Agra: Been There, Done That

For anybody who’s spent their childhood in northern (read me and my sister, Swapna), at least one trip to Agra—and, of course, the Taj Mahal—is almost inevitable. And when you’re part of a family that travels a lot, that one trip can get repeated, again and again and again.

So here we are, back in Agra. This time, it’s for a variety of reasons. I need to do research on 17th century Agra for a book I’ll be writing, and unless I visit Agra now, the summer will arrive, it’ll get boiling hot, and Agra will be hellish. My husband, Tarun, has just been told by his office that because of the recession, they’re not hiring any more people, so everybody has to work a six-day week from now onwards for the next four months. There’s not going to be much scope for weekend trips. Swapna has just been told by her doctor that she needs minor surgery within the next two weeks. Her husband, Gourab, who’s a lawyer, has just realised that with the upcoming general elections and the possibility of a change in government, he’ll need to be in town all through May, which means their annual summer vacation is likely to be cut short. Swapna and Gourab’s children, Neeti (13) and Deb (12) have a few days of holidays because of a string of festivals one after the other.

All of us need a break, a weekend trip somewhere close—and Agra is perfect for that. So here we are, armed with two very informative books, Agra: The Architectural Heritage (by Lucy Peck) and A Teardrop on the Cheek of Time (by Michael and Diana Preston). And we have our own guide: Swapna, who’s a historian.

...and about the city.

Agra lies just about 200 km from Delhi, along the famous Grand Trunk Road. Although the oldest historical records mentioning Agra date back to the 11th century, excavations have revealed that the city goes back at least to the era of the Mauryan dynasty (approximately 4th century BC). In medieval times, Agra was already acquiring the status of an important centre of trade; but it was the Mughals who brought the city to the prominence it later came to command. During the reigns of the third Mughal emperor Akbar and his son Jahangir, especially, Agra came to be a major focus of economic and political power. It was an important centre for the production of leather, medicines, and luxury goods like gold and silver embroidery and inlaid stonework. The Yamuna was an artery for riverine trade, and Agra also had direct land connections linking it to the Silk Route.

Agra lost some of its political status when Jahangir’s son, Shahjahan, having built the Taj Mahal, decided to shift the imperial capital to Delhi. The city, despite its loss of status, remained a major economic centre, in fact even more so than Delhi. A little over 150 years later, in 1803, the British defeated the Marathas—who by then held sway over much of the area known as the Doab (literally, the `land of the two rivers’—the rivers in question being the Ganga and the Yamuna). Following this, the British took over in Agra (much to the detriment of many of the city’s monuments; the Agra Fort, especially, was unashamedly vandalised by British residents who moved in). In 1856, Agra became part of the United Provinces of Agra and Awadh. After independence in 1947, Agra remained part of UP (now Uttar Pradesh, or `northern state’ instead of United Provinces). It’s still a busy town, well known for its leather, its sweetmeats—and its plethora of historic monuments.

And some stories:

I couldn’t resist this. Everybody talks of how old Agra is, a town of the past, with its resident ghosts. And just about everybody has their own story to tell. Here are two.

My father studied in Agra’s St John’s College way back in the late 1950’s. At that time, one of the college’s many spooky legends concerned a young man who’d studied at St John’s some years prior, and lived in the college hostel. They say that this student was busy preparing for his upcoming exams, and as too many Indians are wont to do, was at his books till late at night. He finally decided he’d had enough of studies and needed a break, so went into town to watch a film. It was very late by the time the film got over, and the streets were deserted. Our hero managed to get an ikka (a horse-drawn cart, also called a tonga), and headed back to St John’s. On the way, crossing a bridge, he noticed an old woman sitting by herself selling cigarettes and sweets on the pavement. The student got the ikkawallah to stop, then got off and went to buy a pack of cigarettes. He picked up the pack he wanted, and took out the money to hand it to the old woman, who stretched out her hand for the money—and the student then saw that instead of a hand, she had a—hoof!

The student, terrified, ran back to the ikka, got in and urged the ikkawallah to race away. The ikkawallah complied, but after a while, as they were nearing the college, asked his passenger what was wrong. The young man told him the story, and the ikkawallah laughed. "Like this?" he said, holding up his own hands—no, hooves.

The young man, by now on the verge of a breakdown, leapt off the ikka and ran for the welcoming gates of the college, which were being patrolled by a watchman. He blabbed out the tale to the man, who listened sympathetically, then lifted his lantern—to reveal that his own hands were not hands, but hooves. It’s said that the student was found the next morning, lying unconscious at the college gate.

Okay, that’s a little blown out of all proportion, I agree. The student had probably been studying just too hard. But the second story is creepier, mainly because it’s less over the top, and centres around two people we know—one who’s related to Gourab, in fact; Gourab’s uncle.

Way back in the 1970’s, Gourab’s uncle got married, and since his father was the governor of a state, the wedding swarmed with policemen and security guards. Much to the chagrin (and resentment!) of the bride and groom, the security detail insisted on accompanying them on their honeymoon to Agra. At Agra, Gourab’s uncle and aunt were supposed to stay at an old colonial guesthouse right next door to the Taj Mahal—a wicket gate from it led into the Taj complex.

The young couple did a tour of the Taj (with security guards hanging about their ears), and by the time they got back to the guesthouse, were thoroughly annoyed. Gourab’s aunt, especially, was cheesed off (She’s American, and hadn’t still got used to the very intrusive security arrangements in India). She was sitting in their room, fuming to herself, when a door opened and a white woman emerged, clad in a wet gown, with her hair dripping—as if she’d just come from a bath (which she’d presumably taken with all her clothes on). The woman crossed the room, watched by a bewildered Barbara, and disappeared through another door.

Barbara went looking for her husband to rave and rant about intruders using their room as a thoroughfare, and both of them then went to confront the local chowkidar, the caretaker-cum-watchman. The man was matter of fact about the entire episode, and said that the woman was a ghost of some long-forgottten Englishwoman who’d probably lived in the vicinity (and drowned in the Yamuna, I’m guessing). He came back with them to their room, and opened the door into which the woman had vanished. It was a cupboard.

And on that note—glad that we’re staying in a relatively new, mundane and hopefully unhaunted hotel—we begin our explorations of Agra.

We arrive in the late afternoon, dusty and dishevelled, and wait at the gate while our cars are subjected to a security check. Check-in, fortunately, is swift and we’re served complimentary glasses of chilled fresh limejuice while our keys are handed over. The lobby isn’t the vast, intimidating stretch I expect in deluxe hotels: though marble floored, it has cosy sofas, rose petals floating in bowls, and a large flat screen TV at the end.

Our rooms are on the second floor. A smoking floor, though it doesn’t smell; I don’t realise these are smoking rooms until much later. Inside, our room’s clean and welcoming, with comfortable sofa chairs, twin beds, luggage rack, wardrobe, TV (lots of channels!), and a writing desk and chair. There are freebies too: tea and coffee fixings, mineral water and fruit. There are nuts and potato chips on a pay-for-what-you-eat basis. The hotel brochure gives us an idea of the services: a restaurant, bar, coffee shop, swimming pool, shopping arcade, room service, laundry, even an astrologer (yes! And quite a hit). Various activities are also organised, lessons in puppetry, vegetable carving, and cooking among them.

Our room has interestingly Mughal touches. The headboards are of red sandstone, inlaid with a simple floral pattern. The rugs are, as a plaque on the wall reads, replicas of `Agra Jail Carpets’. The Emperor Akbar, in the 16th century, brought Persian carpet weavers to Agra to teach inmates at the jail their craft; the prisoners eventually became proficient and began producing very fine carpets.

The bathroom too has its own traditional touches: the lampshades have a bright floral pattern, with enamel, and there’s red sandstone on a couple of the walls. The towels are white and fluffy, the basket filled with soaps, loofah, shower cap, bottles of shampoo and lotion—there’s also a hair dryer. The only thing I find iffy is the bathtub: it’s part of the wall and flooring, covered with the same stone tiles, and looks grubby, so we restrict ourselves to showers. Swapna and gang have a normal porcelain bathtub, so this isn’t standard.

The other thing I didn’t like was that besides a thin duvet, there wasn’t anything to cover with—not even a sheet. It was a little hot, and lowering the temperature on the AC didn’t work: I spent quite a while tossing and turning.

But, despite that, I’d recommend the Gateway. It’s conveniently located close to the Taj Mahal; the staff’s friendly and helpful; and the tariff—our rooms cost Rs 5,000 a night—is reasonable. And I guess if I’d asked for a sheet, I’d have got it.

We’ve stopped at Sikandra en route to Agra, so we reach the hotel around 2.30 PM. We aren’t ravenous (there’s a convenient McDonald’s on the Delhi-Agra stretch, and everybody’s tanked up on burgers, fries and Coke), but all that tramping around Sikandra has made us peckish. We pick from the `light bites’, and order soft drinks as well.

The food arrives faster than I’d expected it to, but is inconsistent when it comes to quality and portion size. Swapna’s `light snack’ of samosas turns out to have four deep fried samosas, such a huge portion she can barely finish half. Tarun’s delicious grilled fish with lemon butter is, though supposedly a main course, rather meagre—as is the crispy cheese and mushroom toast Deb and I have settled for (which, by the way, is not crispy in the least, but tastes all right). All dishes come with a side of fries.

The high point is the fresh lime soda, the best we’ve ever had: just the right amount of limejuice, syrup and a dash of salt. Superb!

For the rest of our meals (and we have two more at Aashiyana), we settle for the buffet. The breakfast buffet—which is part of the package—is a decent spread: breads, muffins, Danish pastry, doughnuts, cereals, juice, bacon, hash browns, sausages, eggs made to order, even an Indian section with upma, idlis, sambhar and chutney. And tea and coffee, of course. Good value for money!

On our second day, we have the buffet lunch. This is a mix of Indian and continental food, the Indian fairly predictable as far as taste goes, the Western so-so. The desserts aren’t spectacular, but all right: there’s apple pie with custard, vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, coffee mousse, strawberry soufflé and a few Indian sweets. Deb, who doesn’t want the buffet, orders a margarita pizza, and eats only one wedge out of it—it’s been drowned in tomato sauce.

The staff’s friendly, but service is erratic. Swapna orders tea; the hot water and tea bags are brought, but no milk or sugar. When we order à la carte, my meal comes well after everybody else’s. And at the dessert buffet, the ice cream scoop—which has a metal handle—is left in a bowl of boiling water, which nearly gives an unsuspecting Swapna a badly blistered palm when she touches it.

On the whole, just about all right. I’d have expected better of a deluxe hotel coffee shop, especially since the rates they charge are steepish: the buffet lunch itself is Rs 650 per head.

Since Sikandra is on the way into Agra, we decide it makes sense to stop by and see it now. The imposing gateway of the tomb, with its stolid white minarets, can be seen from the highway, and we pull into the parking lot. Tarun and Gourab go off to buy the tickets (Rs 10 for Indians; Rs 250 for foreigners and non-resident Indians; children below 15 enter free of charge), and then we stand for a while in front of the main gate, the Southern Gateway to Sikandra, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the beauty of it.

Sikandra is a typical char bagh Mughal tomb: the complex is a square garden bisected by two streams of water perpendicular to each other. The tomb lies at the centre, at the spot where the streams cross. Each of the four walls enclosing a char bagh is traditionally pierced by a gate. In the case of Sikandra, however, only the Southern Gate—the one at which we’re now standing—is a gate; the others are false gates: they look like gates but don’t lead anywhere. The southern gate is of red sandstone decorated with arched niches, carving, and bands of inlay. Around the main arched entrance are patterns of stylised flowers, leaves and tendrils, all in white and black marble. They’re beautiful, as are the geometric patterns, in white, black, tan and buff that flank them. The effect is opulent but very pleasing.

We step through the gateway and on to the wide paved causeway that connects the gate to the main tomb building, known as the rauza. Along the centre of the causeway runs a shallow channel which would once have been filled with water; today it’s dry. But the lawns around, with shady trees and shrubs, don’t look as if they suffer from a lack of water: in fact, small herds of blackbuck graze peacefully on the lawns and look up placidly to watch us walk by.

The rauza is, like the gate, mainly of red sandstone, but its roof is surmounted by rows of chhatris (domed pavilions), both large and small, in white marble. This is reminiscent of the buildings at Fatehpur Sikri (also built by Akbar) and have a distinctly Rajasthani feel to them. The upper section of the rauza, is however, out of bounds, so we have to content ourselves with exploring the ground floor.

We’re instructed to take off our shoes outside the rauza, and barefooted, we enter the vestibule that leads into the main tomb chamber. This is, without exaggeration, one of the most beautiful Mughal rooms I’ve ever seen: every inch of the walls and ceiling is richly painted. There are flowers, vines, curling leaves, bunches of grapes, and bands of calligraphy worked in gold, against a background of blue, red, orange and white. Stunning! We spend a few minutes here, gaping at the gorgeousness of it all, then take ourselves off down the sloping corridor that leads to Akbar’s cenotaph.

This corridor—a ramp leading down from the vestibule—is in marked contrast to the vestibule itself: it’s plain, with plastered walls and ceilings painted white. There isn’t a scrap of ornamentation here. The vast, high-ceilinged chamber to which it leads is equally plain, and Akbar’s cenotaph, though it’s made of white marble, is unadorned and fairly simple. A man, perhaps a mullah (or at least a religious of some rank) is standing next to the cenotaph, and calls out "Allaaahhhhh," in a loud, sonorous voice as we enter, probably in an attempt to encourage us to leave a donation (people have left a few rupees at the head of the cenotaph). The word echoes around the chamber, which has narrow sloping window-like openings towards the top of each wall.

Back up the ramp and out of the vestibule, we wander along the small marble chambers on either side of the vestibule. These contain the cenotaphs of various other members of the royal family, mainly Akbar’s many wives. Each little chamber has inlay—black and sometimes tan—in white marble; and above the dado, a screen of carved white marble pierced by a window. Lovely, and a good photo op!

Having taken plenty of pictures of each other peeking through these windows, we decide to take Swapna’s advice and have a look at the Western Gate. This, according to our guidebook (Lucy Peck’s Agra: The Architectural Heritage), is the best preserved of the three false gates at Sikandra, and worth a peek. Another causeway, at right angles to the one leading to the southern gate, brings us to the Western Gate.

The ASI seems to have been concentrating its efforts on conserving the southern gate and the rauza; the Western Gate is obviously neglected. At the top of the main recessed arch hang almost a dozen ominous black beehives. Not only do they look awful, I’m sure they’re also damaging the remarkable painting that decorates the gate. This is art of a very different style to that in the vestibule: less fine, less grand, but equally worthy of admiration. A massive fern-like plant in brick red is painted at the top, and below are motifs—looking very much like urns or jars—painted in red, ochre, rust, dull green and cream; the ceiling, where not obscured by beehives, has a pretty pattern of netted vaulting in white.

We walk around to the back of the gate, which is decorated with arched niches, beautifully carved and highlighted in white marble. There are examples here of what is known as chini khana decoration: depictions of vases, with or without flowers.

Neeti and Deb, by now, have started getting impatient (I can sympathise; Neeti has been on at least three school trips to Agra, and Sikandra is always a must-do!). We head back to the southern gate, with a minor detour en route to have a look at some colonial ruins. The British, when they took over Agra in 1803, built houses for themselves in the unlikeliest of places, including here, within the Sikandra complex. Between the rauza and the southern gate are the remains—broken columns, doorways, a short flight of steps with a balustrade—of one of these.

Out through the main gate, and we head towards the parking lot. Adjacent to this is the last of Sikandra’s attractions: the Kaanch Mahal (`the Palace of Glass’). This may seem a misnomer, since there isn’t a chip of glass or mirror on this building, but you should note that kaanch can also, in Urdu or Hindi, be used to refer to china (porcelain)—and the Kaanch Mahal has an attractive trimming of blue and yellow tilework. We find the Kaanch Mahal overrun by a group of noisy schoolchildren, laughing and playing all across the front of it. Their teachers (who should be shot!) have made themselves comfortable in the main entrance to the Kaanch Mahal, and are having a picnic. The interior of the Kaanch Mahal is, in any case, not the main attraction here; it’s the exterior, with its carved red sandstone oriel windows, with their tile edging, which has brought us here. Very pretty.

The ASI signboard outside the Kaanch Mahal describes it as a palace for the harem, but Lucy Peck is inclined to believe that this was a gateway leading into a walled garden. Swapna points out evidence: seen from the side, the Kaanch Mahal has two distinct halves. The section facing Sikandra is beautifully decorated; the other side is plain, plastered surfaces with no carving or tile. The remains of a gate built by the British stand next to the Kaanch Mahal; it was probably built to lead into the enclosure, at the far end of which we can see a dilapidated structure.

But it’s past 2 PM; the sun’s beating down; we’re thirsty and need something (as Neeti describes it) "cold, sweet and fizzy". Time to move on to Agra, but with a last, approving look at Sikandra. This is quite an appropriate welcome to Agra—and a foretaste of the delights that await us.

We head here to see the Tomb of Itimad-ud-Daulah (`Pillar of the State’), a title conferred on an extremely powerful nobleman who had come to India from Persia in the 1500’s. Itimad-ud-Daulah became not just an influential statesman, but also a member—by extension—of the royal family; his daughter Noorjahan married the Emperor Jahangir, and his granddaughter, Noorjahan’s niece Arjumand Bano, married Jahangir’s son, Shahjahan. (Arjumand Bano is better known as Mumtaz Mahal, the empress for whom Shahjahan built the Taj Mahal).

The receptionist at our hotel tells us that the Tomb of Itimad-ud-Daulah closes at 4.30 PM. The driver of the car we’ve hired has been making some enquiries, and he confirms it. What’s worse, he tells us that though there are two bridges across the Yamuna, both are one-way: we’ll be able to cross coming back from Itimad-ud-Daulah, not going there. To get to the place, we’ll need to drive all the way to the Agra bypass highway, then turn from there.

A collective groan goes up: it’s already 3.45. There’s no way we can make it. It must be miles to the bypass. But we set off gamely, and by the time we’re approaching, Tarun’s all ready, wallet in hand, to leap out and run to the ticket counter as soon as we reach. We reach at 4.20 and heave a sigh of relief.

Our anxiety is all in vain, though. Itimad-ud-Daulah is open till sunset (6 PM, in spring and summer), so we have oodles of time. Tarun buys the tickets (like Sikandra, Rs 10 per Indian and Rs 250 per foreigner or non-resident Indian; children below 15 enter free), and we pause a while to admire the gate to the tomb. It’s red sandstone, with lots of elegant floral designs inlaid in white marble. There are arched recesses, a row of decorative battlements (known as `kangura’ battlements in Indian Islamic architecture), and two singularly unprepossessing ASI caretakers who totally spoil the frame.

We step through the gateway, and it’s suddenly a different world, with a little fairytale palace all in white marble at the centre of it all. The tomb stands on a low platform beyond lush green lawns. The raised path leading to it is flanked by sandstone parterres bursting with white and mauve petunias. Less than a hundred metres beyond the tomb, the land slopes away to the Yamuna below, glittering in the light of the lowering sun. But we can admire the river later; we’re here to see the tomb. And what a tomb this is!

The Tomb of Itimad-ud-Daulah was built after his death in 1621 by his daughter Noorjahan, and is a squat building, topped with a pavilion with an interesting roof that looks like a ship turned upside-down. On the four corners of the tomb are low, cylindrical minarets. It’s not as elegant and perfectly proportioned a building as the Taj Mahal, but as we walk closer, we realise that this is, in itself, a masterpiece. The exterior is covered all over with inlay: grey, buff, gold, red, black, chocolate and cream stone—literally a hundred shades of colour—form intricate patterns of six-pointed stars, stylised flowers, arabesques, even quaint designs of fruit bowls filled with grapes and pomegranates. We wander around the outside for a while, just drinking it all in, admiring the delicacy of the carving (especially along the tall arched niches on the sides; these are closed with fine screens of carved marble known as `jaali’, which means net).

Inside, the decoration does an about turn. The only inlay to be seen here is the geometrical design on the floor and the dadoes. The upper half of the walls and ceiling are painted over. The innermost chamber is particularly beautiful, with very realistic lilies and what look like chrysanthemums painted on panels alternating with chini khana (vase motifs). The chini khana here is very elaborate; there are not just vases, but little jars and urns too; and the vases themselves are full to bursting with flowers. Most of the chini khana painting is in arched recesses, the painting done primarly in shades of dull blue and red. Swapna and I get even more excited when we notice `Chinese clouds’—the curling, stylised clouds that Mughal artists borrowed from Chinese art and incorporated into their own pictures.

We spend a brief while in the chamber containing the cenotaphs of Itimad-ud-Daulah and his principal wife; both cenotaphs are fairly plain, but made out of the striking deep gold stone known as Jaisalmer stone.

Outside, the sun’s dipping swiftly towards the horizon, and the gardens of the tomb complex come suddenly very alive. Rose-ringed parakeets swoop by in a tumble of bright, grass-green feathers, screeching shrilly; a black kite sits on the broken-off stump of a branch, its hooked yellow beak menacing. Just beside the platform of the tomb itself, a pair of five-striped palm squirrels scamper about, searching for food. The noise and traffic of Agra City seem a million miles away.

But before we leave the Tomb of Itimad-ud-Daulah, there’s one last structure to be seen: the riverside gate. This is connected to the main tomb by a raised path paved with stone. The gate looks out over the river beyond and (though we can’t find it) has a diminutive exit through which you can actually descend to the river. It’s a red sandstone building, again (like the main gate) all arches and white marble inlay. The sides of the gate are decorated with more chini khana inlaid in white marble. It looks quite quaint, really: a high wall of red sandstone, divided by strips of marble into arched segments, each segment with its own vase. Some sections have two vases, some three. It looks a little like a medieval advertisement for a Mughal winehouse!

We step into the gateway to have a look at the inside. Like at the tomb, the inside here is painted, not carved or inlaid. The central chamber is flanked on either side by smaller rooms, in one of which a trio of workers is sawing wood and carrying out other restoration work. We sidle past them and feast our eyes on the painting; this bit is especially splendid, with white, blue, grey and red predominating in floral patterns and lots of chini khana—one wall, fitted into an arch, is covered with dozens of vases, many of them full of flowers. Superb. And, hopefully, these men at work will help keep it that way.

Outside, we wander around a bit towards the northern side of the gate, and accidentally make an interesting discovery. At the foot of the wall is an inconspicuous inscription: Flood Level Oct 7 1924. Whew; that must have been one helluva monsoon. The tomb itself seems to have escaped by the skin of its teeth.

And on that relieved note, we take ourselves off, down the road to the next sight we’ll see, the Chini ka Rauza.

At the end of the lane is the Chini ka Rauza, looming in the fading light of the setting sun. Only a few people are around; one of them tries half-heartedly to offer his services as a guide, but we shake him off.

Chini ka Rauza is the tomb of a nobleman named Afzal Khan, a powerful courtier during the reigns of Jahangir and his son, Shahjahan. Afzal Khan’s brother, Amanat Khan, was the chief calligrapher employed to script the massive panels of calligraphy at the Taj Mahal. Interestingly enough, he was the only person allowed to leave his signature on the Taj.

But back to Afzal Khan, who began building this tomb during his lifetime, and was (after his death in 1639, at Lahore) brought here and interred.

Chini ka Rauza isn’t remarkable seen from afar; it’s a dull grey building with a shallow dome and four minaret-like structures (known in Indian architecture as guldastas). It’s only as we draw near that we see why it’s called the Porcelain Tomb: the façade was apparently once all tilework. Traces still remain, and we can imagine what the building, covered in floral motifs and geometric designs of bright blue, grey-blue, white, turquoise and green must once have looked like.Inside, the walls and vaulted ceiling are painted over, beginning with a circular, multicoloured and complex pattern on the domed ceiling. The walls and eight arched doorways are likewise decorated, in colourful arabesques, with medallions painted with the names of Allah and Mohammad (the latter rarely seen on monuments) on either side of the arches. Our dependable guidebook, Lucy Peck’s Agra: The Architectural Heritage, informs us that most of the painting is probably recent, since 19th century records mention the interior decoration of the tomb as being damaged by decay.

Outside is a small garden, and at one end, a chhatri—a domed pavilion—of red sandstone, overlooking the river. There’s no indication what this is, but Swapna goes off to investigate. She comes back to say it looks like a Mughal water tower, a structure that housed a hydraulic system to lift water from the river below. Since a water channel (now dry) leads from it into the garden, this sounds plausible.

But that’s all there is to see at Chini ka Rauza, and with one last photograph (zoom at the maximum, since the best-preserved tilework is right at the top), we head off back to our hotel.

There’s nothing new to add, though there’s plenty of juicy gossip. It’s said that Shahjahan cut off the hands of the workmen so they would never be able to create anything as splendid (utter rubbish); and that he had planned a black marble replica of the Taj for himself (unlikely). The most preposterous—and much laughed at—theory is that the Taj Mahal isn’t a Mughal tomb at all, but a Hindu temple called Tejo Mahalaya.

Whatever it is, it’s beautiful, and no visit (even as fleeting as ours) can be complete without a trip to the Taj. We’ve visited it often enough, but this time, armed with the excellent Agra: The Architectural Heritage (by Lucy Peck), we’re better informed.

The earlier you arrive, the less crowded the Taj is. It opens at 6 AM, but we leave the hotel by 8, and reach the parking lot for the Taj a few minutes later. The Taj sits in a vehicle-free zone, so you park about a kilometre away. You can then either walk, or take a rickshaw, a camel cart, or a battery-operated van. We opt for a van, and on the short drive to the Taj, the `conductor’ gives us the lowdown: the Taj opens from sunrise to sunset (6 AM to 6 PM right now); the charges are Rs 200 per Indian and Rs 750 per foreigner and non-resident Indian. Children below 15 years enter free of charge. You may carry guidebooks, maps, paper and pens, mineral water, cameras and mobile phones into the Taj, but food or other electronic items aren’t allowed.

When we reach the Western Gate of the Taj, we’re frisked, and discover that even my camera remote and Neeti’s iPod aren’t allowed. Gourab takes them back to our car, so the rest of us wait for him. Swapna, meanwhile, probably because she’s wearing shades and clutching a book (not typically Indian traits), is regarded with suspicion by the guard who sees her Rs 200 ticket. "You’re Indian?" he asks.
"Yes," Swapna sighs. This has happened before.
"From where?"
"Delhi."
"Really? And how long have you been in Delhi?"
"Twenty-four years."
"So who’s Delhi’s Chief Minister?"
Swapna’s reply satisfies him (thank God, says Gourab later, that he didn’t ask her who’s the Speaker of the Legislative Assembly—none of us knows that!), and he lets her enter.

We stand here, and while we wait for Gourab to return, we look around. Just outside the security cordon is the area known as the Jilaukhana. This is where visitors traditionally dismounted and prepared to enter. Today, it’s lined by camel carts and souvenir sellers; beyond, on both sides, are the tombs, mainly in red sandstone, of Shahjahan’s secondary wives. These include the Tombs of Fatehpuri Begum, Sirhindi Begum, Akbarabadi Begum and sati-un-Nissa Khanum.

Inside the security cordon, past well kept lawns, looms the red-and-white bulk of the Taj Gateway. This is a huge square building of red sandstone lavishly decorated with inlay in white marble and semiprecious stones. Minarets and chhatris (domed pavilions) decorate the top of the gate, and there are arched niches across the front and sides. All along the outer edge of the main arched entrance are bands of calligraphy, jasper inlaid in white marble.

Gourab’s arrived, so we step in—and are, as always, dumbfounded. Through the gateway, dead centre, we can see the Taj Mahal, cool and white in the morning sun, at the far end of a water channel flanked by lawns, flowering parterres and trees. It’s stunning. We descend from the gate, and walk on till the white marble platform midway, where it’s almost de rigueur to pose for photos (Princess Diana did too). Our photos taken, we walk on to the main tomb, the rauza.

The Taj is an unusual example of a Mughal garden tomb, in that instead of the tomb being at the centre of the square garden, it’s at the end. It stands on the riverbank, which definitely adds to the dramatic beauty of the Taj.

The rauza is cleaned from 8 AM to 9 AM daily, so we still have a few minutes before it opens. We spend that time visiting the surrounding buildings.

Typically, the tombs of Muslim nobility in India had a mosque alongside (to encourage visitors to pray for the departed). Furthermore, a woman (like Mumtaz Mahal) who died in childbirth was considered worthy of veneration. If you look up at the Taj Mahal, with the main gateway at your back, the mosque is the large red building on your left. But since the guiding principle of Mughal architecture was symmetry, a replica of the mosque was needed opposite it. This, on the other side of the Taj Mahal—on your right—is the Mehmaan Khana, the `guest house’. Made of red sandstone with three domes of white marble and extensive inlay work, the Mehmaan Khana was meant to house nobility visiting the Taj. (Note that for many years, the annual urs, the death anniversary of Mumtaz Mahal, was observed at the Taj Mahal. It attracted many visitors, and thousands more came, like us, simply came to gawk at its beauty).

The Mehmaan Khana is a wide, arched hallway, the ceiling covered with an intricate pattern of red and white motifs. Unlike the outside, which is inlay and carving, this is painted incised plaster. Outside is an enclosure guarding a strange design, in black marble, inlaid into the red sandstone paving. This is a full-size replica of the massive metal finial topping the Taj Mahal, and was put in by the British.

Having duly marvelled at it, we move on to the Rauza itself. We have to remove our shoes outside (there’s a rack and a man who dispenses `tokens’ or tags for us to collect them later). We’re glad it’s not summer yet, and that it’s still morning: stone paving below bare feet can be torturous.

It’s difficult to describe the Taj Mahal to someone who hasn’t seen it. Everybody’s seen photos of it, but seeing it up close—huge, yet so symmetrical and understated—is an experience like few others. Large expanses—the dome (which is believed to represent a guava or a breast) and the recessed arches—are, for example, plain white marble, sparingly decorated on the edges with carving and inlay.

Inside lie the cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and of Shahjahan, both surrounded by an enclosure of carved marble screens that are cordoned off. The screens were originally of precious metals, but were replaced by marble in Shahjahan’s time itself. The carving’s is beautiful, but the pièce de resistance is the delicate inlay edging the screens and on the cenotaphs. Semiprecious stones such as jasper, cornelian, lapis lazuli and turquoise were used to create these floral patterns. It must have been painstaking work indeed: Michael and Diana Preston, in their book A Teardrop on the Cheek of Time, describe a single square inch of pietra dura that contains sixty chips of stone, all carefully arranged to depict tones and shades.

No photography’s allowed inside, so we step out after a while into the sunlight and do a circuit round the exterior. There are white marble dados here, carved with irises, crown lilies and daffodils. They’re fringed with less intricate inlay work. We walk along towards the back (which echoes the front) and look out over the Yamuna, then up at the minarets. They’re white marble, with black outlining the blocks. Swapna springs a surprise: the black is inlay, purely decorative.

There are a few people around, some sitting in the arched niches, staring out across the complex, others finding new angles for photographs. One man’s scribbling on a notepad. We descend from the rauza and then go to the Mosque.

The Mosque is, from afar, a replica of the Mehmaan Khana; closer up, we see the decoration’s a little different. It’s still carving and inlay on the outside, but the red-and-white painting differs. Most endearing of all is the inset above the main arch: the painting includes two tiny depictions of the Taj Mahal itself!

We wander around inside the Mosque, admiring the inlaid musalla (prayer rug) pattern on the floor, then head back, now shod, down past the water channel, along the fountains, and up to the main gate. Already, there are hundreds of tourists streaming in. We’ve avoided the worst of the crowds, and we’ve once again seen what Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore described as "one teardrop...on the cheek of time."

We reach the Agra Fort about five minutes after leaving the Taj Mahal, and go in to buy our tickets (Rs 20 for Indians; Rs 300 for foreigners and non-resident Indians. Neeti and Deb, as always, get in free because they’re below 15). That done, we step in through the carved red sandstone bulk of the Amar Singh Gate, with its curving bastions decorated in panels of colourful tiles in yellow, green and blue.

The Agra Fort is shaped like a semi-circle, and stands along the bank of the Yamuna. Excavations have revealed signs of a citadel here as far back as 1080 AD, but the fort today was built largely by the third Mughal Emperor, Akbar, starting in 1565. His grandson Shahjahan demolished many of the buildings and replaced them with palaces in his trademark white marble.

We begin by visiting the Jahangiri Mahal, a long palace of red sandstone, its façade decorated with arches picked out in white marble. Though it’s named for Jahangir—Akbar’s son—the palace was built by Akbar as part of a palace complex known as the Bangali Mahal. The Jahangiri Mahal’s gate is very attractive: red sandstone, embellished with the gold-coloured Jaisalmer stone, and with highlights of white marble. In front, a short distance down a broad path surrounded by manicured lawns, stands a hemispherical stone bowl with Persian inscriptions along its rim. This is known as the Jahangiri Hauz, and is believed to have been a portable hamaam—a bathtub—commissioned by Jahangir.

Inside, the Jahangiri Mahal is exquisite: there are panels of painted plaster (with gold leaf too), courtyards fringed with ornately carved pillars, pilasters with herringbone patterns, panels of impossibly intricate carving. A young man in T-shirt and knee-length shorts with a vacant look on his face sits on a verandah which has a particularly stunning panel of carving. I peer around him to focus my camera on the carving, hoping he’ll take the hint and move. He doesn’t. I squirm around a bit, manage to get the carving into my frame and have just clicked the button when he lifts his legs over his head and farts—loudly. Yuck, yuck, yuck! I scurry away, cursing fluently, and gather up the rest of the clan. Deb wants the rude guy pointed out to him, but all I’m interested in is getting out of here.

We escape, through the maze of chambers that make up the Jahangiri Mahal, and towards the Khaas Mahal. At the far end of the Jahangiri Mahal, near the Khaas Mahal, is a small room with an extremely historic artefact in it: the 11th century Ghaznin Gates. These are the polished, carved leaves of a massive wooden door that belonged to the tomb of Mahmud of Ghazni. The British brought the gates from Ghazni, claiming that they were the gates of the temple at Somnath, which Mahmud plundered in 1025 AD. This was eventually disproved, and the gates ended up here.

After peering at the gates, we move on to the Khaas Mahal, which comprised the emperor’s private apartments. The Khaas Mahal consists of a series of pavilions, including a pillared one in carved white marble, with twin pavilions—both with gilded whaleback roofs—on either side.

Beyond these is the exquisite Shah Burj or Mussamman Burj, now cordoned off with a heavy metal mesh. The Shah Burj was where the emperor would appear every morning to `show’ himself to his subjects. It was originally of red sandstone, but Shahjahan made the present one in white marble. We can’t see much of the Shah Burj, but the inner section’s gorgeous, with intricate carving and panels of pietra dura inlay: I can see one with purple and blue irises. The floor has a carved shallow tank and a fountain.

From the Shah Burj, we trace our steps back a bit and descend to the large garden below. This is the Anguri Bagh, an expanse of red sandstone parterres, right now in shades of bright green foliage and deep scarlet flowers. The Anguri Bagh is surrounded by relatively plain buildings which are believed to have been the zenana, the imperial seraglio.

We walk across the Anguri Bagh, along its northern edge, till the corner, where we climb upstairs and make our way through the Machchi Bhawan (the `House of Fish’, though I can’t fathom why). The Machchi Bhawan is, like the buildings surrounding the Anguri Bagh, fairly plain. They’re red sandstone and white plaster, but the decoration is minimal.

We walk on to the end of Machchi Bhawan, and enter the Nagina Masjid or Nagini Masjid. This was probably the private mosque of the emperor, and is consequently a small one, reminiscent of the Moti Masjid at Mehrauli in Delhi: the same white marble, three domes, and restrained decoration. In fact, just about the only carving is the simple floral pattern along the top of the enclosing wall. The simplicity of the mosque adds a lot to its charm, we agree.

From the Nagina Masjid, we make our way through the Machchi Bhawan and into the large quadrangle fronted by the Diwan-e-Aam, the Hall of Public Audience. This was where the emperor met the nobility, entertained ambassadors, received tributes, distributed tokens of his favour, and so on. It’s a large open hall with rows of pillars joined by cusped arches, marching down the length of the hall. The entire hall, pillars and all, is covered in polished offwhite plaster, with the edges highlighted in black: very striking. There’s also a carved white marble throne, though nowhere as splendid as the one at Delhi’s Diwan-e-Aam.

In front of the Diwan-e-Aam, on the ground not far from the hall, is an oddity: the 19th century Memorial of Russell Colvin, Lieutenant Governor of the North-West Provinces. The European style of the memorial, with its sloping `roof’, little pinnacles and whatnot, make it stick out like a sore thumb amidst the Mughal buildings around. (Swapna points out that the British in the early 1800’s didn’t stop at that. They set up homes in the fort, erecting partitions and scraping off painted plaster. A wall of the Diwan-e-Khaas was broken down to put in a fireplace, and the hammam was removed and sent to Calcutta by Lord Hastings. Lord Bentinck completed Hastings’s work by selling off the remaining marble of the hammam to manufacturers of souvenirs).

Neeti and Deb are by now hot and tired and irritable, and Swapna gives them a pep talk before we move off to our final sight in the fort, the Diwan-e-Khaas, or Hall of Private Audience. This overlooks the river, so we need to retrace our steps, past Machchi Bhawan and back. On the way, we peek into (literally) the Sheesh Mahal (the `Palace of Mirrors’). The ASI have locked it up, but the door has grubby glass panes through which we can just about get a glimpse of some breathtakingly beautiful patterns of incised plaster and glittering mirrors.

The Diwan-e-Khaas is cordoned off and we can’t get in. Fortunately, it’s an open hall, so we can see most of it through the railings that screen it. The pillars here are square, with carved bases. What I like most of all are the arched insets of delicately carved marble at the far end: they’re superb.

Near the Diwan-e-Khaas, on a broad stretch of paving with a fine view of the distant Taj Mahal, is a heavy bench of black slate. This is the Takht-e-Jahangir and was commissioned by the Emperor Jahangir while he was still officially just Prince Salim: it was an act of rebellion against his father, Akbar. The top of the bench is flat and unadorned; the sides are carved with calligraphy in praise of Salim, the `Shah’.

By now, even the adults in our group are in serious need of liquid sustenance. We troop back, sated and more than a little dazzled by all we’ve seen. Swapna points out, beyond some buildings, the sloping tiled roofs of British-era barracks, all within the fort. These are still held by the Indian Army, which has a substantial presence in the fort. Someday, maybe, they’ll move out, and visitors like us will be able to see a little more.