UP!: Agra and Fatehpur Sikri (Part 2 of India: Solo on a shoestring)

I arrived at the Hotel Kamal at 11 in the night and the owner was impatiently waiting for me to turn up. He looked at me up and down and asked for my documents. They were all in place and he issued me room. I dumped off my gear and came out again where h was fretting about photocopies. I told him to chill and that I would get copies done first thing in the morning but he went paranoid. I told him that my passport was non-reporting and it wasn’t going to be an issue and I hadn’t turned in my documents to the hotel in Jaipur until 24hours after my arrival. That is when he went on about me being the first Pakistani to stay at any hotel in the Taj Ganj area and that everyone was going to be talking about it and he didn’t know how to deal with Pakistani’s and how terrorism in India was rampant etc. How I wouldn’t be allowed to stay there but over the phone I sounded like a foreigner and besides it was too late in the night to turn me away. I thanked him for his kindness and asked if I could get a bite to eat while he was till in a magnanimous mood.

I sat down in the restaurant to eat and he joined me and asked me where my family was originally from. I told him Gurdaspur in present day Indian Punjab. He told me that his family was from Gujranwala. He then asked me how come my last name was Bajwa. I told him that was because I was a Bajwa. To settle his curiousity I explained how there were Muslim Bajwa’s and Sikh Bajwa’s and that a few generations ago my ancestor were also Sikhs. He then assumed that my family had been forced to convert to Islam after moving to Pakistan.

The next morning India opened the batting at the fourth match in Kanpur and got off to a disastrous start. I tried not to smile but the manager of the hotel didn’t shoot me daggers so I said that Pakistan seemed to be playing well after a disastrous first two matches in the series. He nodded in acquiescence and I took leave for the day. I proceeded to the central bus stand where it was reputed that bus leaves for Fatehpur very thirty minutes. Everyone was glued to the TV set in the wafting area and all the buses were grounded. I patiently waited for a bus to get ready to move and I boarded. Inside the bus everyone had a radio glued to an ear. The bus was jam packed with people and radios. The bus cheered every run that Kaif and Dravid took. I too joined in the cheering and thought it best not reveal my Pakistani identity. Everyone in India seemed to obsess about cricket in those days. I could have picked anyone off the street and asked them the score and they would have known it, updated to the last ball bowled.

I reached Fatehpur when it was blistering hot. I went up a dirt path and reached the bottom of the steps to Buland Darwaza. The gate was of gigantic proportions and it took a minute to have the size of the Darwaza sink in. Meanwhile I was being followed by this little kid who couldn’t have been more than 13 years of age who was trying to coax me into hiring him as a guide for 30 rupees. I looked at him and asked him his name.

“Dilsaad Qureshi”

What an odd Muslim name I thought. It was only when h introduced the mausoleum of Sheikh Saleem Chishti as “Saleem Chissti” that I realized his name was Dilshad. Dilshad began his tour by asking me which language I would prefer, Hindi or “Engliss”. I said I wouldn’t mind some Urdu. He smiled and asked me where I was from, to which I asked him to commence his tour and start guessing in the meanwhile as to where I came from.

Dilshad Qureshi had a plethora of knowledge for 30 odd rupees. He knew the number of steps from the base to the wooden door of Buland Darwaza, he knew a corner at the Jamia Mosque where he offered to beat the wall and procure the sound of a Dhol but I advised against it since the Jumma prayers were about to take place. Dilshad Qureshi knew who the graves belonged to and explained the intricacies of the architectural patterns adopted by Akbar the great when he built this marvelous town. He knew where to look at the walls of Salem Chisti’s mausoleum in order to get the effectof looking through a glass. The tomb had walls with intricate see through paterns carved in marble. Dilshad Qureshi would pipe in every now and then with a guess concerning my whereabouts. Cities in Gujarat and Maharashthra were high on his list.

“Aap ka naam kiya hai?”

“Mera naam Rizwan hai”

“Rijwan…yeh tau muslim naam hai, aap Mumbai sey ayey ho?”

“aap bojho kahan say aya hoon?”

“Ab nahin maloom. Aap bataa do”

“Acha…mein Lahore sey aya hoon”

“Lahooore….Pakistan sey?”

“Haan”

“Aap Pakistan say ayey ho?”

“Haan mein Pakistani hoon”

“Pakistaniiiiiii…..”

And I saw the familiar sight of pupils widening. I don’t know when he managed to, because he was guiding me the whole time, but somewhere along the tour he let out my little secret to his friends and they started following me around calling out ‘Pakistani’ every now and then. It wasn’t too bad because they were genuinely intrigued and as long as they were not feeling me to make sure I was made of flesh as others were in Rajasthan, I was satisfied with the treatment I was receiving.

I was intrigued by the number of women who still flock to Saleem Chisti’s praying for children. Dilshad mentioned how women tie little colorful threads around each hole in the walls surrounding the tomb and when their wish comes true to thy come back to undo it. I heard the azaan for the Jumma prayer and I thought about joining. Maybe if I run through Sikri and then on my way out I can pray.

So I left by the way of Shahi Darwaza where I bid Dilshad farewell and paid him fifty rupees. I got in Sikri on an Indian ticket yet again! And opened my lonely planet guidebook to start the tour. The palace was amazing to say the least but a very subtle amazing. Nothing gaudy, nothing ‘in your face’ but a fantastic fusion of Christian, Islamic and Hindu motifs and architectural features was taking place all around. The palace appeared to be somewhere in a warped time, far away from this world. I don’t think anyone could have comprehended the idea of fusion that Akbar was trying to mould.

I took my time walking around the palace. I enjoyed its otherworldliness and somehow it reminded me of the Alhambra in Grenada and I couldn’t help but think that Akbar may have brought over artisans from North West Africa and Muslim Spain.

The heat was very overbearing and I though that I would join the Jumma prayer and then get on the bus for Agra. As I wound my way back to Fatehpur I saw that Jumma was over. I performed the wuzu and proceeded to the Masjid. I think it was the first time in three years that I prayed.

As soon as I finished I made my way over a group of men who were all very seriously huddled around a radio. I asked them what the score was and one man stated that his brother shahid afridi was batting on 97. I couldn’t help at that point but beam with joy, which aroused suspicion. I was asked where I was from and I proclaimed my nationality. They asked me to sit and commented on the match. We had a small chat and then with victory for Pakistan imminent, I decided it was time to take leave.

As I walked back Dilshad caught up with me and insisted that I give him a Pakistani coin. I had none but I gave him a five-rupee note, which brought a beaming smile to his face.

I boarded the bus for Agra and braved the painfully hot afternoon as the bus pulled into Agra an hour later. It was still a couple of hours to go before sunset and I though I would go and see the Taj for free from across the Yamuna. I hired a Auto and asked to be taken to the famed Radhaswami temple which was under construction for half a century and was expected to remain under construction for another century. The structure was eventually going to be as large as the Taj. There was an inscription ion eth wall in Urdu, which turned out to be poem explaining, what the Radhswami’s were all about. I took the time out to read it and later walked around the complex. Still under construction, nonetheless it had an aura of grandeur about it. My auto driver was a friendly Bengali and we had good bits and pieces of conversation throughout the three that we spent together, although neither of us bothered asking each others names. He was a great guy who charged me a decent rate and would take the time out to point out the famous landmarks of Agra as soon as he found out that I was a Pakistani. He took me to the tomb of Itmad-ud-Daula who had four claims to fame. The first one was that his tomb was the first structure to be built in Marble in south Asia, the second claim to fame was that he was Jahangir’s father in law, the third claim to fame was that his daughter, designed his tomb herself. His fourth and final claim to fame was that Jahangir’s tomb in Lahore was a mirror image of his father in law’s. The marble looked quite spectacular in the late afternoon sun, and I hurried out to go to Mehtab Bagh, which would give me across the river views of the Taj in the setting sun.

The auto sped through the roads of Agra which is a very polluted town and Khurrum was every bit right about it being a swollen version of Gujranwala.

I reached Mehtab Bagh with an hour to go before sunset and went absolutely berserk trying to take pictures of the marvelous Taj. The Taj…. well it’s the Taj…and they weren’t kidding when they said it was a wonder of the world. It took on a million subtle hues in eth setting sun changing color every minute, especially in the last few minutes before sundown. I tried and tried to capture the Taj in my camera but it just doesn’t work. Reflections of the Taj in water were exceptionally breathtaking.

I left feeling most elated and didn't mind Agra one bit any longer. Agra was blessed with the Taj, and all was good with that.

I reached home to find the nasty manager in the melancholiest of moods. It turned out that Shahid Afridi had whipped up a century in 45 balls or so to take Pakistani to a romping victory to take a lead in the series. After washing up and having dinner at the rooftop of the hotel, which boasted a clear view of the Taj, I went down to Internet café to check up on people back home. Sent a few mails here and there and called home and spoke to a close friend, Bilal.

The plan was to finish off a couple of kingfishers-which I was getting quite sick of by then, read a little and then crash to wake up in time for sunrise at the Taj. I got delayed at the rooftop finishing off the kingfishers by a nice Irish couple that worked in Australia as Chartered accountants. They were quite bored with their profession and after having made some money they took off to travel through India. Sounded like a great plan to me. I had a good conversation with them and eavesdropped on two guys talking about how they had spent a month in Pushkar doing nothing but drinking special lassi. Hmmm. Seemed like a fun enough vacation for them!

I woke up at the crack of dawn and walked to the Taj and it was equally remarkable. I walked right up to the Taj and touched it. Hardly anyone had come at that early hour and I decided to make the mot of it before the hordes of tourists invaded its marble floors. Having let the Taj finally sink in I had a couple of pictures of myself taken as proof of my having been there. I headed out of the gate as hordes of tourists, mostly middle-aged couples poured in the compound hand in hand. There was one group being led by a rather effeminate Indian tour guide ho insisted that all couples hold each others hands and those who didn’t have a partner, hold his hands. The group erupted in appreciative laughter and I bid Adieu to the wonder that was the Taj.

I went back to the hotel, got some breakfast and boarded the only AC bus to leave for Delhi in the day at nine in the morning. I felt happy to be getting back to Delhi and didn’t really think of Agra much on the ride back although I thought fondly of Fatehpur-Sikri, Dilshad Qureshi and his knowledge of encyclopedic proportions, of the Taj, of my auto driver and last but not the least: the nasty staff at Hotel Kamal who did do their best to make me feel a little uncomfortable.