The Burden of Beauty: An Open Letter to Shah Jahan
Photo: Karan Madhok
Personal Essay: Growing up in fascination of the Taj Mahal, Babli Yadav meditates on the burdens of passing time, in a letter to the Mughal emperor who built the great mausoleum of love.
Dear Padishah,
A virtual kornish!
Before I begin to introduce myself, I want to tell you a story.
Somewhere in the late 1980s, my parents visited the Taj Mahal. Your Taj Mahal. They were newly married and a visit to Taj for newly weds was (and continues to be) customary. Especially, if one hails from Agra and its surrounding districts of Etah, Firozabad etc. My father was serving in the Army in those days, and my mother hailed from a small village.
Photo: Babli Yadav
Back then, the staircase to the top of the mausoleum used to be accessible. My father, when he was alive, told stories about jumping from this great height all the way down to the swelling Yamuna River that flows besides the grand mausoleum, in an attempt to impress his new lady. My mother, who had just begun to witness the wider world outside her village, started to weep.
For hours, there was no news from her new husband.
It took a few hours before he reappeared, back at the Taj Mahal, after a swim across the Yamuna.
Alas, all these years later, there is no one in our family who can truly confirm this narrative. But the story survived.
Thus began their marriage—and a story was passed down to the next generation, kindling my own fascination for the Taj.
Fast forward to Hindustan, present-day India, is in the year 2023, more than three and a half centuries ahead of your time. I am one of its 1.39 billion citizens and one of the thousands, who have recently set foot on the Taj Mahal premises.
You’d be delighted to know that your ode to your beloved continues to be one of the seven wonders of the world.
I grew up listening to the tale of the other Mahal, the one that was never built. The black marble mausoleum that you wished to construct for your own tomb. It would’ve stood within the same eye-length as the white one, which you had built for your wife. I remember hearing about a silver bridge that would connect the two mausoleums.
While the kid in me never paid much heed to that vision, I find the idea of the “mirror Taj” captivating as an adult. What a marvel it would have been! Perhaps it would’ve taken another 22 years to build—or maybe more.
(Or perhaps your bi-daulat son Aurangzeb wouldn’t have allowed it. Sigh!)
My mom always says that everything happens for some good reason. At least now, you and your Arjumand Begum lay beside each other under the same dome.
Padishah, I have a confession to make.
It’s one thing to see a magnificent being in all its glory and pride. But, another, to be able to see its ageing signs—sadness in its stillness—standing erect, satisfying the many desires of tourists looking to be in company of the Taj Mahal—a symbol of love. A sizable number of modern tourists fall under the ‘desperate traveller’ category. They are eager to step into a pre-explored wonder, shop for souvenirs, walk at a purposeful fast-pace, consume a guided tour packed with facts, scream with joy, click selfies from popular angles, get exhausted, and return home with the relief of crossing the monument off their to-do lists.
Photo: Babli Yadav
As a tourist in her own land, I felt drawn to its chipped pillars, darkening floor, scribbled-on glass, emptied ponds for blue-washing, ungroomed lawns, imperfect, leafless, twisted trees. I had never before seen the Taj as a work in progress. Only as a finished, attractive being, holding its audience captive. At one point I felt, perhaps hypnotically, that the Taj Mahal was drawing me to inch closer to its impuissance. Its silent screams were asking for a break from being a wondrous monument that has been raided, invaded, ripped off its privacy, its gold, its sanctity. Loud chattering, non-stop clicks, torch light hitting to bring alive the in-laid gemstones, cheap thrills of shrieking and waiting for the sounds to fall on the ear drums, the profits gained by tour guides, shoe-cover vendors, photographers, retailers, emperors.
Historical monuments seen as marvellous pieces of heritage, architecture and culture have missed one analogy. That with stillness. How is it that the wind moves around the monuments daily, thousands of people walk in, around and all over the marble path, unattested facts float in thin air, birds hover, clouds travel, the sun comes and goes, night falls and rises again, seasons travel… while the ‘built’ structure—almost as a sacrificial symbol—lays still, expected to be quiet, calm, seated in the same spot for generations? Is that fair? Or is that the burden of beauty?
Everybody wants a piece of you, and those who cannot take one away only leave behind a piece of themselves.
Who were those people who sat calmly with a tool in their hand, engraving their names on the fragile, tender, glass? And now the shattered glass pieces are a window in the making, gaping holes for the wind to play hide-and-seek.
So much has changed at the premises in the last two decades.
Between you and me, Padishah, I know that it is you secretly working behind the discoloration of the white marble. Is that an escape route for you and your Arjumand from this chaotic afterlife?
I have a vivid memory of the Taj Mahal from twenty years ago, as I carefully landed my feet from one hot white marble tile to another around the mausoleum. Shoes weren’t allowed inside, and bare feet was the only way up.
Nowadays, no such desperate attempts need to be made by the modern visitors, for they can simply cap their shoes with PPE covers, sold everywhere from the parking lot to the mausoleum ticket counter for ₹10 each. But they also callously leave behind the disappointing sight of discarded shoe covers around the mausoleum.
Among their many anecdotes, the tour guides use a new golden tale to heighten the experience of tourists, especially when showing off the decorative finials on the domes. “Gold was priced at Rs 15 per tola during Taj Mahal’s conception,” they say. “The finials were all pure gold once. Now, gold is almost nearing 60,000 per tola.”
The original steps up to the mausoleum have now been replaced by wooden counterparts, raised platforms to support persons travelling by wheelchairs. The white marble flooring neither tells the tale of milky, shiny past, nor shies away from telling its real dark story. There is natural wear and tear around the Taj Mahal, which are signs of graceful ageing, and add to the beauty of the yesteryear’s glory. Or so we’re told.
Photo: Babli Yadav
Between you and me, Padishah, I know that it is you secretly working behind the discoloration of the white marble. Is that an escape route for you and your Arjumand from this chaotic afterlife? To go away to a place with fewer people and more quiet rest? Or is it your secret way of transforming the mausoleum into one with black marble, at last? Desires have a power regime of their own.
Oh, did I forget to mention? On a recent visit, I found you and Arjumand Begum resting under that tall, elegant tree which had shed all its leaves, and yet stood gloriously erect. Tree number 276.
And then later, I saw the two of you sitting around the cenotaphs, enjoying the February breeze. Birthed from whatever is left of the Yamuna.
Padishah, I no longer am a believer of perfect love.
The fading glory of your Taj stands as a testament to my non-belief. Nothing must carry the pressure of lasting forever.
However, if I do have to carry the memory of your Taj Mahal—our Taj Mahal—to my grave. I’d prefer it to be of the first time my parents were here together, and the mausoleum served as an early witness of their love.
With love,
Babli Yadav
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Babli Yadav is a freelance writer of Hindi poetry, non-fiction essays, and news articles on human interest angles. She is based in Bengaluru, India. You can find her on Instagram: @scribbler_bee.
