He stoops, scratches with a metal piece.
Stands, sweeps.
Such is his destiny, his karma – or so the hindus would say.
A gleaming white marble edifice stands majestic in the background, an icon of opulence, beauty and romance. One of the wonders of the world. I can tell it lives up to its name.
The grating of the metal piece on the hard floor interrupts my thoughts. I gaze at the man crouched on the floor. Without these simple, faithful, illiterate workers, this place would not be. In the solitude, sheltered by the towering arches of one of the Taj’s flanking features, the past month in India coalesces into a myriad of emotions and memories.
Through the still air, I hear the cries of hordes of children.
“One photo!” They cry. “Only one!”
You feel like a celebrity for a moment, but the novelty is fleeting.
Another common Indian phrase in Agra. “Konichiwa?”
Apparently, Japanese tourists are a common sight in Agra.
Getting past the where are you froms and what do you dos (I get confused myself deciding to introduce myself as Singaporean or Australian). We quickly come to the breaking point question.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
I’ve tired of that one. Once, in response to their disbelief, I shot back, “Why is that such a surprise? Is there something wrong?” Turns out that almost every other Indian male has a secret girlfriend apart from their wives, or other girlfriends.
“In India, you are chained.”
The owner of the Internet cafe twists his face in mock agony. He’s referring to the Indian marriage. I’m silently glad that I’m unlikely to suffer his fate. “
Will you apply the same cultural rules to your children?”
A vehement refusal, a mockery of cultural norms in India.
“What can culture do? It can’t feed me, it can’t buy petrol for the car. I’m glad India’s being westernised.”
The marble beckons, mocks. A king’s tribute of unending love to his favourite wife (note favourite. He had many). A mockery of an unhappy alliance, frustrations of romance, strain of abuse, angst at an unattainable dream. It stands perfect, tall, proud, boasting about the elusive dream of so many – to be loved to madly, so foolishly, without limits. I wonder if his wife loved him with the same measure.
The sweeping sound draws nearer. I smile. I can’t tell if he’s smiling back.
This is a rare one, just faithfully content with his job. When will he start asking me for money?
He shuffles off. I wonder about karma. My driver was about to kick the auto into gear when a blind man stopped us.
“What is he doing?”
I ask my driver a silly question. He looks at me like I’m quite the idiot, but hides enough to make it seem ambiguous. He explains slowly.
“His support...depends on you.”
He means to say that his life depends on me. A tourist. A kind, generous, compassionate tourist. I ask my driver if it was the man’s karma to be blind. He cannot answer. He can say that it is his karma to driver a rickshaw, to pick up kind tourists who are quickly moved with the plight of his family to support his children through college education. But he cannot answer my question. And neither can I. I’m trying to understand the Hindu belief in karma, but as you can see, I’m having difficulties coming to grips with it.
Today I’m not a kind, compassionate tourist. I’m a tight-assed tourist on a budget, with expensive gifts to buy friends and family back home, and with three more months of travel ahead of me. The faithful cleaner shuffles back in my direction. I now realise what the scratching was about. He is removing the bird poo from the flooring. I hope it’s not made of marble.
“Photo?”
He motions towards my camera. He wants to see my photos. I lean closer to him, flicking through the photos with my thumb. I’m still amused he hasn’t asked me for money. Perhaps there’s a fair amount of dignity in this one. He appears disinterested in the photos, but manages a slight grin. I move away, keeping my eyes on him. He shuffles off. And then it happens.
The finger movements.
He wants money. I turn away, facing the marble monument. I’m disgusted. I thought that I had finally found a man with dignity, content with his lot in life, and happy, with the path that destiny had carved out for him. The heavy stone of reality has pulled down my high aspirations for the human character. I sigh.
50 rupees. Equivalent to 10 cups of chai, a 5km journey on the auto-rickshaw, or 1 USD.
I turn back. He’s sweeping now, obviously not expecting anything from this tourist. A smile. I linger for a while, thinking. Another tourist has encroached on our secret enclave, and I feel it’s time to move on. I pause, taking a few more photos as an excuse. I look back at our friend, obviously still hard at work maintaining the Taj complex.
“Thank you.”
He croaks. He’s a decent guy. I like him.
