Notes from a Dug

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Notes From A Dug - Agra to Jaipur

Got in late to Agra. Anna was still adjusting her wardrobe. No flesh on display. Safe passage to the hotel now guaranteed. Once again, a great, almost opulent hotel. I don't know why they let me in.



Even though there were a couple of groggy members, we all agreed we would get up early to see the Taj Mahal at sunrise. The forecast was somewhat sketchy with rain and fog in the offing. The Taj gods were smiling as the next day turned out to be picture perfect. And we obliged. But, I must reiterate, words can't capture the magnificence and genius behind the building. Pictures won't capture the reverence that all of us felt. We were in the presence of uncontaminated brilliance. If you can only come to India for one day, whatever it takes, whatever it costs, do it and let your breath and senses be taken away by one man's love for his wife.



Back to the hotel for the best massage of my life. I'm a grumpy massage guy but Terry got me to surrender to the Chocolate Mousse selection. By the time I was finished, I looked like a spotted hyena but I did have to stop myself from licking off the chocolate mousse residue. Mellowed to a state of intoxication, I could have spent the rest of the day in the steam room. But my body was winched out by the spa staff and off we went to the "Red Fort" built by Akbar the Great. Yes, it could have been any other fort until our guide, who is part of the fluid inter-connectivity that discourages influence and graft while promoting it at the same time, approached the major domo security guard. None of us were sure what was going on until Nadeem, our guide, came back to us and said he wanted us to see something that few other tour groups would. "Oh, sure", I thought. "How many times had this been played out?" - jaded little boy that I am. We watched the drama play out. We were in the fort just before closing. That was a plus. The security guards were blowing their whistles. Time for everyone to exit. Not us. Nadeem said, "Pleas come, hide is this room." Bizarre. I watched Nadeem. He ducked behind parts of the wall if he thought people would see him. There was a local family of about 10 people also trying to get access to whatever fascination it was that this fort held. They were rebuffed. When all seemed clear, we were hustled behind a locked door that only Major Domo had access to. Outside of this door, he was all bluff and severe; inside he was servile and ingratiating. We were now in the belly of the whale - dark, damp and impenetrable. Through broken English, he directed us to a point close to one wall. Our guide turned on his cell phone in order to give us a glimmer of guiding light. Then the cell phone shut down and two flickering points of candle light emerged. Minor Domo soon became a character out of Fantasia. In a Uriah Heep posture, he created magic through the wave of his candles, bringing this pit of darkness to life as the reflected shimmer and sparkle of thousands of small to tiny mirrors, both convex and concave created a rhapsody of awe that transported us back to a time of the Arabian Nights (even though we were a million miles and a thousand years away from there). We were in what used to be the royal bath area for the Maharani (wife of the Maharajah) - the Sheesh Mahal (Glass Palace). Even the plaster that held the mirrors in place was impregnated with Mother of Pearl. Shut off from the rest of the fort due to the threat of pillage and vandalism, we were, truly, being given access to a jewel in the crown that few groups or individuals would see. Why us? Who knows? Was it because we were white and, therefore, wealthy tourists? Was it because we were five women and a Dug? Was it because our guide knew someone who knew someone who knew Major Domo? At the end, all we knew was the magical power of what we had been given the special privilege to see. Through the locked door, we emerged to a cluster of lesser rank, all of whom hoping to receive some baksheesh for their role in our skulduggery. Nadeem said "No", as we were to pay him so he could pay Major Domo beyond the prying eyes of others. All hush-hush and very heavy with the contraband of our secret. Nadeem was indeed a resourceful guide and continued, throughout the day, to make things happen because he could and because he liked to be with five women and a Dug.



The next day, Nadeem came with us to Fatehpur Sikri, a shrine to Salelem Christi. About forty-five minutes out of Agra on the way to Jaipur, this was more a sacrilege to touts, hawkers and miscreants than a place of reverence to the memory of one of the great Sufi mystics. Getting in, you run the gauntlet of crap. Inside, you should feel relived if that burden. No. The system has collapsed. Inside are more fakes, charlatans and slime buckets. The only place of safety was inside the small structure where the saint is assumed to be buried. But, in order to get there, you are, or feel you are, compelled to buy a piece of fabric to lay upon the crypt. Five women get a deal on five pieces of fabric - two bucks each. The Dug ducks and just goes in. The shrine could be a spiritual place. Our guide, who is Muslim, asks for a few moments to offer a prayer to the memory of Salelem Christi. He has figured out a way to create solace in this shrine of transgressions. More evidence of the chicanery comes when the five women are obliged to leave their over-priced pieces of fabric in the crypt so that the chief faker can then collect them and re-sell them out the back door again. The sale of the Brooklyn Bridge is repeated over and over in the space of one heavenly day.



On the way out, two elements of human consideration and kindness come our way. One is a young man whose uncle runs a shop that sells Makarena marble pieces and assorted do-dads at which we all do make some purchases. Both he and his uncle understand their customers. A pleasure to be sold. No hard sell. No dark-eyed, syncophantic bleatings. Another side of humanity also comes into our lives via the half-body of a young man whose legs look liked soft taffy pulled and twisted and left to sort themselves out. Polio is here and he is not alone. But a stump of humanity with flip-flops on his hands for locomotion, he is not a beggar with his hand out and his tongue wagging. What can be dressed well of him, is. His head is wrapped in a soft white turban and the workable part of his body in a royal blue tunic. His legs just are. Balancing himself on the concrete, he is about two and a half feet tall, all of that chest and head. Clear eyes and a gentle smile. He will not accept money unless he can give us something in return. He is selling brass, universal calendars. At least six are purchased. Nadeem knows many of them and says the uncle and his nephew are the real deal as is the man with the taffy legs and the humble soul of a giant.



We leave the shrine of contradictions and make our way to Jaipur.

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