Taj Mahal

Got to Agra early in the morning. Our rickshaw-wallah was quite the businessman. Along the way he picked up a Japanese traveller and dropped her off at the Taj Mahal, saying that most people take two hours, so he'll see her out here again at 10:30 so that he can take her to the Fort. Ok? (Meanwhile there are hundreds of rickshaw-wallahs - they're consumerables.)

He dropped us (me and Josh) off at our hotel and also suggested that he pick me up at 10 to take me to the railway station to book my onward ticket. I'm so hard, and said no. I told him not to worry - there are others. But then it's not with me, he responded. Damn straight it isn't. (He said the fare was sixty from the bus station to the hotel, and then quietly whispered an added "each". I heard this but ignored it and reconfirmed that the fare was sixty to the hotel. He protested very little, though, when he only got sixty instead of one twenty. Chancer).

The Taj Mahal was so beautiful. Better than all expectations. I was humbled and taken aback standing in its presence. It's so delicate and grand and fine and strong. The guides say his last days were spent gazing wistfully from the Fort across the Yamuna to the Taj Mahal. The real story according to scholars, though, is that he died of an opium and aphrodisiac overdose. This version makes far more sense, as he seemed like a great lover - a lover of women, and art and architecture and life. To gaze wistfully at his beautiful creation is probably more suited to Indian and Hindu sensibilites.