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Let's hunt for a third tiger. This one will be a form of my dream
like the others, a symbol of human words, and not that vertebrate
tiger, who beyond all mythologies paces the earth. I know all this
well, but something drives me on this stupid, timeless, undefinable
adventure, and I persevere, in search throughout the evening hours,
of the other tiger, the one not found in poetry...
J.L. Borges, The Other Tiger, l960
Dream:
I am in a large futuristic theater space; It reminds me of the new
international airport in San Francisco. I enter and walk down toward
an empty seat. I realize I am too far to the right hand side to see
anything on the huge screen. I'm about to move when I, along with
the rest of the people in my row, am suddenly lifted in our seats,
propelled out of the theater and plopped into a huge body of muddy
brown water. I begin to swim furiously. "Is this the right direction?"
I gasp to the others. We begin following someone who is leading us
somewhere. I put my head down and realize that I can see underwater:
in the distance I can make out a small group of terrified people (maybe
children) running from a big dinosaur creature made entirely of earth.
I dreamt of the big mountain again. Before it was green and sunny
in the dream. Now it had a grey background.
Then, another dream image: an oil portrait of a small Indian boy,
a version of Rani, naked, deep dusty skin tones, orange almost, his
mouth open in a huge scream.
On a side lawn of the large Mosque, named for the day of the week
for visiting mosques, a white cat next to an empty beer can. She is
surrounded by nine white geese, and a long man napping in the sun.
Beyond the wall the carved rosewood of the Old City street, people
moving so close together that their hairlines touch, the young man
receiving a haircut upon the woman pouring milk upon the seller of
tangerines upon the girls with blue bows in their braids taxiing to
school upon the old man heating tea upon the old woman sitting on
her prayer rug upon the final man who sleeps on his ancient bed, the
roots of a giant Banyan Tree.
Four hawks circle above as I stare down at her, the white cat, behind
me the huge space reserved for Allah stretches its arches of pink
carved stone over the hazy grey sky of New Delhi.
A young boy scatters yellow seed for the birds in Allah's courtyard.
The rows painted in blue lines empty of prayer rugs now but host to
only one pile of shoes, a family in bright saris clumped next to it...
In one corner of Jama Mosque a boy in white socks reads the daily
news as our guide eats a breakfast of lentils and rice in his mustard
colored sweater.
The white cat topples the beer can, the long sleeping man breathes
out, the geese flap their wings and Allah lifts one finger, letting
fall to earth the soul of the one baby born every two seconds here,
or is it Shiva who sends the soul? They argue over this as it lands
so gently, a feather of breath passing out of the darkness and into
the February light of Old Delhi this morning...
A woman presses the face of her tiny baby against our moving car window
as we leave, his eyelashes lying upon his small cheek the color of
ashes. Amy
and I are inside of a carpet showroom, two pigeons grabbed up from
the mosque by our guide and brought here, willingly, by our guide.
Before we know it, Amy is purchasing a beautiful Kashmiri carpet,
and we are drinking Massala tea made, we are assured by our facile
sales manager, from boiled mineral water. He is taking down all of
theinformation necessary to send the carpet, "Shangri-la",
to the states as my gaze shifts to our guide, sitting on the bench
watching the proceedings. He's digesting his breakfast of dal and
rice, probably ruminating on how much his commission is. He reminds
me of an old boyfriend, frozen in time now in his late thirties, his
black hair cut in the latest style, but everything else about his
person saying "Keep me in the background," black shoes,
earth colored shirt, black pants and jacket, every working-class man
walking the streets today in New Delhi, and that day in Jerusalem...
Subhash Arora is by no means a remarkable guide. Lethargically he
has us driven up past the Red Tower, the Red Fort saying, "It
will cost you $20.00 each to go in there, do you want to?" And
perhaps we question him about what is "in there" , and perhaps
not, our jet lag and the traffic and the choking stinky warmish air
creating malaise in us as well...but what's his excuse? We climb a
hill overlooking the Red Tower and watch tiny people climb toward
the top of the oldest monument in Delhi, then as I look down at the
parking lot where our car is, I see them begin to swarm our descent.
"Look, Amy, the guy with peacock feathers is waiting for us,"
I say in a mournful tone, and Amy bursts into cosmic laughter...
"I'm an ambassador of India to the world," Subhash says,
cheerfully, trying to answer our questions, sitting with us in the
lobby, finally, of the Crown Plaza Hotel. He confesses he's always
wanted to star in a movie as he hugs Amy good-bye and shakes my hand...perhaps
my old boyfriend did, too!
Dreams:
On top of the world, a white mountain, like melting
ice cream, flattening, silent, in a pink dawn.
(Another cosmic mountain dream. Put them all together
and what have I got?)
A case of ink bottles, only a few used up,
covered with plastic, being presented to me.
Write!
"Where there is faith, auspicious deeds flourish." From
the Sound and Light show last night at the old fort. I don't remember
any of the drama this morning, having not a mind for history, nor
a background in it either. Only the imprint of woman's tragic voices;
battles; victories, defeats, unimaginable brutalities which are being
reenacted this very morning somewhere in the world...
The road to Agra: mud huts, roadside stands, camel hay convoys, oxen,
sticks, fires, white cows with horns painted green and orange, people
eating, sitting by the road, their entire lives, laundries, haircuts,
open to our passing gaze, convoys of bicycles, donkey carts, and one
man stretching in a field of green...
 
Before him, the edge of a green field of wheat
Behind him, the choked road to Agra
Before him, a freedom
Behind him, a necessity
He raises his hands to the sky
and takes a deep breath
stretches his ten fingers and begins
his salute to the sun
where what is before him
and what is behind him
will be understood,
and undertaken.
 Moving
through Delhi to this road has been a horrendous jumble of clogged
streets...two hours of honking and choking. The countryside is a relief,
but the traffic is scary. Everything that moves on a two lane road,
no seat belts, our white car curtained behind, the Lord Krishna, who
is a baby today, and the ever-present Elephant god, Ganesh enshrined
with marigolds on the dashboard. It's eerie to see a camel's eye heading
toward you as an oncoming headlight. They often have roses on their
foreheads. Cows meander on and off of the road. Amy says its like
avideo game, the sense of no control while passing the big trucks
(our driver calls them lorries) which are festooned in tinsel and
intricately carved metal work, then falling back behind them as the
oncoming being or truck or bus asserts itself...Finally, when we can
no longer ignore the call to nature, the driver pulls in to a tourist
rest stop and we get the giggles as we are greeted by two tal lIndians
in native costume playing sitar and drums to accompany our urgent
odyssey to the toilet.
Suddenly the driver pulls over to the side of the road, plucks a small
card with the portrait of blue baby Krishna off of his dashboard shrine,
turns to us and says, in the exact words of Herman Wouk, "This
is my God. We are very near to the place where he was born. Malthura.
Would you like to go?" Amy and I have been worried about the
lack of Hindu temples on our planned itinerary, so, after consulting
"Let's Go, India," which we have renamed "Let's Not
Go" because of all of the gory descriptions in it, we say yes,
but note to him that the temple might not be open when we get there.
"It will be." He says cheerfully, positively, and we take
off onto a side road and are presently in a huge traffic jam in the
center of the town, combined with a market day. A large wooden cart
and a camel are at the center of the jam, and the driver slowly rotates
the cart around. We manage to maneuver into a side street, and do
find the temple, but parking is another problem, and once we have
parked, been gawked at, checked Amy's camera, been checked for signs
of leather, which is a no-no at a Hindu temple, checked my camerabecause
our driver's ideas of only one camera was also a no-no, checked shoes,
entered the Temple grounds, and mounted the steps, a gang of worshippers
exits noisily and the great door slams shut. Closed! We must content with
a tour of the outside, upon which various scriptures are painted in
blue script, the most notable to me about hospitality: "If one
enters a dwelling and is not offered something to drink, immediately,
even if it is only a glass of water, then it is not a house at all,
but merely a hole for jackals. "Also there was one about not
sitting in a woman's chair if you are a man, because even your sister
or your mother can stir you up, sexually.! Barbed wire separates this
temple from the mosque next door, shades of the Old City of Jerusalem,
because there have been "incidents" here and violence. Green
parrots sit on this high wire today, being neither Hindu nor Moslem.
Waiting for his master
to worship the Lord Shiva
the little brown horse stands
patiently at his cart.
Around his neck, a garland
of marigolds. His master trusts
that he will not move from the curb
or be stolen.
His eyes slowly close, and then open
in devotion.
1 PM. We pull up to the hotel after a massive traffic jam in Agra,
which we have already nicknamed "Agro." I think there are
a lot of ladies of the night in this town. We passed so many army
bases...and big officer's clubs. The hotel does not inspire confidence
in Amy. "I'm not eating a thing in this place," she says,
grabbing for one of the 40 power bars she packed for just such an
occasion, so, after I lock myself into the room with the exotic door
bolt, and Amy rescues me, I dine alone on the best dal I have ever
tasted with rice. It is very spicy, sort of barbecue, with cumin,
sugar, even cinnamon and peppers.
Our guide is due at 2:30, and he is very prompt and very handsome.
We let the word out that we didn't want to go to the Agra Fort, only
the Taj Mahal, but after we get into the car and see that the sun
is nowhere near setting, we decide, let's go to the fort. We pull
into the parking lot and our guide warns us: "There will be a
lot of "hookers" here, explaining that they will try to
sell us things and we come to understand that he means "hawkers."
(Amy and I are always repressing giggles, made worse when we look
at each other, one of the hazards of mother-daughter travel, I think.)
We pull up to the fort in a shuttle from the parking lot to keep auto
fumes from sullying the Taj.
What an impressive red and white stone and marble structure it is,
and our guide turns out to be a first-rate storyteller. He takes us
to the room in which Shah Jahan, who built the Taj Mahal in memory
of his beloved wife, lay dying, imprisoned by his son, and staring
at the tomb as it was reflected in a huge diamond he had sunk into
the wall for that purpose. The diamond is now in the British Museum,
along with many other riches and glories taken by by the British when
they left India.
Our visit to the other worldly Taj Mahal, at about 4 PM, is very good
because of our guide, the time of day, and the incredible beauty of
the place. We watch the colors change, from afternoon creamy white
to pink at sunset, to ashy pearl at dusk, all the while reflected
in the big rectangular pool in front. It is all inlaid with precious
jewels. While we are gazing and gazing, our driver is snoozing and
snoozing in the car, because when we get out, it takes a while for
him to come to!
This
story is to be told
in the voice of a man
As in the face of a
diamond
he reflects on his loss:
In
its cut brilliance
one facet reveals
The Taj Mahal:
twenty two years
two thousand men
worked here day and night
to give expression to
his sorrow, that of all
the gifts, courage, wealth,
the winning of great wars
he cannot bear young.
Each time he enters
the Queen he loves
he must risk her death
to
glory himself with
offspring. And now, bereft
of his love, imprisoned by
one of his sons, how he must
search
the diamond
for meaning. It gives
back to him a small
replica of his grief.
Here he watches it
in all lights, all seasons,
his Queen buried deep
inside
in the jeweled coffin.
For twenty-two years
four thousand hands
have lifted and stretched
this bauble of marble
over her; each petal
of each jeweled flower
a tear incised from his heart
by the small brown hands
free to go home and eat
roam
over the breasts of
their beloved women.
Each morning they return
the carvers, the incisors
of jeweled flowers to sit
on the floor, to begin again
with
emeralds, and coral,
jasper and jade, grinding
petals, grinding leaves,
grinding stems on the
grinding wheel.
Praise God
for sorrow, for the gifts
of a great love.
I think I am too tired and restless to dream in this hotel. We have
a 6:30 wake up for 7:30 breakfast, and are on the road by 8:00. Amy
is still sick to her stomach, and we think of skipping the suggested
stop at a palace called "Fatehpur Sikri," so we talk it
over with our guide during a ten minute long traffic jam at a railroad
crossing, (with everyone peeking at us inside of the car) and decide
to go for it. "Twenty minutes, worth seeing," he says, unlike
our New Delhi guide, who probably would |
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