My
Reminiscence Of Taj Mahal
By Mirza A. Beg
08 July, 2006
Countercurrents.org
Taj
Mahal is the most recognized mausoleum, or for that matter any building
in the world. It has inspired lyrical feelings even in people, not given
to poetic thoughts. One of the most apt descriptions of Taj I have ever
read is,” it is a symphony in Marble”. One can find its
pictures, history and architectural details in thousands of books and
sites on internet. The following is a glimpse of what I saw and how
I remember the “Taj”
I do not remember a time
from my earliest childhood that I did not know of Taj and could not
recognize a picture of the monument. The vastness of imagination has
the advantage of being unfettered by gravity or any other natural law.
Castles in one's imaginations have the ethereal quality of limitless
space and beauty therefore they can never be captured in stone, masonry
or any other earthy material, but Taj Mahal came close to what I had
imagined. I went through three stages of changing opinions in a very
short time; from breathless wonder of ethereal beauty to disappointment
in what appeared to be blemishes, and finally to a deeply felt appreciation
of the embodiment of thoughts, dreams and above all love in material
form.
I had seen many black and
white and a few gaudy colored enhanced calendar photographs. So I knew
what to expect, or so I thought. The first time I saw it on my own,
I was sixteen years old a freshman at Aligarh University. I went with
a few friends in a public bus from Aligarh to Agra, a sort of pilgrimage
of 80 miles to the fabled Taj.
It was the prime monsoon
season, a rainy morning in August. The rain had just stopped after cleansing
the atmosphere of the hanging dust churned up from the densely populated
Agra city, on the bank of Jamuna River. Our bus was crossing the Jamuna
Bridge; when suddenly to the southwest I saw the most elegant milk white
Taj Mahal ethereally levitating in the almost black sky. The sheer contrast
made the clouds darker than they were and Taj whiter than it was.
In Earth time, on the congested
bridge, it probably took about ten minutes for the bus to cross, but
it was timeless for me. I can still close my eyes and see that view,
when the time stood still. Suddenly I was alone with no distractions,
the din of the traffic, the friends, the bus or the bridge, all receded
into oblivion. The Taj the only reality, a small luminous white building
of my imagination levitated in the backdrop of limitless black horizon.
Then just as suddenly it
got lost behind the congestion of buildings lining the narrow streets
of Agra, amplifying my expectations. We finally reached the premises
after what felt like hours. It is well hidden behind very tall boundary
walls. We entered the premise through a huge beautiful red sandstone
building that serves as an ornate gate, a sentry guarding the hidden
jewel.
It was almost as beautiful,
but not quite. From the red sandstone gate, as we walked through the
beautiful geometrically laid out Mughal garden, with each step the Taj
kept growing larger and larger and to my astonishment the plinth of
the edifice alone was almost four times taller than me. The marble slabs
were huge and not as white as I thought. There were gray streaks of
impurity in the metamorphosed stone, peaking my geological curiosity
but grating my overly demanding aesthetics. Instead of a molded seamless
heavenly milk white building it was made up of huge blocks of crystalline
white marble with occasional gray streak, joined at seems that to enchanted
eyes were blemishes. I suddenly wished I had turned back at the bridge
with an eternal beauty imprinted on my mind.
With young friends cracking
jokes, pushing and shoving, doing everything except an appreciative
study of the architectural marvel, we walked around for a while and
saw all the obligatory points and a few other historical monuments.
I left Agra in the late evening, disappointed.
A few years later I went
again with a very close friend. We rediscovered a different Taj, a Taj
of perfect proportions. Proportions of the dome to minarets on paper
may not look right to many architects, but it is perfect the way it
is. Seeing is believing. The calligraphy of Quranic verses in black
jasper are so proportioned that they look the same size and can be read
with equal ease from the bottom to the top a distance of about 80 feet.
The exquisite filigreed marble screens around the graves are robust,
but they appear too fragile to touch. The floral ornamentation of superbly
sculpted beds of lilies and bouquets of narcissus, iris and tulips appear
frozen in white marble providing a contrast to the curvaceous patterns
of colorful vines inlaid with jade and malachite with flowers of amber,
lapis, carnelian, amethyst, jasper and coral that form delicate perfect
patterns on the walls and vaulted portals.
There is much to see in the
beautiful red sandstone adjacent buildings as well, but they suffer
the indignity of comparison with perfection. There are many beautiful
buildings around the world that I cherish but there is only one Taj
Mahal, the expression of the deepest abiding love of a man for his beloved
wife. Because the man happened to be an Emperor Shah Jahan, he could
make the name of his wife Mumtaz Mahal eternal. He was lucky that in
his grief he searched and found best of all the arts and engineering
and they coalesced as never before or since.
I have been to Taj Mahal
many times since. I have seen its unbelievable beauty in the evocative
pale light of the harvest moon, its reflection in the waters of River
Jamuna and in the blazing heat of June at high noon. Every time I see
it, I feel the tug of the ultimate love incarnate in stone and discover
new hidden aspects of its beauty. It beckons me to come again and again.
Mirza A. Beg can be contacted
at [email protected]