The Opposite of Scarcity

I want to talk about scarcity. I wrote in my last post about the joy I found on the rooftops of Jaipur’s Muslim neighborhood. The joy found in the simplicity of a paper kite, tribes of children and an endless sunset.

Scarcity:  we, as Americans, just simply don’t know this word. We don’t even like to say it think about it. Our lives are pretty comfortable. We wake up in down or synthetic-down comforters with more pillows than we need. We draw cold, filtered water from our sinks and brew a really excellent coffee. We walk to closets filled with enough clothes to clad a school and our toughest decision is what to wear that day. We luxuriate in long, hot showers. We drive to school and work—if it’s too cold we’ll kick up the seat heaters and push the button to de-frost the windshield. Then, if there’s time (and there’s so much time) we stop for a second coffee (because there’s a drive through).

In India, I have seen too many people to count thriving on scarcity. This country of 1.3 billion people looks at the world in a different way. They don’t need the constant comforts we give ourselves. They work, really hard. They remain very connected to their families. They spend immense amounts of time with their families. Of course my observations are my own, and India is a big place, so I hope not to generalize in any way. The families I have seen on this journey in Northern India, at road side, in Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and in small towns along the golden triangle, are raising their children with none of the conveniences we know—clothes are dried on the line (just a few clothes), trash accumulates everywhere, there is little to none green space, and space itself is a whole other essay. So how can all of this exist? How can this  widespread acute poverty be the backdrop of so much beauty and possibility?

I see it in the sarees. The women of India, regardless of Caste, always look beautiful in silks of the brightest colors, glistening gold threads and ornament—even on a Thursday. The sarees are tucked neatly, elegant in every way. Sarees are worn to work, on the motorcycle, at the park, waiting for the bus, carrying a huge batch of sticks on one’s head, or just holding a child on the sidewalk.  The saree is used as a headscarf for protection from the sun and heat) and I’ve seen multiple configurations for practical uses and styles of saree. There is no “one way” to tie a saree. In the dirtiest places, what we would call slums in America, the women step out sweepingly elegant in a crisp and perfectly clean and fine saree. This happens in India every minute of the day.

I see it in the food. Last night we had dinner with the monks from the Tibetan Monastery in Sabzi Mandi near Jagat Ram Park. We called up my friend Geshe Loden who has been on the last US few tours for the Mystical Arts of Tibet. He happened to be in Delhi and invited us over to the Monastery to see the monks and have dinner. We wedged our very nice car into the teeming streets of this neighborhood—our guide insisted we not walk. In the middle of my musings on scarcity we see the madness of a very busy Delhi market. How can we have scarcity yet this? Is it scarcity that fuels these centers of commercial exchange? We drive past carts full of pears, oranges, pineapples and grapes. The presentations of greens astonish us. Everywhere we look we see bountiful offerings in sweeping patterns and portions of color and we hear the chatter of happy bartering. We dodge motorcycle and rickshaw. This place is crazy. We finally make it to an intersection (we did have a small run in with a rickshaw—debunking my idea that there was an actual force field around our car after numerous near-misses). 

We are extremely relieved to see Geshe Loden and our new friend Sanjay happily hop off a rickshaw to greet us. Geshe Loden! In Delhi! I am instantly calmed from his madness by his beautiful presence and we make our way around two corners to the monastery. It is a quiet building with a colorful Tibetan-style façade. We walk in to see the temple and learn about its history. This monastery opened in 1985 and currently houses 10 resident monks. We are delighted to learn that Geshe Loden is leaving just that night to take a new group of interns for the US tour of the Mystical Arts of Tibet. How auspicious! All ten will be seeing the United States for the first time. I feel as though we’ve arrived here by chance as unofficial ambassadors to send them on their way. I am humbled by this opportunity. 

We are introduced to the head of the monastery Geshe Negge. He’s been in charge 20 years. The halls and rooms of this building (4 stories?) are barren quiet spaces—a simple existence, as you would expect. We are seated in a large room. India’s magic happens to us again as monks begin to bring a mystifying bountiful feast into the room. They set the dishes one-by-one on the table before us. This meal is the opposite of scarcity: three kinds of handmade dumplings, four hot vegetable dishes of the brightest colors, two unforgettable soups, tender white rice and exquisite salads. We talk about Dallas, the monks’ flight that night. My dear friend Caron delights us all by saying “we are like birds meeting in the sky”. We talk about Obama and His Holiness but any political comments were quickly set aside. The monks did not want to talk about politics—my sense is that they wanted to just be.   And the “be-ing” was grand. There was nothing scarce about their whole hearts, their love for Tibet and for India’s protection, their hopeful interest in our work and our passion to continue to tell Tibet’s story. We were twenty friends gathered for dinner. It was divine.

I’ll contrast that meal, in a dimly lit room graced only by a library, two couches and a bed to our lunch the day before at the Trident hotel in Guragon. The Land of the Call Centers. After five hours in the bus driving from Jaipur spent watching the purposeful rhythms of villagers working, eating, shopping in roadside markets, a contrast, a stark system of new contemporary architecture rises before us: buildings with “Google’, “Deloitte”, “Accenture” and more. Our guide tells us this is the place for most of India’s call centers. We lumber into a heavily gated hotel with very contemporary almost futuristic architecture. This feels like Vegas or Dubai—a city too new to know its brand and certainly lacking a critical mix. We dine like kings—a continental spread with every possible offering. I bet they could have come up with a Turkish delight. Servers walk by with freshly baked stone oven pizzas. Homesick on your business trip to the check on the call centers? This hotel will be anything you need it to be to heal you. It really was amazing. I don’t think we saw any cows in trash heaps in Guragon. At least not on this street. If this hotel knows scarcity it is in warmth and reality. A scarcity of reality—maybe that’s what we do know in America.

If you’re looking for “real” it is India. Real is in every cell of this country, every fiber of its being. Pig at lakeside begging for a cookie? Real. A limbless child asking you to buy his beaded necklaces, Real. Tibetan Buddhist monks living in a neighborhood for almost 30 years doling out loving kindness every time they leave the monastery? Real.  If India is a society of scarcity, the outcome is the right to be real, to be true about who you are and what you have. Instead of a society of scarcity I think I'll start calling it the place with real and true abundances of love.

Namaste. 

Half-hour Elephant

Her name is Lakshmi. She will be my steed for the next thirty minutes. Some life changing experiences last months (college) if not days (camp). This one will be thirty minutes. She is massive and beautiful, her skin freckled. She needs a pedicure. Lakshmi is my elephant in this moment. My half-hour elephant. Her driver, raised among the elephants, sends her secret messages from the ball of his foot to the top of her ear. He holds a short “poker” I hope he won’t use. I try not to look. He is turbaned and quiet. For now, in this wonderland, it is just Lakshmi and I. I am seated in a wide “seat”—a cushion with four metal bars on the perimeter of the rectangle. I don’t notice how uncomfortable I am—or that I really could fall off if I don’t pay too much attention. We rock back and forth front left foot, back right foot, front right foot, back left foot. One of the first patterns in nature: the slow pounding pattern of the elephant or the mastodon’s foot on the ground. An awesome gait. I am alone in the seat (built for two) but I am very happy to have Lakshmi all to myself.  I look out. Oh, right, there is a wonderland here! I am ascending the road to the Amber Fort and Palace (with Lakshmi doing all the work, of course). This Mughal fortress was built in 1592 and forward. It’s the Egyptian pyramid of Rajasthan. We ride a very long switch back looking over the fortified wall to a man-made lake—some of the first water we’ve seen. The sun dances through the fog. It is cold, but I don’t care. I’m with my elephant and we’re taking our morning walk and I feel so lucky.

The Elephant Driver breaks my bliss and wants to tell me how he needs money. A peddler “sends up” a quilt for me to inspect. Photographers take too many pictures that they will try to sell us later. Some enterprising photographers found us in the town hours later—photo books in their hands with our pictures for just the right price. Suddenly we worry that our faces may end up on an Indian porn sight. Creepy. The Elephant Driver wants to tell me his name and how poor he is. He asks me how much money I have. I tell him “50 rupees only” per our guide’s sage advice. Somewhere I stashed an extra 1500…but for now its “50 rupees only”. Well, this did not please Mr. Elephant Driver. He started up some kind of angry banter in a language I didn’t recognize. I worry about the poker in his hand. Maybe it was for me? I lose the happy moment with Lakshmi, remember the apple in my pocket I brought for her, and find my self at the disembarking platform. As I stand up 1500 rupees fall out of my pocket, off the side of the elephant and onto the ground. The Elephant Driver looks at me like the liar I am and is forced to move on out of the way of the next pachyderm. This next elephant responds to the verbal commands of her driver and—with her trunk—picks up my 1500 rupees (three times, three bills) and hands them to me. I was so enchanted! Poor Lakshmi did not get the apple but this hearty helper did. I look off and see Mr. Elephant Driver sending me a “you suck lady look” and I race down the platform to right my wrong and give this man who lives on elephants an $8 tip. As I stand among elephants coming and going I realize I’m probably in a danger zone—I quickly toss Lakshmi 500 rupees, she dutifully picks it up and gives it Mr. E.D. All our happy except for Lakshmi who I’m sure wishes I had a second apple. Next time. Standing ground level with these magical beasts will never leave me. Lakshmi will never leave me.

Any subsequent activity pales following this dance with the elephants. We marvel at the inner and outer workings of the Amber Fort and Palace. We take more photographs than we will ever need. The views are spectacular—this is undoubtedly India’s great wall. We spend the rest of the day in Jaipur studying the arts and crafts of the city: block printing processes, carpet making, textile crafts. We buy inexpensive saris for the staff at the museum and plan a saree-wearing party. We ponder what to do with the gentlemen on staff.

And then—a couple of hours later, just when the magic dust of the morning had fallen into Jaipur’s bustling streets. It happened again: the magic of India in one massive, incredible, spectacular dose.  

We met our friend and artist Alexander Gorlizki http://www.gorlizki.com in the heart of rush hour.  We are in a car and he is on the back of Rhiaz’s motorcycle. They lead us to Rhiaz’s home and studio. It is in the heart of a very vibrant Muslim neighborhood in Jaipur. We weave and wander, loose our motorcycle guides twice and arrive—happy to see a friend in India for a dream visit in his favorite place.

We take in this streetscape for several minutes: soon several children have come to see these blonde westerners on the block. Caron darts off to capture a sheep wearing a knitted sweater. Birds surround us, a nearby cow sitting on a cozy nest of trash, chomps sedately: food and rest in one place! We are standing at the base of the most glorious tree—Alex will have to tell me what kind it is: sinewy roots and branches casting a broad canopy across the alley between the buildings. This tree is every much as part of the history and architecture of this place as the buildings, the sky and the hills beyond it.

We are welcomed into Rhiaz’s studio—two young artists are painting at floor-level antique desks. Alexander Gorlizki collaborates with this miniature-painting studio and has been for seventeen years. Works are passed back and forth from Jaipur to Brooklyn and, under Alexander’s careful art direction; compositions come together across the globe. Alex and Rhiaz have the energy of best friends if not brothers. Rhiaz introduces us to his family-brother, sister-in-law, children, cousins and nephews. Nineteen people live in this three-story house. We study this perfect collaboration with questions and curiosity. We see the mineral pigments, the squirrel-tail brush, and the exquisite works in progress. We drink a delicious (the best I’ve had in India) masala chai and feast on cookies—both from Jaipur and Brooklyn.

This world of Alex’s world lovingly becomes ours. We feel very welcomed. We are encouraged to see the roof, the sun has set and as no one knows better than I, the sun waits for no one. We climb the stairs suddenly I am drawn into the ether of sunset in Jaipur. The roofscape of these homes is another world: an ecosphere beyond the imagination. Kites zip across a pink blush atmospheric sunset.  Little square kites, made by the local kite maker out of reed and tissue paper, fly all around us: some hundreds of feet in the air. 

We hear the chatter and laughter of children and families at play against the whip of air and paper. It is beautiful. Little girls and boys line up at roof wall on three sides to watch our bliss and wonderment at this perfect sight. Across the street we hear the hustle of a family preparing for their 5 year-Old’s birthday party.  At street level huge cauldrons on flaming pyles boil the evening’s feat. It smells delicious. We linger a little longer—drunk on this ether of the joy of experiencing this skyscape wonderland. 

Darkness comes too quickly and we re-order our spinning minds for our next ecosphere: the street. Alex and Rhiaz take us on their tour of the neighborhood. As we round the corner of the second block, we hear it. The harmonious sound of “tink, tink, tink” over and over again. Hundreds of “tinks” some in unison, some not. This concert of the Gold Beaters is heard before it is seen. We walk on and find ourselves looking in to a very small room where three men sit in a circle. They are holding wooden mallets (think meat cleaver, but wood) and small leather books. Each book has 150 pages and inside each page is a sheet of silver (or gold) leaf. These Gold Beaters, a lineage of talent expressed through generation after generation, pound the silver and gold “Chiclet” size pellets into leaf so that you and I may eat it on candies, see it in works of art and use it on murals. It is painstaking work. It takes hours to pound out the squares. We walk on and see at lease 15 other small rooms, some with as many as ten men, all pounding away on little leather bound books, for hours. We can’t hear ourselves talk—I contemplate the hearing loss for these men, sitting in little stone rooms all their lives. For the love of art. But I swing back into the moment of the tinks, see how happy they are and this mystery will stay in Jaipur.  

We visit the man-the only expert in the village—who makes gold and silver paste for painting. He does this with the base of his thumb—mixing a most accurate blend of binder and metal. He isn’t up for a studio visit, but his family is happy to welcome us as his wife swiftly removes drying clothes from the chairs in the small courtyard.  I enjoy looking in to this fascinating world—a society of scarcity with so much. SO much happiness and so much love.

We see more huge cauldrons of bubbling delights, naan dough being prepared for tandoori-like ovens, as dear Alex appropriately exclaims, “it is almost medieval”. We move on through this thriving community: a tail of curious children always with us. We walk through the birthday party—the street has been barricaded by motorcycles. Women and girls sit on blankets on the street laughing and enjoying all of the gifts brought by dozens of neighbors to this festive celebration.  This is their world—hard work and joyful celebration of a little girl reaching her fifth year. We are happy to be there, too.

Alex and Rhiaz sweetly drive us across town to the land far away from this perfect community. I swallow hard as I leave them—they will never know what wealth this time together has brought to me. I also know I will return. I look at the entrance of the Rambaugh Palace and all of its wealth. I try not to think about how the attendant prepared my room last night for sleeping: rose petals in the bathtub water, linens under my filthy shoes; he even cleaned the hairs out of my hairbrush! I try not to think of this world, so far away from the bubbling cauldrons outside of Rhiaz’s house and the beautiful works he creates inside. But, this threshold is my threshold for my next step in this journey. The one that will take me on to Delhi and on to Dallas. The threshold of the Rambaugh Palace is my step in journey to bring these imaginative and exquisitely created little paintings back across the globe on their own journey to tell you in our galleries in Dallas about the remarkable friendship of Alex and Rhiaz in our exhibition later this fall.

I walk past the rangoli, the candles, the splendor of the lobby and the ether of the rooftop falls away like a golden gown someone allowed me to try on.  I put it away and know that somewhere on a rooftop a child will pick up that beloved tattered kite and fly it tomorrow. 

Little Flowers on the Side of the Road

Seven hours of our day on Tuesday was spent on the journey from Agra to Jaipur. We also welcomed a full sun for the first time since we arrived. The highways are knuckle-gripping documentaries of life along the road. Amid the den of trash, dirt and sand, ladies in the brightest sarees, with feet bare, look like little flowers alongside the road, petals fluttering in the wind. These pilgrims walk slowly toward their daily mecca: a sharp contrast to our pattern and pace of speed and intention to swerve around truck and bus and motorcycle. Our driver approaches the challenge with Indy500-like skill. We stop watching the stationary objects we dodge and take deep breaths. We try not to scream (audibly) when the bus lurches to a swift halt over and over again. This is India.

We arrive in Jaipur at rush hour. But maybe, in this industrious city of just three million every hour is rush hour. The streets are teaming with people. We cross through the gates of the pink city (more noticeably orange) and I scan façade after façade for a Mughal façade similar to the work of our in our gallery. We never found evidence of carving like ours with its perfect symmetrical flower patterns and geometric designs. Has the world come and taken these elegantly carved skins away? Perhaps our façade is from another part of Rajasthan. We muse on the possibilities. I will keep looking.

The bus crosses over a threshold of time when we enter the massive gates of our hotel: The Rumbaugh Palace: our private paradise for the next two days. We are greeted with flower necklaces, a shower of flower petals and hot towels. The second room is perfect (I am very picky about hotel rooms): a regal garden room with elegant draperies, elements of emerald and gold and a porch where I was greeted by two peacocks and a peahen.

There’s no time to be a princess here, though. As we drive away a peacock sits on the roof of the gate as if to say, “namaste”.  A second palace, the Samode Haveli waits for our royal arrival. Skeptical about the alleged two-hour drive to dinner, we board the bus. We should stop questioning the guide, because yes, it was absolutely two hours, plus. We are all dressed for the ball in saree and cocktail attire, and we lumber over a seemingly single-lane dirt road for over an hour: India’s contrasts. We enter the gates of the city: ominous in a skirt of fog—lights dimly readable through the mist. As part of India’s consistent ability to generate miracles, the bus slips just through the thickly walled and gated city. We slowly climb though Narrow Street and crevice. 

We land in a dirt parking lot and our heels punch through the sand as we walk to the 450 year old cobblestones. We find ourselves at the base of a massive and majestic staircase draped in red. The lights on the windows of the façade of the palace “switch” on and suddenly I am transported to Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel. To our surprise and amusement fireworks and musicians herald our arrival. We climb up one, then two then three staircases. Stair climbing in a saree is likely easier than I think it is. I will need a tutorial on this later.  Upstairs we are greeted with iceless cocktails in a room in the most magnificent dress you can imagine.  Brightly painted murals in Mughal motifs, lined with gold leaf and tiny mirrors dapple ceiling and wall and archway. The only light is provided by large candelabras. So queue the flicker on these illuminated frescoes and the result is simply: magic. 

We laugh and curiously explore and mostly take the most beautiful portraits of ourselves one has ever seen. The Happy hour gets happier and we move up a fourth staircase (all stone, all curving in some unexpected way) to the roof. The roof! Musicians welcome us to this heaven under the dark and foggy night sky. Warm fires are burning in large cauldrons. It’s a mix of all I know from camp at Brush Ranch and what if might be like to dance on the roof of a castle. Next, we are entertained by dancers of the region (and time). They adeptly dance with three, four, five and six bowls on their heads. We cheer them on. Our matriarch in the group fearlessly dances with them. She is so elegant. We are served hot soup-delicious, warm naan breads and bad wine. (I’ve heard people say “India is not known for its wine” and “India is really becoming known for its wine” so I will remain confused on this issue and personally have yet to experience a good wine.) 

We dine under fluttering, patterned tents on the roof of this 17^th century palace.. I know that this experience can’t be re-experienced, ever. The air, the light, the dancers, even the road will be different next time. This is pure magic. The Happy continues into the next hours with a royal buffet, more dancing and beautiful warm conversation. When the moon (a glow in the fog) falls we rise to find our chariot and suddenly more fireworks spill into the sky. Just for us. I wonder about the poor villagers of the town –counting time by the booms of the nightly shows. I wonder about the Haveli hotel guests—I guess this is all part of the experience. Can you imagine, upon check-in: “Please prepared for loud fireworks nightly outside your window". As we descend wistfully toward home I stop to meet a puppeteer. What is this life that this man leads? Year after year greeting western visitors and performing the funny and dramatic tales of the maharaj and the maharani. This once classic form of puppeterring may only exist for the us—the westerners looking in and happy to pay for the privilege. I wonder.

We linger too long in the shop and are the last on the bus. I make a note to myself that I must be on time going forward. I find the rhythm of the potholes and fall quickly asleep. Remarkably the ride home is less than an hour. Was the two-hour ride to the palace through the thicket path (you could barely call it a road) a tour guide’s technique for building anticipation? So many things I don't know. As is the pattern of this India, I sva-ha (surrender) with the peace of a perfect evening in my heart. 

I’ll never truly know this mystery of India.

The Reveal

I am still trying to understand Agra.  On Sunday when we arrived all I saw was the Taj Mahal: a bright glowing pearl welcoming me on this journey. The trash-ridden streets, the placid, sickly cows, the purposeful people walking too close to our bus, the little fires along the road keeping two or three warm: all of this was overshadowed by the powerful beacon just a street or two over. But yesterday, with the Taj shrouded by fog, I almost forgot her.

We started off early for the Sheesh Mahal, Agra’s Red Fort: a massive complex of sandstone and marble: a fortress for centuries protecting the Mughal kings. Monkeys and peddlers greeted us at the gate. After just having seen the new Planet of the Apes (and for other reasons) I kept my distance. This little tribe of monkeys held court as Agra’s second most important heritage site—once run by Kings they sit and wait with cunning eye for an empathetic tourist to toss a cookie or a treat. It is the weirdest thing. 

I think of what might have happened had Obama actually come to Agra today—we heard reports the stray animals were being swept up in anticipation of his arrival. Seems all animals in India are stray, though, and I just can’t imagine how Agra was ever to be “president-ready”. Banners line most of the streets with huge images of President and Mrs. Obama—banners they will never see.  This little village has been waiting for the president for years –and now they’ll just seem him on the news in Delhi. Impermanence.

This place is so massive words can’t capture. It’s larger than any castle I have visited—but it’s size is compounded by thick walls, majestic, large and heavy carving. This place was built for the centuries. Imagine the labor—the challenges of moving stone from quarries and refining it into this “great wall” like structure! After growing up with the mighty but by comparison hardly fortified forts of Texas, this girl just stood, mouth open, world spinning in total awe.

Our guide walks us though the evolution of construction: from the eleventh century forward. We see the iconic Hindu architecture supporting later Islamic forms. We see massive amounts of sandstone. Two moats protected the inner core of the fort: the outer wet moat was filled with water and crocodiles, the inner was a dry moat filled with hungry wild and exotic animals. These Mughals had women and wealth to protect. Water and heating systems were very advanced technologically: by the standards of the day this was very plush living. In the 17^th century ceilings and walls were lined with gold and semi-precious stones. Rugs were lavish—the marble and sandstone were merely a sculpted canvas for the finest textiles and ornament. Today, in the Republic Day Crowds—with all of the embellishment gone, it’s very hard to imagine.

We stand looking out of the Ladies’ (make that very plural) residence through a reticulated marble screen scanning for the Taj. Ever so alluringly she sits in the distance. We wait, hoping a promising sun might burn off the fog, but no, The Queen will not be dining at lunch today.

We move on to the quarters for the kings in the 17^th and 18^th centuries—marble draped in inlay of semi-precious stones. We see the place where Shah Jahan was held under house arrest (by his son’s command)—stunning views across the Yamuna River and to the Taj Mahal—the mausoleum he built for his late beloved wife Mumtaz Jahan. He died there after 9 years.

Back on the bus we head to a marble workshop for a tutorial in inlay. Again—mesmerizing, painstaking work to cut semi-precious stones for marble inlay—the intricacy is unimaginable. I hold new appreciation for the marble chatri in our museum (to the left of the Mughal façade) knowing now the work to create its beautifully ornamented skin. We purchase several examples of this remarkable craft for The Lotus Shop (for my readers who love to shop) and move on to our next fortification: lunch.

Spoiler alert: the next section of my chronicle may stray to the negative. I’m still pondering this but parts of our tour have ebbed on the touristy side. Is it possible to visit India and not be a tourist? It’s hard to say. Our guide has taken us to two or three “government-certified” official tourism businesses and I really do have mixed feelings about it. We are shuttled to the “Only” Restaurant—legend has it this was the only restaurant in Agra. A duo of musician and dancer (young boys) greet us at the door—they’ll have a hand out when we leave. The dim interior has two other tour groups dining –Westerners like us. The waiters are swift and Western-savvy. They bring straws, Diet Coke and Chinese food and other non-Agra items to our table. I keep it real with traditional Indian dishes but this by far is our lowest point meal-wise. We chin up. No one asks to use the facilities and quickly we are back on the bus—but not until after stuffing the hands of these child laborers and buying a small toy camel from them.

But here’s the flip side. It’s not traditional for Indian families to eat in restaurants. In this small village town without modern streets or sidewalks (think mud) a “nice authentic clean restaurant for groups of 17 or more, please” may only exist in hotels. Perhaps the only way to be here is to try on this India: this Only Restaurant offering jobs and daily moments of national pride to tourists from across the globe. And, as far as I know the food did not make us sick. So, I say a win.

The afternoon is spent in a “textile museum slash jewelry store” likely also on the convention and visitor bureau certified list of tourist-ready businesses. For Agra, this is an icon of the inescapable contrast of India: our bus crosses the threshold from trash-lined lots next to the street to a perfectly designed (almost Mexico City style) four-story building. Inside we are greeted by the owner in a room lined with high-end dimensional embroideries (huge) in cases. Skeptical me quickly calls him out and ask if his jewelry-industry family commissioned these works. He then explains that we are not in the museum (uh huh) and he will take us back. Well, good, then.

What happened next will amaze you because it certainly amazed us. We wait while Mr. Jeweler disarms some complicated system. Then a large glass door opens and we are told to walk into a dark room. I can see large (8’x8’) cases—maybe 10 of them lining the perimeter of the walls. They are veiled by white inset screens. You can taste the anticipation. We are given no context or instruction. This is all about the element of reveal.

He holds a large remote control—a flat screen with multiple interfaces. Suddenly the only freestanding case lights up and a gem-encrusted velvet gown (of course owned by Mumtaz Shah) are presented. Despite a strange fog like film on the case and noticeable adhesive connecting the edges of the Plexiglas, this masterpiece marvels. We learn that it, along with a second embroidery was loaned to an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the 80s. Next we are shepherded to the first of seven wall cases. Our host punches too many buttons for the command needed and the white screen slowly goes up. Once it’s disappeared into the ceiling, a multimedia program begins with light, music and an audio component. For a country without a practice of visiting museums, this is nothing less than fascinating. For almost an hour, we walk from screen to screen. We wait for the reveal and Mr. Host pushes too many buttons and “Voila!” Inside each case was a truly astonishing work of embroidery—hundreds of karats of precious and semiprecious stones, three-dimensional stitching—images of flora and fauna in works that took 8, 10 even 30 years to make. We learn that this was the collaboration between an embroidery artist and an entrepreneurial jeweler. It is amazing—and now we can understand the taste and capacity of the Mughal courts—this was the kind of work—textiles embedded with thousands of precious stones—that graced the walls of the King’s residence.

After we left the "museum" we walk up to what I thought was a broken escalator. Nope. It starts as I approach. How progressive! There’s a man dying on the road outside and this is an escalator with a motion detector. I am so confused. Upstairs, we experience the jewelry store—persuasive and skilled sales men allow us to try on garnets and rubies and sapphires. But not before Mr. Host shows us his most precious collection of jewelry from—yes, you got it, the jewelry box of Mumtaz Jahan. He allows one of our merry travelers to try on her ring, bracelet and necklace. I remain confused…it can’t be real! I wish I was with a jewelry expert who could debunk this roadshow, but of course, we believe. We gasp and groan. We’ve never seen anything like this. We try on this India. And it’s so fun.

We dress for dinner and board the bus affectionately dubbed the bar. On National holidays in India the country is dry. Yes, that’s right, dry. So our sweet tour guide, rightly thinking we are all lushes who will complain on blogs about the lack of alcohol on our five-star India experience, brings a few beers and a bottle of wine along with little bags of Lays potato chips. She even sings for us. I love this India.

We travel on streets too small (but ever India’s miracle that it all fits and no one dies) to a hotel recommended by several friends for dinner: The Oberoi Amarvilas. This hotel has perfect views of the Taj Mahal. It was also where President Obama and the First Lady were to stay. The State Department had booked the entire hotel, so much to our delight, after their cancellation; there were plenty of tables for dinner. This hotel is a contemporary and exquisitely perfect example of the style of the Mughal courts. We loved it. Best interior design I’ve seen in India. I am inspired right and left and took the photographs to prove it—you can find those on my Facebook page. Glowing uses of teal, gold, silvers, black, white and orange. It’s all there. Candles and oil lamps, perfectly symmetrical fountains rippling over lapis lazuli tiles. We are enveloped by Mughal arches, lavish texiles and a delicious meal. The service in India: par-excellence. A sitar player plays for two hours without stopping, the lyrical melodies of the Mughal courts. We talk to the waiters about their disappointment that the White House changed course. You can tell, while they remain elegant and professional, that they were all thinking this week was going to be very different. Impermanence. Resilient India moves on—treats us as if we are the First Family through three richly prepared courses of culinary delights.

After dinner we step out onto the upstairs balcony and take in the gardens and pool on the “Taj” side of the compound. She sits, hidden, but a beautiful crescent moon hangs heavy over this tableau as if to watch over her. Only the birds and this moon can see her. The sound of water and laughter fills the night. Our dinner with the veiled Taj in the near-distance is a hit. 

On the bus, we lumber home past three huge and impressive carnival-like wedding parties (some consider crashing) and night falls on a very long and confusing day. I drift off—considering the extremes of these contrasts: from a hungry monkey, to the meekest of the meek, to the jewels of Kings. My eyes are tired—perhaps my brain more so, but all I want to do is to keep seeing, to keep watching as this white screen in the dark room of India slowly rises before me. 

Her

The Taj appeared just off the left side of our bus in a misty white fog. It’s elegant profile elusive against a backdrop of the palest grey and almost--but not quite --inside a cloud of fog. We stopped in the left lane of the Highway (India) so our group could soak her in. The traffic fell away, ennui of a four-hour bus ride gone. I’ve waited 42 years, 11 months and four hours to set my gaze on this glorious form. And she is everything.. A few happy moments later, consciousness settles back in and I again hear the bleating horns of traffic and chaos. We will go to the hotel first and “take our lunch” and then set out for the Taj Mahal. Patience is my friend. We gather back on the bus at 4 pm. Our instructions are laid out before us:

• Bring a raincoat. (It’s raining but it matters not. This is the Taj)
• Do not bring any purses / bags (Bag check slows down the line)
• Bundle up. (It’s cold)
• Bring a small amount of money (You might want a very cheap souvenir)
• You will be asked to put on shoe covers once you ascend the platform (Get excited about shoe covers)
• Food, candy, chewing gum are not allowed (Silly, hungry Americans)  
• Do not engage the street sellers (Sam is probably still waiting for me to come back and buy a magnet)
• No photographs in the tomb (Yeah, right, that happens)
• You can take the fast track VIP line to enter the tomb. (“But how will they know we are VIPs?” I ask as she took back our tickets. She just looked at me. Oh, right. We’re not from India.)
• Watch out for the pickpockets (Well she was right about that!)
• Let the Taj speak to you. She will push you away when you walk up to her, and lure you back when you walk backwards. (What? Is this a way to make fun of gullible Americans ? Talking art? I may try it this India on as I go back today but yesterday I wasn’t buying it.)

Earlier this week our guide told us that India has more rules than most countries. Based on the Taj code of conduct, I guess it comes from somewhere. We move in the parking lot from our cozy coach (with a restroom-important) to a little green metal bus ca. 1970. It has a name—I’ll ask her today. Sam and all of his entrepreneurial friends crowd around the bus opening our windows and pushing merchandise inside. A few poor souls make eye contact and it’s all downhill from there. George rocks the back of the bus jokingly and I’m sure a riot is about to break out. 

Finally Sweet Praveen does return with our tickets and we are off in our little green van. Next we are at the entrance of the South Gate. Men in one line, women in another. But what if…? 

We are scanned and wanded and bags are put though the conveyer belt (this is a common practice at every hotel and monument we’ve visited—India has the poorest of the poor but the infrastructure to protect the tightest boundaries). A place of contrasts. Inside the gate (a photograph of the lock is on Facebook) we are still out of view. Praveen runs down the list of rules again and sets us loose to wander and to wonder, to dance with the alluring Taj, to take pictures, to be a VIP in the tomb only to be swept into a sea of what I felt was certainly potential for a non-VIP stampede. We walk through the South Gate and it’s hard not to stand transfixed. But we have to. Amid this sea of India coming to see her. We are there. Sarcasm aside, I was wrong to judge Praveen's museum education methodology. The Taj absolutely speaks to you. She calls on first sight. “Talk to me”, she says. “Among these masses I am lonely”. And then it is just you and the Taj. It is definitely an architectural hazard. This magnetic work of architectural force will hypnotize you. Be prepared, but you can still never know. You won’t know you are cold or wet or jet lagged. You won’t know the water is leaking into your cowboy boot…until much much later. This Taj Mahal will take you under her spell.

At the first set of stairs going down it’s a madhouse. Everyone is jockeying for the best spot for their portrait with this Queen of India. Strangely, you can’t go to the base of the path of water to take a photograph of the reflection—I guess this is some attempt at crowd control. Guards blow piercing whistles every 15 seconds at some innocent person entranced and unaware of place or time. It happens over and over again. We walk down the left side of the expertly and perfectly symmetrical Mughal gardens (16 squares in the four quadrants of beautifully landscaped native Indian flora). Praveen takes us on a short-cut. This woman speaks Taj. We see the first smaller cemetery where Mumtaz Mahal was laid to rest while the tomb was constructed (it took twenty-two years and 22,000 people). Her husband, Mughal emperor Shah Jahan fulfilled a promise he made to her to construct a tomb in her honor following her untimely death delivering their 14^th child. She was his third and most beloved wife. A second tomb was designed for the Shah. It was to be made of black stone and placed on the other side of the Yamuna River. The tombs were planned to be linked by a silver bridge. Following her death, the Shah’s son betrayed his father, the Shah was placed under house arrest and looked longingly at the tomb for eight years before he died. He is buried not to plan next to her in the center of the tomb. This tomb is a letter to love. It is the jewel of India. It is perfect in its ability to draw the breath in awe. This UNESCO World Heritage Site happened because of love. And now we pilgrims of love and light flock here to take in this vision and experience this love for ourselves. What are the other great love letters in the world? This tomb was built as a place where an earthly paradise and a heavenly paradise conjoin. And it is. Until I get to the staircase.

I pull my shoe covers over my very cool Cowboy Boots and climb 22 stairs to mirror the number of years it took to build. (How did they know how long it was going to take?) This view from the top of the platform overwhelms. I want to stop but again, the frenzy of the pilgrims around me and the whistles of the guards pull me from her draw. But, wait, I am a VIP, dammit. Be a VIP. I ignore the rushing lines and just take it all in with my beloved friend and Guru-ji Caron Smith. We hug each other tightly (carefree of the looks) and know this moment is our moment. We study the lace-like carving and we take a lot of pictures (See Facebook) 

We boldly step over the first threshold into the outer corridor of the tomb. I watch her—no falling today at the Taj, please. It’s treacherous going from light to dark, slippery marble thresholds, shoe covers, people with no need for personal space. Maybe by watching over Caron I am somehow keeping myself from falling. Then the whistles. Piercing whistles ricocheting against only marble. I wince and think of Caron with her hearing aids. 

Inside, we are now chattle. We are not moving fast enough. But I want to see! I want to see the inside of this pearl. I get angry—who can whistle and yell at Sweet Dr. Caron Smith for not moving fast enough!! Totally ridiculous. These guys could learn a thing or two about crowd control. I breathe. Imagine how my father really couldn’t be here. I make sure I see Caron and I walk cautiously around the circle of the tomb. The marble! The highly carved ornamental partition around the two graves is polished beyond imagination. It casts a pearlescent glow. It took twelve years to create as the great structure rose around it. It looks like icing. Remember we are cows, now, not well-intentioned Art Historians passionate about India, are whistled at again and pushed along. 

You can’t enter this part of the tomb at the same time you exit (India)—so we are pushed together until the entire circular path fills up and then they switch the entrance to an exit and we will be allowed to pour out. I find my breath. I keep an eye on Caron hoping she sees (and remembers the four inch threshold). I put a virtual forcefield around my pockets. This is not fun. But it’s the Taj. It’s raining at the Taj and I don’t care. Give me full on stampede potential and I’m pretty much ready to get out. Finally it happens. Whistles signal. We move. We push and I remember not to be the compassionate friendly Texan I am but not every part of my 5’10” with cowboy boots and push my way out. 

Outside is better. Re-centered we study more inlay, more sculptural carving on the outer walls of the tomb. We enjoy the other visitors (now more than 1 inch away from us so we can see them). We take lots of photographs. It is lovely again. I am grateful to be here in this long awaited, much anticipated place. Nothing else matters. We take our time. I notice none of the Indians have umbrellas. What do they do in monsoons? I guess an umbrella isn’t really much use in a monsoon. As I look at my umbrella: a fancy Dry-Bar giveaway that is probably made for 1 or 2 time use, I think –well not having an umbrella is certainly simpler!

Just as we were leaving, Caron noticed the light change. I love her for this. Yes. The setting sun fills up every droplet of water in this blanket of fog and for just a moment the air is lit in a new way—changing this pearl to the palest of pink. The difference in just five minutes time is astonishing. It wasn’t the sunset I dreamed of at the Taj Mahal. It was better: so alluring, mysterious and only for those looking very very closely. It was only for those listening.

I leave you with this poem by Emily Dickinson—she could have written this at the Taj, but like so many mysteries we will never really know:

1053

It was a quiet way

It was a quiet way

He asked if I was his-


I made no answer of the Tongue


But answer of the Eyes

And then He bore me on


Before this mortal noise


With swiftness, as of Chariots


And distance, as of Wheels.


This World did drop away


As Acres from the feet


Of one that leaneth from Balloon


Upon an Ether street.


The Gulf behind was not,


The Continents were new-


Eternity it was before


Eternity was due.


No Seasons were to us

It was not Night nor Morn

But Sunrise stopped upon the place


And fastened it in Dawn.

Today, we scale the Red Fort in Agra. I will be with the Taj again this afternoon. Now, she waits for me. 

From the place that Love built,  Amy