Another look at the modest dwellings of Akbar ad his Wives

Up for breakfast – Indian again - I have now come to understand that the punishment for a failed Indian chef is deportation to Australia - The Indian food so far has been more flavoursome than that which reaches the palate of the Australian diner – for me personally - none of those next day tummy agitation that troubled me in Australia – just delightful food!

The driver arrives  – how did you sleep – that is very good! – onwards through and out of Agra – chaos – the drive exercises a U-turn in the face of speeding on-going traffic – my pulse rises – not to worry the other drivers just steer around him - he threads the needle on innumerable occasions – the sacred cows abound – motor cycles everywhere – passengers in excess of two are common – a single female passenger sitting side saddle the norm – some passengers impose an unreasonable load on the rear tyre of the conveyance – others slim, young, stylish, colourful and accomplished co-drivers.

Rubble – rubble – rubble everywhere – no demolition – no excavation – no public works of any description seems to include the mandatory removal of construction waste – it sits in untidy piles in case it may be required next time.

Past buildings started but never finished – some not finished obviously because their reinforced concrete beams had collapsed shortly after their props were removed – other not finished for some other reason. Past rubbish lots that feed a local goat.

Past local traders

Past the only house proud individual we encountered outside of a hotel.

In an hour we reach the Fatehpur Sikri – a second fort and palace complex of the Mungal ruler, Akbar - like the Red Fort almost entirely built from Red Sandstone all of which has been carved in intricate detail - detail that is hard to believe - even screens that could be made of light cast iron have been carved from solid blocks of sandstone .

Like the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort, the entrance way to the site is sloppy and unkempt – I smile at the entrance sign that says “Our Heritage is our glory” – I am an unkind individual – I think to myself – “thank goodness otherwise there would be no glory at all” .

Like the Red Fort this complex is stunning – stunning – how humans could have effected the detailed carving of the red sandstone is almost beyond my comprehension - built by Akbar to raise his first surviving son and reward his favourite wife - it houses palaces for himself and all three wives.

While the gentlemen among you might be tempted to be a little jealous of Akbar you might be consoled by the reality that it must have been near impossible for him to have found one of his harem given the size of his bed!

The guide takes delight in telling us again and again of the mis-deeds of the British - he points out the areas where the diamonds and other precious stones had been requisitioned - indeed there were  missing inlays from the flower below - so if his story is true then there would have been untold wealth transferred back to the home country by members of the Rajah from just this complex alone!

I recommend that anyone who is interested read this article to get an Indian perspective on the legacy of the British rulers of India - I am afraid I had only ever really followed the British version - isn't that sad!

Fatehpur Sikri goes on and on - magnificent! - magnificent

A screen carved from sandstone - hard not to be inpressed!

Bernie sits on Akbar's seat in the courtyard - the squares on the pavement are part of a giant board game - Akbar played using slave girls as the games pieces! - The photograph is very meaningful for me since I feel a little like those slave girls when I am at home!

Time to return to Delhi - Ah this will be an absolute dream - an expressway for the entire distance - Simon will be jealous - WRONG - I am not sure of the driver's strategy - perhaps it was to save tolls - perhaps it was to give us another look at the countryside - who knows - he chooses the old road! - rough - hectic - stop start - oh Simon now we understand!

We grin and bear it - we arrive back in Delhi after 4 hours of stop - start - pile of concrete rubble - new road construction - pile of rubble - a town by Indian standards - A metropolis by Australian standards - more construction - more township chaos - more concrete rubble.

The piles of concrete rubble get to me - please take them away! - we follow the recently completed overhead metro rail system with concrete pillar after concrete pillar - almost everyone replete with its own pile of long forgotten construction rubble.

We reach the sanctuary of the good old Suryaa!

We must leave for Shimla early tomorrow morning - we choose from the Indian menu - the waiter returns - am I sure that I want the Punjabi Choley - "yes" says I - "no" says he - "yes" say I - "NO SIR" says he - "this is not like the breakfast choley sir!" - I get the message -  We dine again on superb, first class Indian faire.

Airm-in-airm wae mah burd at the Taj Mahal 21st April

In the spirit of making sure things are not overdone we return to the glorious Suryaa Hotel – it is just slightly after lunch – the Driver can hardly disguise his delight – the guide was quick to feign concern but quick to agree that Bernie was looking a little tired and that it might be best – the reality was that both of us were fine.

We leave the Gandhi memorial and head back to the hotel – at last! – the  moment I had been dreading – the Guide raises the “Ball Tampering Scandal” – I have prepared myself to be a Judas to deny any knowledge of the existence of Steve Smith – but it was all unnecessary – “at least he apologised – Not like those Pakistani bastards” says he with considerable vehemence – “Steve Smith still has more fans in India than he does in Australia” says he – in flash he moves on – did you see the IPL last night – no says I – “Oh you should have Chris Gayle” says he! – I tune out as he goes on to describe the innings!

I reflect back on the vehemence of his comments on the Pakistani “ball tamperers”– I ask about the relationship with Pakistan – it strikes a nerve – he is eager to express his views! – “should never have happened – still sleeper cells around – that is why we need hotel security with neighbours like that - cannot trust them!

I let it go - I focus on the driver and traffic – I am still trying to decipher the real road rules – I have decided that the lane markings are not really lane markings but rather driver aids to assist steering for it seems that a remarkable number of drivers progress with their wheels perfectly straddling the lines – while there may be only two white lines on each direction of a carriage way there will in fact be up to 4 actual traffic streams with second by second exchanges between the lanes.

In a flash we approach home – I know we are almost there since we pass the entrance to the Embassy of the Republic of Moldova – the naïve state of my mind and its ignorance surprises me – at my age one should be aware that the country actually exists and is not a figment of a Hollywood imagination that depicts it as the magical kingdom of a young Moldovan Prince who studies in America and turns some young cheerleader into his Queen.

We hide from the real India in the bustle free environs of the Suryaa - A calm and relaxed late afternoon is spent – sometimes in the ground floor bar – sometimes in the rooftop bar – we sit inside protected from the high winds that the pollution gods have ordered in to increase the transparency of the Delhi skies and to ease the pressure on the bronchial passages of her inhabitants.

The tour director has arranged to visit us at the hotel for a briefing – we wait in the lobby -  we are spotted by some local tourists from Hyderabad – Mother – father – two young boys – keen to engage – what do you do in Australia – we are business people from Hyderabad says she - Australia is very expensive - She says! – we need to lift our thinks I – I address one of the boys -What do you want to be when you grow up – cricketer says he – the father intervenes – too many boys want to be cricketers  in India – my son should try something else – says he.

 We adjourn to the Rooftop Restaurant for dinner – we expect a North Indian menu – we receive a “Tastes of Asia” menu – our disappointment is tempered by the quality of the faire! – so far our encounters with Indian food has been exemplary – we are already content in our minds that the Scots will not be able to compete – Our hope however is that the Scots manage to provide alcohol of a vastly superior quality and at a considerably lower price than their Indian counterparts – I am sure that $100 a bottle is excessive for a Villa Maria New Zealand Sav Blanc!

As we dined we reflect on our first day in Delhi – Bernie has done well – very well – better than expected – was our day protected by the guide from the true realities of every day Indian life? – certainly - Enjoyable? – an understatement!

One of the things we learnt was today that Indians use an abbreviated version of the English alphabet consisting of 25 rather than 26 letters – I tried to discover the reason only to be told by the locals that no Indian knows wh(y)! – there is no reason to feel bad if you did not see (C) that one coming.

In the spirit of a relaxed holiday we retire early – we are off to Agra tomorrow – no panic – no pressure – the driver will not even get to the hotel until 9.00am – none of this “have your luggage downstairs by 5:30am” stuff that is apparently the bane of the life of tour group travellers!

To describe the Hotel Suryaa as being glorious, as I did a little earlier, may be considered an exaggeration by those used to travelling in higher standards of portage and accommodation than Bernie and I but nevertheless her protections far overweigh anything that mischievous camper van could ever have afforded these reformed travellers – the reality is that just 20 years ago she would have been considered as being near the pinnacle of the 5 star category – age has wearied her and she now she sees herself as being a distinguished member of the 4 star hostelries – for these travellers she was a very pleasant and obliging host – we promise her that we will return twice more before we depart Delhi.

We arise to contemplate the alleged 4 and half hour drive to Agra - will it be as predicted – long? – rough? – tiring but worth it? – “time will pass, and the answer will emerge” -  thinks he as he indulges in a useless, self obsessed examination of his own engagement in philosophical thought. We have been briefed by son Simon to expect the trip to the site of the Taj Mahal to be an ordeal – the reality is that there are advantages in delaying a trip such as this into your retirement years since this maximises the potential for the old goat tracks to be converted into Super Highways – such is the case for the road between Delhi and Agra.

As we head out the hotel the traffic is not quite so severe as the traffic of yesterday – in the manner of retirees and relaxed travellers we have no idea what day it is! – Saturday – Ah – an explanation for the slightly reduced chaos that is the Delhi transport system – while the traffic may have been less chaotic, the wind that the pollution gods sent last night has not reduced the smog.

While the traffic was less chaotic it was still crowded on the streets of Dehli

While the smog is severe the temperatures actually quite acceptable – humidity very tolerable.

 I spoke too soon about the traffic – while the volume of traffic seems to have reduced, the random acts of madness executed by the drivers of the four wheeled, three wheeled and four wheeled people movers has been raised to an entirely new level – even our driver laughs as he sits at a red light waiting to turn – he is passed on the inside and the outside by a steady stream of two and three wheelers all turning in the face of on-coming traffic!

The turn at the red light put us on to an Expressway - a dual carriage way -marked with three lanes but hosting  5 lanes of cars, bikes, motorbikes, buses and small, very small trucks - not a semi-trailer in sight  – the road better than expected – the speed differentials terrifying!

We soon have managed to find our way on the roads that pass as ring roads in Delhi – some semblance of western traffic normality returns – the drive turns to us – ‘do you know the secret to driving in India” says he?

Good eyes

Good ears

Good brakes and

Good luck!

We join the Yamuna Expressway - pass high rise apartments – powerlines are everywhere  – the smog thick and the views restricted – scrubby country that is eagerly awaiting the monsoons – past more new high rise apartments – past private universities – past the F1 Motor Racing Complex – the country remains scrubby and thirsty.  

The expressway develops into a first-class toll way – where are the rough and ready roads that Simon described?

The traffic is light – yet still the drivers exhibit a tendency to want to self-destruct – the cars are joined by agricultural tractors drawing significant produce laden trailers travelling at speeds more befitting a farm lane that a super highway - their speed exaggerates the already enormous speed differentials on the road imposed by the legal speed limits – cars 100 – trucks 60 – Given the legal speed differential and to it it the reality that the road is also populated by tractors, the occasional pedestrian, the occasional push bike rider then the need for concentration on the part of the conventional motorist becomes extreme

We note road signs - “Overspeeding will invite prosecution!” – we note also that the necessary prosecution will be initiated at the next toll booth – there is a large overhead electronic sign board – it announces a car registration number, its speed and the fine it will have to pay – clearly someone behind us had exceeded the speed limit and was being told in advance of his arrival at the toll booth to have his wallet ready! - we arrive at the next Toll Booth - here is a guard armed with the equivalent of an AK47 - I do trust that the miscreant driver does not object to vigourously to his fine!

The country side continues to display a dry, clayey, arid appearance – the low scrubby trees are joined by large powerlines that criss-cross the landscape – as Delhi disappears behinds us the landscape becomes increasingly dotted with small cropping plots and with shallow clay pits and associated brick kilns - each features chimneys some of which displayed dubious verticality.

We approach Agra – more and more small plot cereal crops appear – people are harvesting before the monsoons arrive – the harvest is cut into stooks and gathered in piles distributed over the plot – the tractor and thresher is brought to each gathering of the stooks - the separated grain is left in piles – some straw is set aside and some straw is dispensed to join the brick making process – the labourers arrive to convert the grain piles into small round stacks of bagged cereal – other arrive to surround and roof the bag stacks with the residue straw of the stooks to form a structure that bears a remarkable resemblance to the Himalayan yurt.

The super highway remains just that – Toll plaza after toll plaza - Motor bikes A$1.5 - Cars A$3

Very close to Agra now - The cement company welcomes us to the “City of Taj” – the smog remains as we exit the toll way at the Taj themed Agra toll plaza.

Off the expressway and back to Indian reality

Smoggy – dusty - unkempt - noisy - there is the first horse I have seen – the entrance to Agra reminds me of a cross between regional Indonesia and regional Mexico – the motor bikes and three-wheel taxis appear in enormous numbers on the narrow crowded street - they are joined by cows tethered to trees – by cows that assert their divine right of way on the main road – now the drivers not only have to contend with each other, but they have to contend with the whims of the holy cow! – I thought the drivers of Delhi were heroes, but their regional counterparts make their driving feats seem less heroic and more mundane.

We considered stopping at Muriel's on David for lunch but decided against it!

Beautiful Agra

As we move further into Agra, we pass wayside stalls and street food vendors – the traffic becomes marginally saner -  buildings become larger and more modern albeit in a half-hearted fashion – we pass an enormous hotel and convention centre – ostentatious but well protected from an unwelcome ingress of the local population – we reach the Trident Hotel – Into the hotel – a different world – we are insulated – we can take the good and leave the bad! - we reflect later – a funny feeling – sympathy – empathy with the situation of the locals – an uncomfortable burden on the conscience – we have escaped their reality – I puzzle – what is their reality?

Our guide arrives - Guide – loves Australian cricket team – did you hear about Shane Watson in the IPL last night – “my favourite of all time is Steve Waugh” says he.

We head to the Red Fort – things like Forts and Temples and Mosques and Cathedrals leave me cold - The Red Fort stuns me! – makes the Medieval City at Carcassonne in France seem like an auxiliary barrack and I well recall my sense of awe at its size, history and majesty. 

This 15^th century bastion is enormous – a edifice of the Mungal dynasty – housed the palaces of Emperors and their many wives - fortifications more than 5 kilometres in length protected a population of more than 3000 - needs to be seen to be believed!

We reflected on the work involved in the intricate carving of the red sandstone - it is amazing what the thread of beheading will do for a workers perseverance!

We look out the window and imagine the emperor checking on the progress of his pet project - his legacy

The Guide enjoys his work but is not backward in the giving the British a serve - he comments about the gems and gold taken from the inlays of the various palace walls within the Fort - he comments with disdain about the elevated tomb of the former British Museum curator who expressed a desire and was granted the privilege of being buried within the Fort in the company of the Mungal emperors - "he did nothing but steal from India but he sought the right to rest with emperors!" says he.

Time at last – we head towards the Taj Mahal – we stop at a set of crowded stairs – I have no idea where we are – “this is the entrance to the Taj Mahal” says Bernie – the Guide shepherds us into electric rickshaw – it conveys along a a broad, paved pathway lined with scrubby, unkempt gardens made to look even more unkempt by the fallen trees that litter the area – while the result of a recent storm, the storm was not so recent that they should remain.

The rickshaw drops us at the ticket plaza – the guide leaves us to acquire the tickets – we progress by foot into the red sandstone  gateway building – the crowds significant – Indians in the extreme majority.

We follow the guide – a different route for internationals – we are ushered past lines of locals to the front of the queue – “you pay more” says he when Bernie protests.

Suddenly there is the Taj Mahal! – magnificent – there is little more that can be said – A wonder of the world because it is a wonder of the world.

We don shoe covers and follow the crowded line into the building itself - under the inner dome - over the crypt area – I feel like people should not be in here – it was enough to see the building from outside!

We exit – local Indian fellows ask to be photographed with us – they have never seen a geriatric pair of Australians in large hats before – they must tell their parents about us – we look around – hats are rare indeed! – we look for shade and try to become less conspicuous by removing our hats.

I sit and look at the edifice – I look at the gardens that surround it – the absence of water in the long rectangular marble paved axis pond that presents the vista – the fallen trees that have yet to be removed from the recent storm – the only "just" loved state of lawns and shrubs – I find it inconsistent with the aspirations of the creator – I suspect heads would roll if he were to return from the dead – I am not being critical – I just find it incongruous that no serious attempt is being made to have its immediate environs match the manicured perfection of the Taj Mahal itself.

We return to the Trident Hotel - I try to tip the bellboy - I am sorry sir we do not accept personal tips - If you really want to tip there is a shared tip barrel at reception! No sure who is running this place but everyone in the establishment is a try-hard in the nicest sense - the waiter says " How is your room sir" - the Bellboy says "How was your dinner sir?" - everyone bows - everyone immaculately dressed - the buffet chef appears at the tables asking about the quality of his faire -