La Taj Mahal

I suppose this thing was supposed to die a fiery death at the conclusion of my contract in Korea.  I have treated it thusly, though I thought I'd dust it off one more time considering the gravity of my surroundings.  After making my way through Vietnam, Cambodia & Thailand (and now into India), I have countless anecdotes of joy and misery alike.  From destitution to hand grenades, paradise to Viet Cong tunnels, there and back again, I can touch on most any topic.  However, the one that really counts is the Taj Mahal, and I couldn't help but write a lil' somethin-somethin while I was there! I also figured that this was the best way to simultaneously email my mother and the other two people who follow my life, and I am still holding on to the chance that I rename this blog "Letters home to Mom".

September 25th, 2010

I write this, not coincidentally, sitting under an arch at the back side of the splendid Taj Mahal. Ground zero is not the best place for a snapshot but all that seems arbitrary when put into greater context.  When you make your way, finally, to the beautiful Taj, and make contact (in bare feet) with the pure, smoothly white marble, a force seems to hold you in place. It is like stepping into a most gorgeous spider web.  You can't get away; nor would you want to (though maybe in a spider web, gorgeous and all, you still might wanna get away - no copyright infractions intended). Lest I digress!

After combing the inner halls, the best way to experience the Taj, me thinks, is to lie down.  Putting as much of yourself against the building as possible (you have to do this on the marble floors outside the dome rather than inside, that might be a problem!) allows you to hope, and at times with a bit of success, to be infused with the same genius that inspired and created it.  I feel an urge to reach out and constantly have my hands against some part of it the same way young lovers can't resist each others embrace.  I feel that if I push hard enough against it I might permeate its seemingly nonexistent cracks.  How could this structure have been built piece by piece?  How could one imagine that it existed in anything other than its whole?  I can't.  It seems as though it dropped from the heavens, instantaneously complete.  The pesky fact that it wasn't is a true testament to the best of man's virtue.

Anything I write, read or think (Bridge of Sighs, very good so far!, thanks Steve) here seems that much more important.  I believe that is called true inspiration.  The generous Taj Mahal offers this bond to anyone who seeks it.  I've long considered a solo journey to India the Everest of my travels, and if this is indeed the case, the Taj Mahal is the sweet summit.