Log 2
3rd February 2010, 2030 Hrs, Agra
I got into the cab amidst the pre-dawn Delhi chill. I said the New Delhi railway station to the driver. He asked me if I had to go to the Pahadgunj end or someothername end. I told him in all honesty that I didn’t know. He sighed and said that okay, he would drop me off at the more usual end. I wondered what all this fuss about ‘ends’ was. I was dropped at the end where apparently the platform number 1 begins.
I went in to find out which platform my particular Shatabdi Train was laying eggs on – No. 16. Only once I started walking did I realize that No. 16 was, surprise surprise, the other ‘end’.
Trust me, by the time I walked with my entire luggage from PF No.1 to PF No.16, I was wondering if I might reach Agra if I walked just a little further.
I got into my coach huffing and puffing; which I think the fellow passengers noticed because two of them rushed to help me. Upon the striking of such cordial notes, my journey to Agra began.
There was a girl sitting next to me, who gave me one glance, sized me up mentally, decided I wasn’t worth a smile / greeting and immediately went to sleep. I wondered what it was about me that made my fellow-passengers behave like Sleeping, er, Beauties. Anyway, after eating the breakfast served by young men wearing black kurtas and red turbans (the brown bread was one of the most delicious I ever ate), I decided to look smart by reading the daily with seemingly utmost concentration. Of course, I fell asleep immediately too.
As soon as I got out from the Agra railway station, a strange sight greeted me. Men were crowded around the entrance and were yelling – all battle-like – and pointing fingers. Strongly reminiscent of the stock market during the times when one had to yell. Later I discovered that these were cabbies and this is how they ‘marked’ their tourists.
My cabbie (the one who had yelled, pointed at me, aggressively argued over me with another cabbie (who had also, apparently, yelled and pointed at me) and had therefore ‘earned’ me) practically grabbed my suitcase and dragged me to the cab. I told him the destination. He said sure and if was in Agra for the first time. I said yes. He then matter-of-factly added: “aap Bangalore se hongi” (You must be from Bangalore).
I wondered if there was something called as having lived in a place for too long – so much so that the place is a part of who you are. Couldn’t help remembering Nathaniel Hawthrone’s lines in The Scarlet Letter:
Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil.
Anyway, I have roamed the whole Agra today without lunch and without Taj Mahal. Well, I did pass through a road where I managed to glimpse some of it. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome (!) to our Annual Spot the Taj Mahal contest:
The Agra town itself has so many heritage structures. Many crumbling, visibly occupied by poor tenants, houses have fine architecture that can be seen through all the ill-maintenance and age. I also saw the following structure that I thought must be some Palace:
Upon enquiry, turns out, it’s the St.Something college! Imagine having classes in a place like this. Feels fantastic to me, who went to colleges made of concrete and glass. Who knows, may be there are ghosts of some old Maharaja haunting it; I wonder if they’ll provide their royal help for cheating during exams.
Every nook and corner of Agra has structures that must have been once grand and beautiful. A place acquires so much character with age. But also visible in every nook and corner is the poverty, the lack of sanitation and outright randomness.
I guess not every country has such unbelievably glorious distant past and disproportionately clueless recent past.


![DSC00030[1] DSC00030[1]](http://chethanaachar.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/dsc0003011.jpg?w=500&h=375)

