Feb 20, 2012 Delhi Agra Weekend Episode 7
We set off for Agra from Delhi by 8:30am on Monday morning. Traffic in Delhi is less because it is a public holiday. Shivarathri: the one night, according to Hindus, when Shiva takes a nap from watching over the universe and the Hindus stay awake to substitute. On empty roads, Santoshiji races quickly to 90kmph. We go through Bhagwan Valmiki Marg and I learn that the epic author has a dedicated temple there. We pass by Himachal house and Rajasthan houses, the state consulates at the national capital. Kerala house which is at Chanakyapuri is out of our way. We see the Supreme Court from a distance and go by the side of Janpath road, perhaps the most politically powerful street in the country today. Shiva might be sleeping but the beggars with their babies are wide awake at the traffic lights. So are the hawkers of cellphone chargers, steering wheel covers and napkin boxes.
We are moving south. As the city recedes, dust, dirt and poverty begin to rise. Earth moving equipment, cranes and concrete mixers enjoy a holiday too from their hard task of redrawing the city limits. Incomplete overpasses pause like hesitant cobras. At a particularly congested traffic light, an ambulance begins blaring its siren behind us. There is no space to give way. Santoshji races the car. The ambulance follows. This goes on for two more lights.
There is a massive toll plaza that marks our exit from Delhi and entrance to the state of Haryana. Officially we are in Faridabad. There is no government holiday for the villagers in their much worn sweaters who pack themselves into the bulky, noisy 'tuktuk' autorickshaws. I remember that they are called Vikram/Bikram after the old manufacturer's name during my Kanpur trip of 1998. These villagers in their morning hurry offer good contrast to the all glass facades of shiny shopping malls that appear by the road from time to time, with their massive hoardings advertising international brands of apparel and shoes. Santoshji is careful of careless pedestrians who saunder across this National Highway 2.
It is impossible not to notice the abundance of liquor shops in Haryana. Majority of them call themselves "English Wines". There are tractors fitted with gigantic cloth bags in the back on tall frames. They haul fodder as well as produce. Since they don't have rearview mirrors, major horn honking is the only option for Santoshji to pass them. Briefly we get stuck behind a dad on a tractor with his two boys happily seated on the platforms of the chassis above the huge wheels. At a traffic light, Santoshji honks the hell out a motorbike rider young man who got busy on his cellphone and ignored the green light for 2 seconds.
Before reaching Palwal via Ballabgarh, we stop to buy very alluring oranges. They turn out to be as good as they looked, juicy and sweet. Fresh from the farm for Rs. 40 a kilo. By the side of the highway, the factory of Escorts. Though escort services have given tourism industry a bad name nowadays, this original Escorts company continues producing farm machinery and vehicles.
Major morning traffic at Palwal. Though it is a small town by the highway, both Muthoot Finance and Manappuram Gold Loans, those glorified pawn shops of Kerala, have offices here in the same building. The rally in the global gold market has turbocharged these businesses.
After Aurangabad, comes Hodal which is the last post before entering the state of Uttar Pradesh. At Hodal, Santoshji goes to the police check post to pay the taxes. The car is quickly surrounded by hawkers of cheap jewelry and other touristy trinkets. There is a boy begging. He is dressed like Shiva. I wonder if it is a Shivaratri special costume. Santoshji tells us that Uttar Pradesh is very harsh on drivers who are caught without the tax papers.
The Delhi-Agra corridor of the National Highway 2 is a great road for the most part. Of course, as almost all the great infrastructure in India, this one too was mired in corruption, murder, scam etc.
Vast green fields of wheat stretch to as far as the eye can see on both sides. The green is broken in parts by the yellow of mustard flowers. Thatched hut like structurers rise intermittently in these fields. The few times that I got closer view of these huts, it looked like they were stacks of dried cowdung pancakes. Roadside eateries called 'dhabas' appear at regular intervals. All of them have some boys or young men standing outside waving the passing traffic inside. Patches of the eucalyptus line the highway in parts. We pass through places called Sikri and Chchatha.
The surprising element for me along this route was the huge engineering, medical and management colleges that spring out of the blue and stand in the middle of nowhere. They have names like GLA, Hindustan, Sanskriti, Rajeev etc Education is certainly more profitable than agriculture in India. So I wouldn't be surprised if the entire highway is lined by "universities" in a couple of decades. For the time being, since these campuses are far removed from any town, I presume they are all self sufficient.
As we speed through Vrindavan, Santoshji says he would have taken us to the temples there if we had a later return flight. I notice the name "Pagal (mad) Baba" on one of the temples. I would like to check it out some day! As we get closer to Mathura, Achan and Amma begin a discussion of how this can be Lord Krishna's Mathura when Dwarka has been discovered under the ocean near Gujarat. Short, intense, futile debate.
There is roadsign pointing to Govardhan. I begin think about that name. According to mythology, Krishna got that name because he lifted the mountain, Govardhan, with his little finger and allowed the entire village to take shelter under it when severe rains threatened all life. The word Govardhan in Sanskrit literally means "increase of cows". I wonder if that mythical mountain lifting inside to save the village is an allegory for Krishna spearheading the economic shift from agriculture to pasturing after rains destroyed crops.
My train of thought is broken by the blazing flame atop the tower of the Mathura refinery. Thick smoke floats away from this dancing flame. Eagles circle around it high above. I don't understand why a refinery that is processing raw material from Mumbai and Nigeria had to be located so close to Taj Mahal. Was Indira Gandhi, who commissioned it, jealous of Shah Jahan? After major hue and cry about the polluting effects (including the yellowing of the Taj Mahal) of this refinery, several steps have been taken to make it more green.
A large white "Guru temple" stands by the side of the highway. From its dome structure, I suspect it is a gurudwara. But then we soon come upon a proper gurudwara. I will have to wait for the return journey along this road to sort out the temple mystery. Very soon after we pass a "Pracheen mandir" which looks really ancient we hit Agra traffic. It is 12 noon.
First impression: Agra city is congested, underdeveloped and ugly. This is a major downfall for what was once the pride of the world's richest dynasties. The road is a web of potholes. There are no traffic lights. Loud horns all around. Almost all the cars, the Innovas and the Volkswagens carrying foreign tourists that has passed us on the highway, are now stuck in the jam just ahead of us. Santoshji uses all 20 years of his experiences and pulls off the impossible. We squeeze into the narrow road that leads toward the Taj.
Inescapable signs of poverty all around. Even more pathetic to see the latest edition of election campaign posters from all the major political parties promising to delivery food, health and sanitation. It has been over 60 years since independence and it has been the same promise. Our pathetically corrupt leaders!
As the Agra fort rises to our right, Santoshji points to the right. My first glimpse of the Taj Mahal across from the Yamuna river. The view is hazy. But the hastening death of the great river is closer and clearer. Sandbars aplenty in this dark patch of water. Washermen and women are at work on many of the sandbanks. There is no noticeable flow.
Santoshji calls up our guide who is supposed to meet us shortly. "Do you want to have lunch first or visit the Taj?" We opt for lunch so that hunger won't come in the way of our enjoyment. Santoshji stops outside a restuarant: The Silk Route. A young man in fake Rayban Wayfarer glasses meets us. "Hello. My name is Nahimuddin. Welcome to my place." He will be our Agra guide. First he guides us down the flight of stairs to The Silk Route. As Amma goes to the ladies room, he turns to Achan and I.
"Do you have Id card?" he asks in a very thick north Indian accent.
"Yes, we have PAN card."
"PAN card no work!" He pouts. "Either passport or voter card."
"We don't have those now."
"Because in Taj Mahal....very strict....see, Indian people ticket twenty rupees...other SAARC country people five hundred rupees....foreign people more rupees....so checking to be sure you are Indian people....they ask you where you from." he pauses for dramatic effect, I guess. I guess wrong. He was actually looking for an answer."Kerala" I answer"they ask you who your chief minister...who your governor...ok? if you no answer...five thousand rupees fine and take jail immediately...ok?"I smile. He smiles and says, "But no worry...I will manage...no problem...ok? enjoy your lunch."
We go into the restaurant. It is pretty obvious that it is one of those posh dens meant to rob foreigners in broad daylight. Numerous guides have herded their foreign flock in there. They are urging them to order beer and lime soda. I think the guides and drivers get commission for each drink ordered. There is a man in a turban seated on a colorful carpet near the entrance. He is playing his dhol and singing. For a moment, I suspect that he might be a traditional Khap or Manganiyar from Rajasthan. My doubts are instantly removed as he begins to sing, "Oh la la, Oh la la, tu hai meri fantasy" the latest hit item number from "The Dirty Picture". We order couple of biriyanis and a soup from the exorbitant menu. The mutton biriyani is horribly salt. Thousand rupees wasted on lunch.
As we climb back up from the basement restaurant to the bright sunshine of Agra, I tell Nahimuddin that this restaurant is meant for looting foreigners and Indian tourists like us should be spared. I would rather eat at a "Cotton Route" that serves taste food that listen to Bollywood numbers from some fake folk singer and be charged close to five hundred rupees for over salted biriyani. He smiles and climbs into the front rider seat. I squeeze myself in between Achan and Amma in the back. Despite the bad aftertaste of soup, it begins to sink in that we are less than a kilometer from the wonder of the world.
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