It was my first time there. I had always wanted to witness the Taj Mahal and its glory, but I had never found the opportunity. One night out with friends, and an impulsive decision later, we were there. When I first saw the Taj, it wasn’t what I had imagined it to be, it was so much more than that. Magnificent seemed to be a very small word for it. The sky enveloped its minarets and became a mighty white veil. It was like the rivulets in a pond, you couldn’t fathom where one began and the other ended. The Yamuna flowed gracefully behind it, and mirrored its tranquillity. The green garden complimented the white structure and made an ‘almost-tricolour’. The entire place radiated peace and beauty. People from all over the world had come to experience this monument, and in front of the mighty structure, the multitude looked like little lego-people from a distance.
There are some auxiliary buildings around the Taj Mahal. They act as a museum, and an office. Back in the day, some of the buildings acted as a place for the workers to stay. Largely ignored, they remained vacant, away from the public eye. These buildings were beautiful by themselves, but the Taj overpowered them for obvious reasons. However, there was one man who apparently didn’t think so. Dressed in a white kaftan, black-rimmed glasses, and a beard that reached his chest, he was perched on the front steps of this building. He had his palms open on his lap, and he rested his head on one of the pillars. There was something about him that itched my curiosity. Often when you read a good book, you are tempted to read the last line of the chapter to know how it ends. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes keep moving nonchalantly towards that last line, until you finally give in. That’s the thing about curiosity. You can’t ebb it, you can’t nip it in the bud. It has to be quenched. It is the only way. And so, to quench this bout of curiosity, I abandoned my group of friends and went in pursuit of this man and his story.
He seemed a tad surprised when I walked towards the building and sat on one of the front steps. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and turned the open palms into fists. I was aware that I had disrupted his privacy, and slightly regretted my decision. Perhaps, he could see that, so to break the tension,
“Your first time here?” he asked.
“Yes” I smiled.
“How did you like the Taj?”
“It is beautiful!”
He beamed so proudly, that for a moment I was sure he was a descendant of Shah Jahan himself!
Then there was absolute silence until I finally blurted, “Can I ask you something?”
He was surprised by the abruptness of it all, and faintly nodded.
“How come you are sitting here when the Taj is right there in front of you? Why aren’t you there with all the other people? What is so special about this odd building?”
He laughed an old-man laugh, the one that comes deep from the chest, and is the ‘ha-ha’ version of Santa’s ‘ho-ho’
“Those are three questions, you asked for one!” he teased playfully. “Where are you from, child?”
“Mumbai.”
“And yet, you are sitting here on the steps of an old building even though you had come all the way to visit the Taj Mahal. People are whimsical, aren’t they?”
He was right, I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.
“I work as a gardener here”, he continued, “As did my father, before me. In fact, my ancestors were all employed here as well. They had seen Taj before it became the Taj Mahal! It is our own little family legacy, so to say.”
I was amazed at his rich family history, and was glad I was having this conversation. Fortunately, he wasn’t done.
“You see how beautiful the Taj looks from here? Away from the clicking of cameras, and jabbering of tourists? It is an old habit. I come here every evening at the time of namaz and gaze at the Taj.”
“I get it”, I intervened, “Some things become so routine that you don’t find the need to marvel at it.”
“No, no! You misunderstood me”, he spoke defensively. “You see the moon every night, but you never tire of it. You have eaten food cooked by your mother’s hands a million times, but at the end of a long day, you still pine for it. Your mornings don’t seem right until the prayer song your grandmother sings fills each nook and cranny of the house. On cold winter nights, you warm your hands by the fire and listen to the same song you had been listening to since you were a child. There are some things that gradually shed their novelty, and turn into something better, something that gives you comfort. And in his most vulnerable state, all a man needs is some comfort. This is that place for me. I find my peace here, I find my namaz here. ”
I sat there in silence and waited for his words to settle. I had come here to read a story, but the story had laid out so much more with it. I had read the last line, felt the curiosity vanish and something else take its place. Peace.
I looked at the oblivious crowd of people drowning in their wonder, and decided to go be a part of it. I hadn’t revelled enough, I had to see it up close and take it all in. So that next time when I visit, I can sit here and ponder like this wise man does. I took his leave and walked back to my friends. Halfway through, I realised I hadn’t even asked him his name, so I turned to look at him. He had his palms open towards the sky, and eyes shut behind the black-rimmed glasses.
So I let him be. Perhaps, another time.
Note- You see that little white speck at the bottom? That's him. I clicked this picture when I visited the Taj Mahal, and I knew I had to write about him . The picture demanded a story (Fictional).
There are some auxiliary buildings around the Taj Mahal. They act as a museum, and an office. Back in the day, some of the buildings acted as a place for the workers to stay. Largely ignored, they remained vacant, away from the public eye. These buildings were beautiful by themselves, but the Taj overpowered them for obvious reasons. However, there was one man who apparently didn’t think so. Dressed in a white kaftan, black-rimmed glasses, and a beard that reached his chest, he was perched on the front steps of this building. He had his palms open on his lap, and he rested his head on one of the pillars. There was something about him that itched my curiosity. Often when you read a good book, you are tempted to read the last line of the chapter to know how it ends. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes keep moving nonchalantly towards that last line, until you finally give in. That’s the thing about curiosity. You can’t ebb it, you can’t nip it in the bud. It has to be quenched. It is the only way. And so, to quench this bout of curiosity, I abandoned my group of friends and went in pursuit of this man and his story.
He seemed a tad surprised when I walked towards the building and sat on one of the front steps. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and turned the open palms into fists. I was aware that I had disrupted his privacy, and slightly regretted my decision. Perhaps, he could see that, so to break the tension,
“Your first time here?” he asked.
“Yes” I smiled.
“How did you like the Taj?”
“It is beautiful!”
He beamed so proudly, that for a moment I was sure he was a descendant of Shah Jahan himself!
Then there was absolute silence until I finally blurted, “Can I ask you something?”
He was surprised by the abruptness of it all, and faintly nodded.
“How come you are sitting here when the Taj is right there in front of you? Why aren’t you there with all the other people? What is so special about this odd building?”
He laughed an old-man laugh, the one that comes deep from the chest, and is the ‘ha-ha’ version of Santa’s ‘ho-ho’
“Those are three questions, you asked for one!” he teased playfully. “Where are you from, child?”
“Mumbai.”
“And yet, you are sitting here on the steps of an old building even though you had come all the way to visit the Taj Mahal. People are whimsical, aren’t they?”
He was right, I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.
“I work as a gardener here”, he continued, “As did my father, before me. In fact, my ancestors were all employed here as well. They had seen Taj before it became the Taj Mahal! It is our own little family legacy, so to say.”
I was amazed at his rich family history, and was glad I was having this conversation. Fortunately, he wasn’t done.
“You see how beautiful the Taj looks from here? Away from the clicking of cameras, and jabbering of tourists? It is an old habit. I come here every evening at the time of namaz and gaze at the Taj.”
“I get it”, I intervened, “Some things become so routine that you don’t find the need to marvel at it.”
“No, no! You misunderstood me”, he spoke defensively. “You see the moon every night, but you never tire of it. You have eaten food cooked by your mother’s hands a million times, but at the end of a long day, you still pine for it. Your mornings don’t seem right until the prayer song your grandmother sings fills each nook and cranny of the house. On cold winter nights, you warm your hands by the fire and listen to the same song you had been listening to since you were a child. There are some things that gradually shed their novelty, and turn into something better, something that gives you comfort. And in his most vulnerable state, all a man needs is some comfort. This is that place for me. I find my peace here, I find my namaz here. ”
I sat there in silence and waited for his words to settle. I had come here to read a story, but the story had laid out so much more with it. I had read the last line, felt the curiosity vanish and something else take its place. Peace.
I looked at the oblivious crowd of people drowning in their wonder, and decided to go be a part of it. I hadn’t revelled enough, I had to see it up close and take it all in. So that next time when I visit, I can sit here and ponder like this wise man does. I took his leave and walked back to my friends. Halfway through, I realised I hadn’t even asked him his name, so I turned to look at him. He had his palms open towards the sky, and eyes shut behind the black-rimmed glasses.
So I let him be. Perhaps, another time.
Note- You see that little white speck at the bottom? That's him. I clicked this picture when I visited the Taj Mahal, and I knew I had to write about him . The picture demanded a story (Fictional).
