'As a monument to enduring love, the Taj reveals its subtleties to those who know how to appreciate beauty. You will notice that the rectangular base of the Taj is in itself symbolic of the different sides from which to view a beautiful woman. The main gate is like a veil over a woman's face, which should be lifted very gently and slowly on the wedding night. Like a jewel, the Taj sparkles in the moonlight when the semi-precious stones inlaid into the white marble on the main mausoleum catch the glow of the moon. The Taj is pinkish in the morning, milky white in the evening and golden when the moon shines. These changes, it is said, depict the different moods of a woman. I will now take you inside the mausoleum. Please take off your shoes and deposit them here.'
The tourists take off their shoes and enter the main mausoleum. I remain outside, trying to match the changing colours on the dome with what I had seen of the changing moods of Neelima Kumari.
Someone taps me lightly on the shoulder. I whirl around to see a bespectacled foreigner with a wife and two kids staring at me. He is bedecked with gizmos of all kinds, from digital camcorder to mini disc player. 'Excuse me, you speak English?' he asks me.
'Yes,' I reply.
'Please, can you tell little bit about Taj Mahal. We are tourists. From Japan. We new to your city.
We come just today.'
I feel like telling him that I am also new to this city, that I also came just today, but his curious face appeals to me. Mimicking the serious tone of the guide,begin to tell him what I remember.
'The Taj Mahal was built by Emperor Khurram for his wife Noorjahan, also known as Mumtaz Begum, in 1531. He met her while she was selling bangles in a garden and fell in love with her, but married her only after nineteen years. She then fought with him in all his battles and gave him eighteen kids in fourteen years.'
The Japanese interrupts me. 'Eighteen kids in only fourteen years? You sure?' he asks diffidently.
'Of course,' I rebuke him. 'Some must have been twins, you see. Anyway, when the nineteenth child was being born, Mumtaz died in Sultanpur on the sixteenth of June. But before she died she asked the king for four favours. One to build the Taj Mahal, two not to beat their children, three to make his hair grey, and the fourth . . . I don't remember, but it's not important. Now, as you can see, the Taj Mahal consists of a gateway, a garden, a guest house and a tomb.'
The Japanese nods enthusiastically. 'Yes. Yes. We have seen gateway and garden. Now we see tomb. But where guest house?'
I scowl at him. 'Haven't I told you that the real tombs are underground? Therefore all the area above the ground must have been the guest house. Now inside the mausoleum you will see the tombs of Mumtaz and the Emperor. Don't forget to see the pen with ninety-nine gemstones on it, and every three centimetres you will see fifty names of God engraved on the walls. The verses on the walls all mean the same, regardless of the different lettering. Isn't that wonderful? Remember that the dome is 160 metres high and the minarets are seventeen metres tall. Also, if you view the Taj Mahal from different angles you will see different veils of a woman on her wedding night.
Go and try it. Before I forget, I must also tell you that Tagore, our famous poet, won the Nobel prize for his poetry on the Taj Mahal, called "The Slap on the Cheek of William Wordsworth."'
'Really? Wow! So interesting! Guide book no mention all this.' He turns to his wife and speaks to her in rapid-fire Japanese. Then he translates for my benefit. 'I tell my wife it is good we no take expensive official guide. You tell us everything so nicely.' He beams at me. 'We thank you very much. Arigato.' He bows to me and slips something into my hand. I bow back. As he moves on I open my fist to see a neatly folded, crisp new fifty-rupee note. For just five minutes' work!
I know two things now: I want to stay in the city of the Taj Mahal, and I wouldn't mind becoming a tourist guide.
* * *
Dusk is beginning to fall by the time I finally tear myself away from the marble monument, now cloaked in a reddish hue. I have to find a place to stay. I accost a young boy in the street. He is around my age, and wears a white T-shirt, grey pants and blue Hawaii slippers. He is standing still, watching an altercation in the street. I tap him gently on the shoulder. 'Excuse me,' I say. He whirls around and looks at me with the kindest eyes I have ever seen. I sense friendship and curiosity and warmth and welcome in those expressive brown eyes. 'Excuse me,' I repeat, 'I am new to this city. Can you show me a place where I can stay?'
The boy nods his head and says, 'Uzo Q Fiks X Ckka Lgxyz.'
'Excuse me?' I say.
'Ykhz Sqpd Hz. Q Fiks X Ckka Lgxyz,' he repeats, flapping his hands.
'Excuse me, I do not understand this language. I am sorry to have troubled you. I will ask someone else.'
