"What the world needs now is love, sweet love..." Mr. Burt Bacharach as sung (quite nicely) by my new travelling companion from Madrid.

So, you've heard the story before. Guy meets girl. Guy falls madly in love with girl. They marry. Girl asks guy to build $60 million (circa 1631 C.E.) masoleum to their love upon her death. Well, maybe that last part is a bit different from the standard version. There are alot of ways to express love in this world, and for Shah Jahan, the Taj Mahal was one.

Before I can begin to describe what the Taj Mahal looks like at 6am on a Wednesday morning, I need to talk about a place that embodies a different kind of love. The Golden Palace at Amritsar. Kelley Cantrell and I left the Delhi train station at the crack of dawn (7:30, half an hour after I'm usually at work. Think Bill Bryson here...) and headed towards the Punjabi capital of Amritsar.

** A historical note here**

During the struggle for independence in India (most famouslly embodied by Mohandas Ghandi, later to be renamed "Mohatma" which means great soul), one of the biggest stumbling blocks was how to divide the Hindu and Muslim communities of India. Beginning with the raids of Mahmud of Ghanzi in the 11th century, the Muslim and Hindu communities of India had difficulty coexisting peacably. (BTW, I am lifting material generously from Lonely Planet. All copyrights, etc. Is there anything that book doesn't do??) Muslim rulers came in from Arabia and established various dynasties in India over the next seven or eight centuries, most notably during the Mughal dynasty (of which Shah Jahan was number five). Long story short, during the plans for a more stable political climate in post British India, there was a pressing need for the creation of a Muslim state (actually, they made two. Pakistan to the West, and Bangledesh to the East). Though the political boundaries were neatly drawn up on the map, the actual division of people created much bloodshed as each side,Hindu and Muslim, fled to their new homeland, killing each other along the way. The area of Kashmir, north of Punjab and Amristar where I was currently headed, is still a much disputed territory. The border between Pakistan and India had effectively divided the two most prominent cities of the Punjab area, Lahore and Amritsar, into two different countries. Problems ensued.

Anyhoo, we were headed to the Indian side of the former Punjab, Amritsar. On the train ride up, you could see the agricultural prowess that makes the Punjab the richest region in all of India prominently displayed in the passing fields. It actually reminded me of images I had seen of Vietnam or Thailand, rather than Northern India. Upon arriving at the most holy city for Sikhs (oh cripes, here we go again... The Sikh religion was founded by Guru Nanak in the 15th century as a way of protesting against the social rigidity of the caste system, much like Buddhism had done 2000 years previous. Sikhs fled from Lahore along with the Hindus and did just as much killing and dying as the Hindus along the way. Sikhs are known for their soldier-saints called khalsas. Since Lahore was now a part of the Muslim state of Pakistan, they headed en masse to Amritstar.) we headed to our accomodation, the mostly appropriately named Hotel Grand. Our plan was to head to the Golden Palace (the gurudwara of the Sikhs) early the next morning. Before that, however we had some important business to attend to. We were going to the circus!

Well, not the real circus, but you could have used that term synonymously with what we witnessed that steamy evening. As if the history of the Muslim/Hindu conflict coupled with the present day threat of nuclear warfare wasn't enough to incite further division, the border guards from the opposing sides saw it as their obligation to push it to a new level of competition. See, every evening at about seven o'clock, the border guards from each side perform a ritual that both reminds them of the real tension between the countries and serves as a acknowledgment of the armistice that currently exists between these two nuclear powers. The basic premise is to briefly open the gates to the border between India and Pakistan (which, incidentally, is open from 8am till 4pm so that people can actually cross the border) long enough to shake hands and lower the respective country's flag. The spectacle it has become only points to the competitive nature of all human beings and the unwavering pride that is associated with one's home team (in this case their actual homes). Basically, before this ceremony takes place, each country allows visitors to the border to fill the large ampitheatre that has been constructed to accomodate this event. Thousands of Indians push their way like cattle (that is one down side of living in a country with a billion people. Everyone is always pushing. I guess when you have to struggle for everything you have, unlike those of us who are reading and writing this here blog, the pushing is a logical side effect of that desire to get yours.) through a narrow fenced area like they have in amusement parks, in order to secure the best seating for displaying their country's pride. The Indian side has the atmoshpere of a Sunday afternoon football game, while the Pakistani side is divided by gender and the cries tend to be more of the ullulluing variety. The fervor of the cheering that ensues from both sides, however, is reminiscent of a Duke-Carolina baketball game. Which event is more fanatical you ask? It's a push. Then, after the crowd has been whipped into an appropriate frenzy by each sides border guards, they march out to the freshly opened gate, and two of the lucky border guards participate in the lamest millisecond handshake you've ever seen. Their overwhelming lack of sincerity is trumped only by the absolute absurdity of their uniforms. The Indian side has brown unis with a Red peacock-looking? feather extending from their hats, while the Pakastani side has blue unis with a red sash and feather piece. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or fear for my life if something went wrong in the course of the rehearsed pleasantries. The show was a great success as each side retreated to their country, confident that their way of life was superior. I was just happy to get the hell away from the crowds and the fervor.

After a much needed meal and rest (we watched most of the women's Wimbeldon final that evening which I hear was epic, though I missed the latter half cosily asleep on the couch. Hey, I'm in India. They watch tennis here too!), we struck off the next morning to the Golden Temple of Amritsar. The temple comlpex is framed by beautiful white marble and a running stream which you need to bathe your feet in before entering. The place had a spiritual feeling to say the least, and, bandana firmly on head, we headed to the inside to see the actual temple. The Golden Temple sits on a peninsula in the middle of a sacred watering hole. Siks from all over the world travel to Amritsar and bathe in the waters before heading into the temple. We were there on a Sunday morning and I had to smile as I compared it to the limited church going experiences of my youth. My image of a holy Sunday morning consisted of dressing in jacket in tie and trudging down to the chapel at my boarding school. There we would fight off sleep as we listened to the sermon and anxiously awaited the post chapel bruch complete with a choice of Eggs Benedict or pancakes, or both. (Don't get me wrong, there were times when I felt the spirituality of that place as much as any I've been to. It's just a stark contrast to the bathing, circling, interactive feel of the gurudwara.) We headed into the Temple and were privy to the reverent recitation of the Guru Granth Sahib, their holy book, by the four gurus who read and played accompanying music. Afterwards, we headed to the dining hall, where we were served a free meal of dhal and naan as we sat in rows on the floor and communed with the other pilgrims. One of the intentions of the founders of the Temple was to have a free meal for all pilgrims who arrived at the Temple after their journey. We decided to take them up on their offer and the communal gnoshing was quite pleasant.

On the way back from the temple and towards the train station to pick up a return ticket which someone (me) had not been able to secure in advance, we struck up a conversation with a Sikh who was purchasing tickets as well. Jaskirat, in turns out, is a graduate student, set to begin his studies in NYC at the beginning of August. We got to talking and he promptly invited us into his grandmother's house where we talked for about two hours. He answered some of my questions about his religion (why they wore those turbans? as a way to distinguish themselves from others in battle. The colors are of a personal preference not religious significance.) the politics of India and Pakistan (see above notes on history, which I recieved some instruction from Jaskirat as well) and the globalization of the world and the inequity of payment for services in India (he can do the same work in India as the US and get paid a quarter of the amount). It was an all around pleasant encounter and I gladly offered him the immediate friendship of any and all people I'd ever talked to in New York. I'm hoping to see him at the end of the summer...

So, a few train rides and one shower later, I found myself in Agra and subsequently outside the Taj Mahal at 6am on a Wednesday. I was a little worried that the build up of arguably the most famous building in the world might put me off upon an actual viewing, but that was not the case. I was struck by the sheer size, beauty and symmetry of that most famous monument to love in the world. After the requisite shots of the image of the Taj reflected in the pool, I walked up to and then around the magnificent building. Shah Jahan had begun its construction in 1631 and with the help of 20,000 slaves and the taxes collected from the poor, completed the masoleum in 22 years. Mumtaz had been his favorite wife who had died during the childbirth of their fourteenth child. Before her death, she had given him a model for the Taj Mahal saying, build me one of these when I go. (so much for a subtle hint for a diamond) He did as a tribute to his love and was slated to begin construction of an oppposing black marble version on the opposite bank of the Yamuna river, when he was thrown in prison by his son (his son, who was very religious, didn't think his pops should be taking all the money from the poor to build a monument to himself. Go figure...) He lived out the remaining years of his life miles down the road from the Taj with his only opportunity for viewing his epic creations was through a diamond pointed in its direction (he had lost his near sighted vision and could only see the Taj through the prism of the diamond. All of this I learned, as well as the history of Agra Fort, from a master teacher in the form of a tour guide inside the fort. This guy knew his stuff.)

So, we come back to the concept of love; love for a woman, love of a holy place, love for country, love of self. See, there's alot of different kinds of love out there and we can only hope that Burt can see that there are many places for our world to get the love it needs...

I'm hoping to find some in Varanasi and beyond...