T H E W H I T E D R E A M.

IT PEEPS FROM THE MANY PAPERBACK FRONTS OF TRAVEL GUIDES. THE MINIATURES ADORN THE DISPLAY SHELVES OF THE `KHADI-GRAM’ SHOWROOMS. IT HAS BEEN THE CALLING CARD OF INDIA SINCE MANY YEARS. IT IS THE TAJ, LITERALLY MEANING `THE CROWN’.

So much has been written about this jewel of India; made me wonder, would endorsing a few more words do more harm to its ecological imbalance. I thought otherwise. It is beyond the mere description of words- indescribable…. Yet it makes all writers to proceed to try their imaginative hands. An Englishman, Lord Robert has praised it `I will not attempt to describe the indescribable. To those who have not seen it already, I will say go to Agra. The Taj alone is worth the journey’. And so one March evening, made me embark the most convenient locomotive to `destination Taj’.

Pre-visit preparations were aplenty. For putting down for more than half a week, the meandering `tajganj’ seemed to be more appealing alternative to the sprawling cantonment. A largely recommended place near the east gate of the Taj complex was decided upon. A down to earth place (literally as it did not rise above the ground floor); hotel `Sheela’ was a compact arrangement of rooms around a tidy garden. While I was filling in the guest register, a distinct hoarse voice spoke up `have you come for the Taj?’. It was the owner of the place, a prudish person of short elevation. `Why else would I be here’? My grey-matter questioned. The clock behind the reception desk read 5.55 and the entry to Taj would close in precisely next 35 minutes. I bolted out of my room in 7 minutes, a pit stop of sorts to refuel my camera with a low light film.

Through the mandatory security check and into the walled Taj complex, the first view of the masterpiece was its onion dome rising beyond the huge peripheral wall. Hordes of tourists were scurrying through the gateway, towards the mausoleum. A mesmerizing white dream stood majestically against the cobalt sky. I momentarily paused, and likewise remotely wondered every camera-crazy-damn tourist to do the same and soak in the glory of this human aspiration. `Wah Taj’.- the sheer sight of it was deserving every thousand praises. I realized the moment and felt it worth every credit-card-swipe on getting here. The top of the dome stood as high as a twenty-storied building; humungous compared to the miniature glass cased models seen in those `Khadigram’ showrooms.

This was my second visit to Agra. I jogged my memory for glimpses from the earlier visit, but the hard disk seemed vacant. Twenty-three years is a long span in time, and moreover I couldn’t correctly spell `wonder’ let alone the fact that this monument of unsurpassed beauty was one of the Wonders of the World. Some nostalgic strains did surface intermittently as I walked along the water channels.

Built in the glory of love, the Taj is a mausoleum of Emperor Shah Jahan’s beloved wife Mumtaz mahal. On her deathbed at Burhanpur in central India, during her fourteenth childbirth, she made the Emperor promise of building her a memorial. Shah Jahan, on returning back to Agra called for designs for the most beautiful structure not yet seen by human eyes. Amongst many designs Ustad Isa Afandi from Turkey was commissioned as the Architect and the work of the Taj began in December 1631 AD. Some scholars believe that a jewellery designer from Venice, Geranimo Veroneo, designed the memorial. `Farmans’ were sent across to the rulers of Rajasthan for a consistent supply of white makrana marble. Huge blocks of marble were transported across the north-west plains before being cut into dressed blocks and used for the construction of the monument. Artisans and craftsmen from the distant lands of Kabul, Multan and Persia were employed. Some twenty thousand labours toiled for 22 years to build on this earth, a masterpiece of unparalleled beauty. The Taj is bedecked with precious stones of proportions that would be the envy of every living woman. Lapis Lazuli and amethyst are used in the intricate inlay work done upon the marble. Inscriptions of the holy Quaran are engraved in black marble; floral motifs carved with onyx, pearls, and corals; mosaics spread with Jasper, Ruby and Topaz.

The Taj is a perfect example of symmetry and proportions. Every minaret, every dome, every trellis seems in the right place. Flawless It is also a mystery to reason. Built by the mughal ruler Emperor Shah Jahan, history in its yellowed pages mentions of the Emperor having cut off the hands of the craftsmen so that no other building as beautiful as the Taj could stand on this land. But as a school of scholars believe Shah Jahan to be a generous person; his opressions can be confined to the books. Contrarily it was his son, the later ruler Aurangzeb, who mercilessly rode across the country to decimate Hindu values. The `tourist guides’ at the Agra fort interestingly point out to the little pavilion where Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his tyrant son, sympathetically recreating the agony the emperor underwent on seeing his beloved Taj framed across the trellised balconies of the fort.

The glory of the Taj bathed in full moon deeply intrigued my senses. The waters of the Yamuna and the huge expanse of space beyond draped the Taj with an ethereal luster. It held the awe of million tourists. A sight so perfect makes one think of this vision, which solely obsessed the Emperor to feverishly pursue a dream that would stun civilizations long after his departure

The Yamuna today is burdened with wastes produced by the booming economy. The efforts of Krishna and Balaram stand wasted. It is said that Krishna wanted the river to meander through the meadows of Mathura and Vrindavan, but Goddess Yamuna was adamant and would not change course. With a stiff stick Balaram channeled and made the river flow past Agra before uniting with the Ganga at Allahabad .

And today, 350 years later, the Taj still charms every visitor. It stands as the pinnacle of supreme romanticism, an experience beyond words. I am reminded of Lord Robert and the craving to get to Agra as I descend the steps to the Yamuna. The familiar boatman called me for another `show' of the Taj across the Yamuna. This was perhaps my last sight, at least for this trip. As the boat drifted gently over the river, the setting sun had bathed the Taj in yet another spell. I was trying all possible angles with my viewfinder to capture this indescribable wonder. A perfect vision; when the boatman took a breathless pause from humming one of the popular Bollywood tunes and remarked. ` Sab Maya hai' . `This world is an illusion. You are born empty handed and return to the lord empty-handed.'- perhaps referring to the pathetic end of the great visionary, Shah Jahan.

The reflection of the Taj in the river waters faded as the Sun set over the dream; the Emperors white dream.