Touring as Something Other than Hell, Part 1: Tombs, Forts, and The Lady of the Lake

It is probable that the pleasure one can have strolling through a virgin forest or hunting tigers is marred by the idea that one must later make an artful description to please as many bourgeois people as possible—Gustave Flaubert


The time has now come for backtracking—not retraction precisely, just a bit of backtracking. Much has been made in this blog of the wretchedness of the tourist experience in India; it’s possible, even, that someone, perhaps rather theatrically—let us say in the spirit of showmanship—ventured to place side by side, in a rather incautious manner, two dissimilar things—for example, that peculiar, aforementioned experience and a certain nether-realm of the Christian imagination—and in so doing implied, or even suggested outright the overlapping nature of the two. And now, in the spirit of fair and evenhanded reporting, I’d like to say that the trip wasn’t all, or even mostly agitation and torment; it offered a good bit of wonder, pleasure, and appreciation, too—appreciation of the creations of both man and nature.

Tyger, Tyger: When I was seven, my best friend Michael Pecina and I whiled away many an hour imagining ourselves into tigers and the human masters at whose bidding they worked (not always to moral ends, as I recall); had I been able to undertake a trip to Rajasthan’s Ranthambore National Park then, my life may very well have turned out differently—what happens to a child who is granted the most fervent desire of his heart at such a young age? Alas, it would be twenty-one long years before I would have a chance to see a tiger in its natural setting, and even the most passionate of romantic loves rarely have sufficient reserves of ardor to burn for such a span. That’s not to say that I wasn’t pumped about the prospect of encountering the biggest of the Big Cats in the wild, only that I wouldn’t be descending into the hysterics that, had we traded places, my seven-year-old self undoubtedly would have.

Ranthambore possesses the desiccated loveliness typical of Rajasthan, with towering massifs above which, on the day of our visit, the sky crimsoned prettily in the minutes before sunrise. Due to the vagaries of booking, my sister and brother-in-law were seated in a jeep other than mine, theirs being bound for Zone 3 of the Park; my jeep, which I shared with a Mumbai investment banker and his mother, wife, and two children, sped off for Zone 5. After two hours of fruitless searching (I say fruitless though we saw two species of deer, a large antelope, crocodiles, peacocks, langur monkeys, and other sundry creatures), we turned back for the park’s entrance. “I want to see a puppy!” the little girl from Mumbai exclaimed.

Not far beyond Zone 5 we came across a cantor—a large open vehicle seating about twenty—stopped in the road, and after some feverish whispering between the guides of the two vehicles, our driver backed up a safe distance and killed the engine. Following a few breathless moments, a tiger emerged in the undergrowth of the forest perhaps fifty yards from the jeep. It strode languidly on a line parallel to the road, occasionally glancing over in our direction. We followed its path as best we could, but after less than two minutes, it was lost irrecoverably in the forest. The tiger was a three-and-half-year-old female nicknamed The Lady of the Lake; I didn’t catch her measurements or turn-offs. Alas, the zoom of my little camera proved insufficient to capture The Lady; I did, however, manage to take thirty-four seconds of video footage that make the Bigfoot tape seem, in comparison, definitive evidence of the Sasquatch’s existence.

Humayun’s Tomb: (Scene from the Bollywood film, Fanaa)

Guide: This is Humayun’s Tomb. It was constructed for him by his wife Hamida.

Husband (to his wife): Take a look at what a wife made for her husband. And you can’t even make me breakfast.

Wife: Don’t worry, I’ll start building your tomb right away.


On Christmas Day, the entire Gaff family (at right, arrayed just inside the Tomb’s walled gate), reunited for the holiday in Delhi and made its way to Humayun’s Tomb, which, though a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is little known outside of India. Humayun was the second Mughal emperor, and the elegance of his final resting place clearly influenced the design of the Mughal-built Taj Mahal. H.T. is an impressive structure to be sure, all domes and minarets and filigree, and most distinct from the Taj in its builders’ employment of red sandstone, rather than white marble, as the primary material of construction. In my most objective reckoning, ignoring the shadow cast by what was yet to come, it ranks as one of the more remarkable buildings I’ve ever seen; the Lincoln Memorial, in comparison, is a prosaic monument, pale and stunted.

The Taj Mahal and Agra Fort: In June of 2005, I made my first trip to Yankee Stadium, one of the most storied venues in all of American athletics. Site of an unprecedented number of World Series contests (and victories), the only perfect game in Series history, Reggie’s three home runs in three pitches, Maris’s 61st, and the showground for some of the game’s all-time greats, the House that Ruth Built is hollowed turf for any true baseball fan, Yankee-lover or not (I am not). It also turned out to be a huge disappointment—blandly featureless, largely devoid of charm, and—it would seem—determined to ignore its incandescent history. Forgive me for fearing that the Taj Mahal might likewise disappoint; how could it fail but to collapse beneath the weight of the stacks of purplish encomiums penned on its behalf?


And yet one glimpse was enough to dispel such fears; if nothing else, the Taj delivers on its promise of being the most visually sublime structure humankind has yet had the sensibility to erect (go ahead, try to prove me wrong). The Taj is a bit smaller than I had anticipated, but this is a cavil and in any event one quickly subsumed by the inexorable gushing of the Taj’s deathless charms: the unmatched and impeccable harmony of design; the epically suggestive (and satisfying) arches and domes; the shocking marmoreal brilliance, at once cool and white-hot; and, upon close study, the astounding flourishes of detail adorning its iconic face. It is difficult to reconcile this face of Islam, which could create something so senselessly beautiful that it approaches unearthliness, with the one which finds beauty so threatening that it must be concealed beneath chador, jilbab, and burqa.

Immediately following our visit to the Taj, we headed to the Agra Fort, our third UNESCO World Heritage Site in two days. It was certain to be a letdown—what wouldn’t be after the Taj?—but, after all, Sgt. Pepper’s had The White Album and Star Wars had The Empire Strikes Back and Joe Dimaggio had Mickey Mantle so maybe it wouldn’t be all bad. And so it proved to be; in fact, though it is no doubt blasphemy to suggest, the Agra Fort, in many ways, is the Taj’s superior. The Taj is a bit of a one-trick pony, if you’ll excuse the awful cliché; it’s absolutely stunning to look at, but in the end it’s only a tomb (how many times has someone said, “Calling X a Y is like saying the Taj Mahal is only a tomb”?). It provides little stimulation beyond that frisson of wonder one receives at first glance—although as far as frissons go, they don’t get any better.

If it were a contemporary actress, the Taj Mahal would be Penelope Cruz, who is so ridiculously, unfathomably attractive that she tends to obliterate the very consciousness of the viewer (perhaps only male viewers, and perhaps only this male viewer) to the fact that there is a story, a film, going on around her; one is also likely to fail to notice or, for that matter, even care that, after all, she can act a little too. But sit Cruz down on a talk show couch, and you quickly realize that, after a week, you’d have nothing to say to the woman. Agra Fort, then, is Cate Blanchett—beautiful too, though in an entirely differently way than Cruz, and yes, not as beautiful—but my God, she knows a bit about everything and has a crackling mind that would keep you hopping well into your dotage. Given a choice between the two for a day, or even a week, you would choose the Taj; anything longer and you would be sure to run into the arms of the Fort.


Agra Fort is a rambling conglomeration of buildings, courtyards, and gardens encircled by high sandstone walls 2.5 kilometers in circumference. Initially (as the name implies) only a fort in function, it would gradually evolve, over the course of its first 100 or so years, into a palace complex, small city, and administrative capital of the Mughal Empire, until, under British control, it was reduced to a mere fort again. Made to enclose the dreams of generations of Mughal rulers, the structure is grandiose and inscrutable. Though it doesn’t possess much or any aesthetic continuity, it is nonetheless a fantastic hashing of halls (see above) and mosques, marble and sandstone, turrets and arcades. We wandered about its grounds, stumbling dazedly in appreciation among the muddle of exquisite forms. At closing we were reluctantly shooed out of the Fort by security; as we left, the paterfamilias of an Italian clan paused before us for one last look. "Magnifico!" he exclaimed, and we snickered, but he was right—it was magnificent.