A Story of India
by John W. Davis
I am appropriately writing this travel note on a full moon night. Before I went to India, more precisely to the Taj Mahal, I was told by two people who had gone to try to go on a full moon and to go in November (best weather). It was several years after getting this advice that I was able to make that journey. I was working in Kuwait, had vacation time on the books, and figured I was closer to the Taj then than I would be again for who knows how long.
After a brief stop in Sri Lanka, I arrived in Delhi and was met by my great guide. After a tour of Delhi, we left by car to go down to Agra and the Taj Mahal. Once checked in to the hotel I told the driver we had to go to the Taj to see it in the moonlight. This, it turns out, was a project.
They no longer let gas burning motor vehicles right up to the Taj. On our way to as far as we could drive we had a flat tire. Luckily for us a couple of Indians came along and gave us a hand. One of the fellows worked as a paralegal and spoke excellent English. When they found out where we were headed, they offered to go along. In hindsight, I guess I should have been suspicious that they might try to rob us. I wasn’t suspicious and my guide didn’t hesitate.
After we had driven as far as possible, we got out and started to walk. Along the way, we passed a cremation sight on the banks of a river. There were several cremations going on, but I wanted to make sure to see the Taj in the moonlight so we kept walking. Once there, we had to bribe the guard of an adjoining garden in order to get into his garden and then peer over a wall to the Taj. There was a way you could arrange ahead of time to get on the grounds, but I didn’t know that, so we all settled for a peek over the garden wall. It was a spectacular sight. In the moonlight the white stone of the Taj glistened as only things can in moonlight. It was beautiful. I would return the next day for the full tour.
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On our way back to the car, I decided we should stop and see a cremation. There was one just about to start. As I watched, the paralegal narrated the various steps involved. He said the person who lit the pyre was traditionally the son of the deceased. In this case, it was his brother, because the man was young and his son wasn’t old enough. This seems to violate a Hindi law according to a recent piece on PBS. In that rendition, it is only members of the untouchable class that were allowed to cremate people. I didn’t know if this was an untouchable family or not.
I returned to the Agra Radisson in time for a brisk swim. It was a little chilly at night in November. Then I went down to the bar for a nightcap. Scotch and water as I called. Afterwards I asked the bartender about the water and ice. I realized I was violating one of my own travel rules: When in doubt: a bottle of beer, and from the bottle, please. He of course said everything was OK. Two Indian gentlemen sitting next to me at the bar agreed and we had a little small talk. One said his friend, to his left, was a poor doctor who donated a lot of time with the poor. I said I didn’t know that God made any poor doctors. The doctor paid for my scotch in a noble gesture of welcome. We had a good laugh and parted company. I retired with pleasant memories of an eventful evening.
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John has had many lives: Former President, San Diego
Writers and Editors Guild; Adjunct Professor,
San Diego State University; published book "Paperless Contracting:
The EDI Revolution", 1994 Holbrook & Kellogg,
Vienna, VA; published essays and articles over a 26 year period.
Currently lives in San Diego, but is on the road mostly. |
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Thanks for sharing, John... J. Wolf
