taj memoir

The scene is too much to take in with only our five senses. We stand at the entrance in a daze, the white marble glistening in the morning sun, the red mosques on either side framing it, the gardens and streams gently leading up to steps, up to the most beautiful mausoleum built. We inch towards it, take our shoes off, press our hands against the ever-cold marble. Intricate flower designs cover the thinner marble slabs, allowing new color to sparkle through, and Islamic writing frames the doorways. The interior is dark and cold but filled with carvings and bird droppings, and side-by-side tombs sit in the eerie white dimness.

And we walked outside it, around it, away from it. We looked at it for a long time and then gave its marble a kiss because we didn’t know how else to treat it, because it taught about love and sadness and pride and eternity. And we put our shoes back on. And when we talked about the Taj Mahal we lowered our voices a little. And we marveled at how something so beautiful and perfect could be created by a selfish ruler with imperfect love. And we couldn’t help but feel the magic then, and still now, because we saw a piece of eternity and a piece of real beauty and maybe even a piece of love.