Masala Vagabond: AGRA! Even the Name is Foreboding

I'm not going to go to Agra. I'm not going to go to Agra. I don't care if it's on the Golden Triangle. I don't care if the Taj Mahal is there. I'm not going to do it.

Somehow, I'm on a train headed for Agra.

Everyone I have met has told me the horror stories of Agra, the city of thieves, the city of tourists. “There's nothing to see there,” they warn me, “except the Taj Mahal.”

So I've come to a compromise. On my way from Varanasi to Delhi, Agra is merely a few hours out of the way. To not see the Taj Mahal when I'm in India... can I do it? So I finally decide: I will stay in Agra for as little time as possible, avoiding the place like a Christmas-and-Easter-Christian avoids church.

My train arrives early morning and I take an auto rickshaw over to the Big One. “You cannot bring in your bag Madam,” the driver warns me, “why not leave it with me?” He is betrayed by the sinister smile he cannot help but show. I roll my eyes and pay him, my bag still firmly attached to my back.

The Taj Mahal, I learn, has the priciest entry fee in all of India: a whopping 750 rupees (to put it simply, the cost of a week's stay at a decent guest house). The mausoleum is blocked by tall walls; my only choice is to go in. So I pay and in exchange am given surgical shoe covers and a shiny ticket from the Archaeological Society of India. Classy.

Dodging hawkers, beggars, and thieves (madam, would you leave your bag here? Magnet, madam? Post card? Magnet?) I find the official locker room and double check all the locks. One little girl follows me for nearly a kilometer before I agree to buy a snow globe for ten rupees (yes, 25 cents). Camels line the streets, pulling carts of tourists, and I can't help but wonder how they ended up here (or if they have a history here). I watch contentedly as the soft pads on a camel's feet give way each time they hit the ground. Squish, squish. Squish, squish.

Body frisk, bag check. It's like I'm going to the Indian cinema. I make my way in.

It's not sunrise or sunset, the moon is not rising over the mausoleum, but I begrudgingly admit that it is absolutely beautiful. Not as large as I had expected, but lavish and intricate. I explore the gardens and the mausoleum, chucking my surgical shoe covers and bribing the shoe-check man to make sure mine aren't stolen, and take it in.

It was worth it.

The grandeur of the place, the palatial feel, gives it a surreal quality. Twice (different) women stopped in front of me, apparently frozen (like wind-up dolls in need of a hand), and I thought for sure that I had discovered a glitch in the Matrix. A religious act? Something wrong in my own brain's wiring?

I clandestinely find a seating place for crane 86 within the dark, quiet, round confines of the mausoleum. Call it an embellishment.

I lingered at the Taj Mahal, but as soon as I exited I was moving as though the city was on fire. I spent approximately 1.5 hours in Agra, something I was very pleased with. The tuk-tuk drove me through more beautiful, rich areas of town, more lovely architecture and a vast military station, but still I had no desire to linger.

At the train station, they told me the only choice left was to purchase a general ticket, so I decided to forgo the train. General tickets, you see, place you in a car with several hundred other people, all standing and pushed in so tightly that some people spend their entire ride literally leaning out of the open door or window, clinging to the side of the train, or even sometimes sitting on the top of the car.

Over to another part of town. The next Volvo bus doesn't leave for hours, so I decide to take the local bus to Delhi (Columbians: about the equivalent of taking a dirty COTA bus up to Toledo). I've always enjoyed riding the local buses; they take a bit longer and are usually more crowded, but they offer a completely unique view of India. Five hours later, (a solid three hours of which a greasy, fat, and long-haired Indian that looked a bit like Ron Jeremy stared at me), I arrived in Delhi.

I have a strange relationship with Delhi; I can't seem to find an emotion between love and hate for it. Past the dusty-colored India Gate (similar to L'Arc De Triomphe), past slums and rich areas, where I at times wonder if I have left India and found myself back in the West. Past the Red Fort and other monuments the English names of which my driver cannot remember, I incidentally explore the city from the back of a rickshaw.

1. Home

Another overnight trip, this time on a true Volvo bus (which are quite nice but overly pricey, especially for India), I find myself back in Mcleodganj. Over 2,000 miles traveled, four nights on trains/buses/cars and three nights in hotels, four (or five?) Indian states later, and I'm back where I started.

And I realize how in love with this place I really am.

While I left, tMcleod has been invaded by little whitish and buttery-yellow butterflies, making it difficult for one to look in any direction without seeing a few. Mcleod, Indian yet unlike any other Indian city, feels pure and beautiful, honest and welcoming. It's an Indian refuge away from India, nestled in the mountains. Here, I'm not stared at, not leered at, don't have to constantly worry about gropes or theft. Yes, it's still India, and no it's not perfect. But it has my heart nonetheless.

I'm happy to put aside my wanderlust and enjoy this beautiful place.