flattering. Pamela was a local favorite for photographs. People would come up to her a lot and ask to have their picture taken with her; we could never figure out why. Dark curly hair, tall, pretty and with pale skin? At one point, a young family thrust a baby into her arms for a photo-op. It was a little disconcerting.