I awoke before the sun rose, just as I fell to sleep, to the rhythmic sound of the hand water pump at the riverside just below our window. This morning the percussion was accompanied by an old man singing his praises to Krishna in time. When we finally rose from bed it was Andy's turn to feel under the weather, my sickness having subsided overnight. We said goodbye to dusty Mathura and headed towards Agra. The road was to be a main artery, a dual carriage way full of traffic. Instead we met with a peaceful surprise. The divided highway was under construction and both halves were complete, but only one-half open to auto and scooter traffic.
We rode on the closed half alone most of the way to Agra. Portions were open on both sides where we did have to contend with traffic. Strangely the drivers treated the road as two parallel two-way roads as opposed to a divided highway on those segments. Smooth roads free of traffic left my mind free to wander. I thought mostly of my unhappy truce with India. Why wasn't I enjoying my stay here? Was it the people? Surely not; aside from a few dishonest folks in Delhi they are probably the most friendly folks on the planet. Many are concerned that we have a favorable impression of their homeland and I feel guilty every time I have to say that I am not enjoying myself thoroughly.
The peasantry is remarkably curious about us, our origins and our now not-so-shiny mounts. The towns are bustling affairs choked with beyond colorfully dressed people engaged in frenzied commerce. The streets are clogged by vehicles of all flavors and sizes, farm animals, pedestrians, cows and dogs and frightfully hard to negotiate. The countryside is consumed by agriculture. Wide varieties of crops grown include rice, eggplant, onions, cucumber, carrots and many others. A welcome change from the almost oppressive homogeneity of Southeast Asia's obsession with rice. What of "Indian logic?" I've learned that here seldom does a question yield a direct or thorough answer.
Often they result in an entirely new tangential conversation. Conversations rarely follow the roadsigns of western discourse and often end with all parties involved less understood than before the discussion began. None of these things on their own were off-putting to me. Each, to the contrary, thought-provoking and stimulating. However, the profound foreigness of everything is sometimes overwhelming. That taken in combination with the radically inhospitable nature of the environment make it hard to let one's guard down. In the center of cities I've found street urchins reaching in my pockets, tugging at the zippers of my bags. While in the countryside I find myself absorbed with the road in order to avoid obstacles like huge potholes, speed bumps, patches of sand, tractors, busses, scooters and trucks.
On top of that the air is so filthy that I blow dirt clods out of my nose and wash cubic yards of dirt off of my body daily. In fact, it is not India or Indians I dislike, but the care I must exhibit here in order to avoid harm. In the midst of my reflection we'd come upon the outskirts Agra. The first sight was the tomb of the first Moghul Emperor. Akbar was said to rest in this red sandstone compound. At first I thought we'd leave our bikes unattended in the parking area outside. As we wandered away to be tourists a crowd of nosy schoolchildren descended upon them ringing the bells, shifting the gears and digging in our panniers.
I stayed with the cycles while Andy visited and then we reversed roles. As I waited three of the fiddlers told me of their studies, the youngest speaking in rather stunning English. Once inside the compound I found the tomb to be a rather gaudily decorated edifice. Too much stone inlay distracted me from the exceedingly light lines for a sandstone building. Another diversion was the hundreds of monkeys swarming all over the lawn. One lumpy looking man dressed in burlap kept pulling small *brinjals* (eggplants, aubergines) from his clothes and feeding them to the monkeys. When I returned to the bikes and my student entourage Andy was having his fortune told by a man who my friends said was "deceiving"
him. My "friends" were just as commercially minded as Andy's fortune teller. All asked for money as we left. Mounting our bikes we headed towards the Taj Mahal. Our route was much more crowded than the earlier part of the day. Most of my effort was spent avoiding accidents. We did have a few spare cycles to ponder what the Indians thought of us. Could it be rich, weird and stupid? While looking for lodgings Andy was struck by a scooter. The impact dislodged his rear wheel and we spent several moments repairing it. I was enraged by the response of the scooter rider who laughed as a response to the accident.
Was tempted to pummel him with my tire pump and see how funny he thought that. After settling in Agra we rode our bikes to the Taj, arriving in time to enjoy sunset there. I'd expected hoards of foreigners crawling around the grounds snapping photos. To the contrary, most of the tourists were Indian nationals. "The great thing about Indian tourist sites is that someone always appears to show and tell you about them," Andy had just advised me. He was right. Just as we entered the tomb a fifty-ish year-old dude knocked over a couple of Indian tourists on his way over to us.
He marshaled us through the crowd, told us a little history and flashed his light on the most important features of the interior. He pressed his light against the marble where it had been inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones and they cast colored light around the room. After touring the inside we sat on the lawn and watched the oxen driven lawn mower being put to bed. Our last moments there were spent watching the Taj's marble walls change color in the dusky light.