The Taj Mahal
by 
sue n
|
Posted: Sunday, March 13, 2005 Word Count: 414 Summary: This has been a difficult piece to write - I await comments with interest. |
The Taj Mahal,
Would the Taj Mahal, one of the most photographed buildings in the world, live up to the promise, the hype and the 1,000 rupee entrance fee? Part of the mystique comes from the romance of the story, Shah Jahan taking 10 years to build a marble mausoleum in memory of his favourite wife, who died giving birth to their seventeenth child.
Once inside the grounds, a reverential hush prevailed among the visitors waiting in the early morning mist. It was an unnerving quiet, with something constant missing, and only gradually did I realise that it was the unrelenting, noisy hubbub of India that was absent. There were no tugs at my sleeve from emaciated beggars or children missing limbs, no women thrusting babies at me, pleading for milk, no boys asking where was I from and would I come to their uncle's shop--only an expectant silence.
As the sun forced its way above the horizon, struggling on upward to clear the thick layer of grey pollution, a low whisper began to emanate from the crowd, rising to a murmur as, at last, the dawn light broke through. Suddenly, the Taj came into sharp focus, the pink tinge of the dawn light imbuing it with a fairy-tale glow against the brightness of the new day's blue sky. It was smaller than I expected, with that pristine neatness of a replica in a model village, perfectly symmetrical, with its inlaid arches and graceful dome framed by the four identical minarets. I had expected to be impressed, but the emotion evoked came as a surprise. The exquisite grace and beauty somehow encapsulated the love that inspired its creation, and my heart responded.
In contrast to the vivid whiteness of outside, inside, a soft dappled light shone through the pierced marble of the windows and the screen round the two cenotaphs of Shah Jehan and his wife, breaking up the geometric precision of the symmetric arches and colonnades, and creating little sparkles as it caressed the inlaid jewels.
The perfect mirror image shimmered on the water of the lake, which has the evocative name of the Celestial Pool of Abundance. Content to wait until the view was relatively clear of Japanese holding up two fingers, families of small Indians and groups of large Germans, I captured my shot of the Taj and its reflection.
This photo now graces a wall in my home, a daily reminder of the beauty that man is capable of creating.
Would the Taj Mahal, one of the most photographed buildings in the world, live up to the promise, the hype and the 1,000 rupee entrance fee? Part of the mystique comes from the romance of the story, Shah Jahan taking 10 years to build a marble mausoleum in memory of his favourite wife, who died giving birth to their seventeenth child.
Once inside the grounds, a reverential hush prevailed among the visitors waiting in the early morning mist. It was an unnerving quiet, with something constant missing, and only gradually did I realise that it was the unrelenting, noisy hubbub of India that was absent. There were no tugs at my sleeve from emaciated beggars or children missing limbs, no women thrusting babies at me, pleading for milk, no boys asking where was I from and would I come to their uncle's shop--only an expectant silence.
As the sun forced its way above the horizon, struggling on upward to clear the thick layer of grey pollution, a low whisper began to emanate from the crowd, rising to a murmur as, at last, the dawn light broke through. Suddenly, the Taj came into sharp focus, the pink tinge of the dawn light imbuing it with a fairy-tale glow against the brightness of the new day's blue sky. It was smaller than I expected, with that pristine neatness of a replica in a model village, perfectly symmetrical, with its inlaid arches and graceful dome framed by the four identical minarets. I had expected to be impressed, but the emotion evoked came as a surprise. The exquisite grace and beauty somehow encapsulated the love that inspired its creation, and my heart responded.
In contrast to the vivid whiteness of outside, inside, a soft dappled light shone through the pierced marble of the windows and the screen round the two cenotaphs of Shah Jehan and his wife, breaking up the geometric precision of the symmetric arches and colonnades, and creating little sparkles as it caressed the inlaid jewels.
The perfect mirror image shimmered on the water of the lake, which has the evocative name of the Celestial Pool of Abundance. Content to wait until the view was relatively clear of Japanese holding up two fingers, families of small Indians and groups of large Germans, I captured my shot of the Taj and its reflection.
This photo now graces a wall in my home, a daily reminder of the beauty that man is capable of creating.