More often than not, as the cliché goes, the journey itself is better than the destination. The Taj Mahal is a stunning piece of perfectly symmetrical, blindingly white, marble architecture made to be even more awe-inspiring by its garden and river surrounds, but before I get into all the grandiosity that is the Taj, I’d like to tell you my little story of how I got there:
Waiting in line to buy my train ticket at the local station, I battled would-be cutters as the queue became more of a blob the closer I got to the window. I requested a reserved seat to Agra, the resting place of the Taj itself, a manageable six hours away. The teller quickly handed me a ticket and demanded the 140 Rupee fee. While life is most certainly cheap in India, I walked away somewhat skeptical about the rather low price ticket I just received and a bit concerned about what my reserved seat was going to look like. Examining my ticket, I found no mention of a seat number, or even a platform number for that matter. After a few broken English conversations and a lot of hand-waving and head-bobbing, I gathered that my train was at the station now, but I needed to walk to the end of carriages, to the unreserved car, since I didn’t have a seat.
Shit.
I knew about these “unreserved” cars. On previous train journeys, I watched as the masses made a dead sprint for the end of the platform each time we rolled into a new station. Locals pile into the car, desperately trying to find some small piece of real estate where they can rest at least some portion of their bodies for the journey. That whole lack of personal space, thing? It’s real, and I’m fairly certain however many clowns the circus has managed to fit into a car won’t hold a candle to what the Indians are capable of on a daily basis with these trains.
I climbed into the cart upon direction from a cynically-smiling security guard and found zero open seats, as expected. Rather than work my way through the cart amongst the stares, I decided to lay claim to the pathway between two cars, prepared to stand for the journey. The car wasn’t nearly as crowded as I’d expected, and though I was most definitely not comfortable, I figured I could manage with my current piece of real estate. After a few conversations, I was once again adopted by an Indian, who convinced a passenger to let me share his window seat. I declined, before being persuaded to have a seat. One cheek on about 4 inches of a pleather wasn’t my idea of being comfortable, but I went with it. No more than twenty minutes later, I realized why I was persuaded so adamantly to take the seat.
The masses poured in, yelling and scrambling to find any open patch of a seat, climbing on the rafters, through windows, and toppling over those lucky enough to be firmly planted. My new seat partner held me back against the seat, urging me not to give any ground whatsoever. When it was all said and done, the yelling ceased and I took in the scene. Indians squeezed 8-deep into a row of seats meant for 4, legs sprawled across luggage racks above, nappers’ legs and arms curled around seat pillars, bodies strewn all across each other, and all the rest standing in the aisles. Somehow, vendors managed to make their way through the carriages, selling everything from samosas to sacks of cold water for sweaty backs. I was treated to a variety of treats, fully expecting my stomach to reject it all sometime later that evening.
At one point, a bag came toppling down from above, grazing my head, but landing square on top of my neighbor, who had been sitting on a big bag full of grains in the aisle in front of me. He held his head for a minute or so, expressionless, before I realized that blood was pouring down the back of his neck. I sat shocked for a second before remembering that I had my First-Aid kit with me. I jumped up on my seat, making sure nobody slid underneath me, and reached into my bag to pull out some gauze and bandages. We wrapped up the man’s head, gave him a couple ibuprofen, and just like that, I was a celebrity. The stares turned to smiling stares, nearly all of the few dozen passengers in my immediate vicinity beaming at me as I tried to avoid eye contact. After 3 more hours of a numb backside and more contorting than I care to mention, I left the train in Agra to a round of handshakes and happy faces, relieved to have survived a place I was never meant to be or see.
After all that, the Taj itself was beautifully boring, and best viewed from afar, across the gardens. You should most definitely go see it, and check a wonder of the world off your list.
Just make sure you have fun getting there…