The Towers of Taj Mahal
"After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life." (Genesis 3:24)
It was on the terrace in front of the magnificent marble construction – which appears yellow under the sun and white as milk in the light of the moon – the Brahmin girl whose name should be kept a secret (we can call her Aashna) told me the four tragic stories about love in India, which to me has come to represent some sort of universal truth about the phenomenon we know as romantic love.
At first Aashna simply laid out the official story of Taj Mahal, which can be read in any travel guide:
Shahab Uddin Muhammad Shah Jahan I, also known as Shah Jahan (which means “King of the World” in Persian) had the grand mausoleum built to commemorate his beloved wife, Arjumand Bano Begum or, in Persian, Mumtaz Mahal (which means “The Light of the Palace”), who died in child labor.
As it often is with tales from Hindustan there is a more sinister version of the legend, which is rarely told to tourists, one which my guide – for reasons that will be gradually revealed throughout this account – decided to initiate me into:
“This is what the history books tell us, but they also tell us the universe was first created by Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. It is very romantic, but I think it is just something we tell the tourists”, Aashna added, as she was done recounting the details of the official story of Taj Mahal.
“There is another version of the story. Like most rulers Shah Jahan was also a brutal man. He was significantly older than his wife and very jealous. He became suspicious of her, and thinking that she might be in love with another, he locked her up in a palace. They say he may have even tormented her and, to some degree, been responsible for her premature death. The mausoleum could be built partly out of love and partly out of guilt and shame.”
Aside from the mahndi – the traditional Indian hand painting, which is still in fashion, even among very young girls – Aashna came off as a perfectly modern, cosmopolitan woman. Her dress was both Western and fashionable, and she was well informed about affairs of the world, having visited relatives in both London and Holland.
I asked her if she believed the story, and she shrewdly responded:
“It would not be unlike a man to act this way”, a response from which I allowed myself to assume some inclination towards feminism.
It should be noted that her unofficial version of the story may be nothing more than a rumor and even one, which may have several political objectives, since it sows doubt about the integrity of Shah Jahan, the Persian ruler of the Mughal Empire in India from 1592–1666 AD.
The political environment in India at the time of our conversation was somewhat tense: I had come to report on the Ayodhya massacre following the destruction of the Babri mosque to make way for the reconstruction of the Ram Janmabhoomi temple, a site which according to Hindu lore is the birth place of the deity, Lord Rama.
More than 2,000 people, mostly Muslims, were killed in one of the worst outbreaks of violence between Hindus and Muslims in India in recent time, a massacre the international press largely and correctly attributed to the fierce rhetoric of the then ruling Hindu nationalist party, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BNP).
Aashna, knowing the formal purpose of my visit and delighted to converse with a Westerner, continued:
“Can you see the sign on the door to the tower?”
It was a rhetorical question, of course. I nodded.
“What about it?”
“The view from up there is very good”, Aasha said. “Until recently tourists were allowed to go up there, but now, as you can see, the towers are sealed off for visitors.”
“Why is that?”
“Caste”, she replied. “The Indian caste system is officially abolished, but it still exists in the hearts of people. You cannot outlaw what people believe in their hearts.”
Aasha glanced at me, studying my response.
“If you are, for instance, a Brahmin like me, from the priest caste, you cannot marry someone from another caste. You have read the Mahabharata, so you know the four castes, right?”
“Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishyas and Shudras.”
She giggled at my awkward pronunciation, corrected me in the slightly patronizing way a native of any country will try to help out a foreigner, and then proceeded:
“The point is: they came here to die.”
“Who came here to die?”
“Young lovers”, she said. “Because of the story of Taj Mahal, this is a very romantic place to Indians. It is a building that symbolizes pure love, love that transcends time. So, when a young couple was prevented from marrying, because they do not belong to the same caste, or because their parents disapprove for some other reason, they would come here and walk up the stairs inside the towers hand in hand, and then…”
She paused for dramatic effect.
“They jump out.”
Aasha nodded.
“It happened a lot. The authorities decided it was too much, so they ordered the towers closed.”
“Does it still happen… the lover’s suicide?”
“All the time”, she said. “It hasn’t stopped. It just happens in other places. If you open the paper, any paper, you can read a lot of similar stories. Sometimes young couples are caught kissing or making love, and they will be hung or burned by the elders. This mostly takes place in the countryside, but India is mostly countryside, even today. This is the part of India the tourists will not see.”
“I see.”
“Not so long ago the son of a member of the parliament murdered a young boy, who had danced with the girl he considered his fiancée. He was from a lower caste, so what he did – according to their beliefs – was forbidden.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A group of men came for this boy and took him outside the city limit. They put a tire around his neck, poured gasoline on it and set him on fire.”
“Good Lord, how awful. But how can he get away with it?”
“He just denies it. Most likely he did not do it himself. He probably has an alibi. You see, his father is a gangster.”
“But you just said his father was a Member of Parliament.”
“One thing does not exclude the other. Many politicians are criminals. This is ordinary. They are immune to prosecution for as long as they hold a political seat, and when they are no longer in the Parliament, the cases are either statute-barred or too outdated to investigate. Besides, the processes are so protracted they can die long before a case enters the court. And, as you have seen for yourself, the police are corrupt.”
I gave out a long sigh. Going to the Taj Mahal suddenly seemed like an inane whim.
“I can’t believe all this is happening today.”
“You buy our technology and hire programmers from our universities. You read about BRIC in The Economist or come to visit the Taj Mahal and Varanasi. You have no idea.”
Her smile was ineffably sad.
“One day there may be room for love in India. I keep hoping, but maybe it will not happen in my time.”
“What about yourself? Do you have someone?”
I was staring into two dark wells, and in the depth of them I sensed a reflection of my own fate – a life on the road with no time for the subtler aspects of romance. Three divorces down the road I had accustomed myself to the thought of living out the rest of my days in solitude. Perhaps this was what made up the special connection between us, my lovely young guide and me.
At least she decided after some hesitation to reply:
“I have someone, and yet I do not have him. My parents will not allow for it. He is Sikh. You know…”
Smilingly, as if the very thought of him made her delirious with joy she made a gesture around her head to draw the image of a turban.
“I know”, I smiled.
“He is a very good man”, she said. “He loves me very much. He loves me so much he refuses to take another instead of me. He has turned his parents down three times, but… I am afraid he will have to give in, eventually. In a way I wish for him to give me up. I want him to be happy. Do you understand that you can love someone so much that you will even give them that… take yourself out of the equation for their sake?”
“I understand that.”
“Then, perhaps, you also understand that we cannot run away together. He will not do it, because my family would cut me off.”
“But if you love him…”
“I love him very much”, she said. “But how can I ask him to do this for me? His mother is very ill, and he is the oldest son in the family. This means she is his responsibility. We are not like you Westerners. We cannot just abandon our family.”
“But what about your own family, the family you could have together?”
“Maybe it will happen”, she said. “Maybe not…”
“If it does not happen, what will you do?”
The girl shrugged.
“He can take another woman as his wife, if he pleases, but I will not take another man.”
“Can you live like this? You are still very young.”
“I do not want another man”, she said.
“You would rather miss this man the rest of your life?”
“I won’t miss him that much. We work together in the same office. He has a cubicle right across from mine. So, I will see him every day.”