Stories from Agra

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The flat plains draw past slowly, then fast, slowly again. I watch the slow awakening of the day outside in the already sweltering heat. People crouched in squat position, pulling stray grass out of their little plots of land. The rivers are full, but the paddocks look barren and dry.

A young boy sits in the shade of a beautiful big tree, waving his dangling legs around as he peers over the earthen recess on which he sits. A little further are his herd of goats, fleetingly picking at the grass and moving on faster than the boy can dream.

One minute, Eucalypts, planted here for some reason or another but now cursed for their unquenching greed for the precious water of the villages. The next minute, fields of palm trees, some standing taller and prouder than others, but all looking curiously out of place. They remain me of the contrasts here in the beautiful, big piece of land we call India.

We are just short of Varanasi, one of the holiest cities of India. Last night, we jumped on the Marudhar Express at Agra Station, and the train has taken us, overnight, all the way to the South of Utter Pradesh. We left behind the magnificent Taj Mahal, built by one of the great rulers on India in the 1600's, out of love for the wife he lost to childbirth. They say his hair turned grey overnight after she died. For me, though, we left behind more than just the Taj in Agra; we also left behind a crazy concotion of people, religions, music, food. at nighttime, when the unbearable heat had subsided somewhat, we climbed the stairs to the rooftop restaurants of the city, and watched in awe. The views of the Taj were spectacular, and everyone's cameras and eyes seemed resigned to it; Gordon and I, nevertheless, seemed more inclined to watch the hustle and bustle on the streets below, on the rooftops around us. We exchanged smiles and hellos with the kids flying their home-made kites high in the Indian twillight. There must have been as many kites as kids - every rooftop, every platform, was behold with a munchkin of some sort; the young ones, maybe four or five years old, tried in vain and with much cheering of their peers, to fly their kites. They would throw them mightfully into the big space above, only to see them crashing to the ground a moment later. Laughter. Giggles. “Again, again!”, I'm sure they were yelling, wrapped up in utter enjoyment, until one of the older boys threw a stern glance their way. “Don't lose that kite”, I'm sure he was saying. His kite flew high, above all buildings and trees, above all other kites, so high one could be pardoned for wondering whether it may collide with the aircraft traffic. Lucky there were no planes flying over Agra.

Below, on the streets, we watched camels striding past, their gypsy-like riders (often no older than the very same children flying the kites) perched high atop the camel's back. They were usually in pairs, one holding the reins, the other ready to wollop the animal on the back should it cease to move forward. Their wiry figures watched cautiously for cars, trucks, rickshaws and cyclos coming towards them in the narrow, dusty streets, ready to make an escape down an alleyway should the camel spook.

As we pull into Varanasi station, I will recess for now. My thought, however, continue to run with the wind...

X

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Comments

[Mum]

Palm trees
Mariechen,these out-of-place looking palm trees could be plantations planted to crush the seeds and extract palm oil(which could also become an alternative source of bio-fuel and might be the reason for great areas of native forests being presently destroyed in Indonesia), or were they coconut palms or dates? Anyway, we have here 7 degrees of nice, cold weather at 10am on the front porch and you are virtually melting in the heat, what extremes! No news here, kitchen in Uralla NOT in since we had to plaster parts of the walls beforehand, will happen next week, hopefully!Missing and thinking of you a lot, watch out that you don't get a heat stroke... Love,mum