India: a land of contradictions
A traveler's look at the wonders of the subcontinent
BY ARTIS HENDERSON sandydays@florida-weekly.com

PHOTO FLORIDA WEEKLY ARTIS HENDERSON Crowds gather outside the Taj Mahal in Agra. Built in the first half of the 17th century by Shah Jahan after the death of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal.

On the crowded streets of Jaipur, southwest of India's capitol of New Delhi, where dusty, four-door Peugots vied for space alongside camel-drawn carts, the guide turned from the front seat of our German-made, air-conditioned van and flashed an electric grin. "India is a land of contradictions," he said, gesturing expansively at the crowd, the wandering cattle, and the shops that lined the road.

He meant it regionally - the 18th century Hawa Mahal, Palace of Winds, was on the right, its pink, filigreed façade abutting cell phone retailers and oily samosa stands - but he touched on a grander theme, and the truth of his statement pulsed from deep within the Indian subcontinent.

Jaipur was the second stop on our 10-day tour of Rajasthan, the historic stronghold of the Hindu maharajas, a region that grew increasingly more arid as the tour approached the great Rajasthani desert to the west. Leaving Pushkar, the third stop, our van crossed dusty plains dotted with thorny scrub brush, and the muted colors of the pale sky, parched grass, and tethered camels combined to create a single, sun-bleached hue.

PHOTO FLORIDA WEEKLY ARTIS HENDERSON The majestic City Palace in the heart of Udaipur is the largest palace complex in Rajasthan.

The blue city of Jodhpur, less than 200 miles from the Pakistani border to the west, then, felt like an oasis to our color-deprived eyes. Built in the heart of the marwar - 'region of death' - the desert city of Jodhpur was founded in the 15th century by a Rajput (warrior dynasty) chief. Originally, the Brahmins of Jodhpur painted their houses in blue to signify their high-ranking, priestly caste, but the trend was eventually adopted by most residents, and the entire city was white-washed in indigo.

Standing on the balustrade of the medieval era Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur, the view of the blue city against the sandcolored desert was striking. The fort, too, like the palace in Jaipur, was breathtaking, with an intricately carved edifice as well as elaborate stone and glasswork throughout. The splendor of the Rajputcreated cities and palaces of the region provided an incredible foil to the dullness of the surrounding desert.

PHOTO FLORIDA WEEKLY ARTIS HENDERSON The streets of Pushkar are filled with locals on motorbikes, foreign tourists, and wandering cattle.

To the east of Rajasthan, Agra, in the state of Uttar Pradesh, was not nearly as arid, but its dusty streets and teaming bazaars had a similar feel. There, we visited the Taj Mahal with a soft-spoken, shyly smiling guide.

Running his hand along the white marble of the outer edifice, he elucidated on the construction of the monument and pointed to the inlaid lapis lazuli and rubies that created the elaborate, Persianinspired vine motif. He pointed to the reflecting pool, where the perfectly symmetrical Taj was made double, and gestured to the pink sunset sky that turned the marble a fair, blushing shade.

"This is a very romantic place," he said, the corners of his mouth up-turning in a quiet smile. "Many, many couples come here to propose."

He continued with the history, telling how the Taj was built in the 17th century by Shah Jahan after the death of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal.

"As she lay dying," the guide said in barely more than a whisper so that we had to strain to hear his Hindi-accented words, "she said to the Shah, 'You must promise me two things. That after I die, you will never marry again. And you will build a monument to your love for me.' The Shah was true to his word and never married, and he built the Taj Mahal as a symbol of his love."

His speech, one of a thousand versions repeated ad infinitum throughout the grounds of the monument, but still powerful for all its canned tourist kitsch, put the towering marble structure in new perspective. The Taj was not a monument to love, as we originally thought, but to love lost. The soaring arches and huge, rounded domes, the sheer magnitude of the structure combined with the painstaking beauty of the detail work - these were not the products of a lovebuoyed heart, rather, the manifestations of soul-stirring grief.

Suddenly, the structure became haunting, more achingly beautiful for its mournful origins, and we sensed the contradictory nature of the ultimate monument to love also being a symbol of great loss.

The poignant beauty of the Taj left us hollowed, and, combined with the stark aridity of the 10 days in Rajasthan, we were ready for the tropical respite Goa promised. Stepping out of the plane onto the pocked runway at the airport, we were greeted by the first hint of humidity in over a week. In the distance, lush greenery covered rolling hills and the land itself felt vibrantly, verdantly alive.

The taxi from the airport took nearly two hours to reach isolated Agonda Beach, a patch of coconut tree-fringed sand fronting the warm Arabian Sea. Gentle grey waves lapped the shore as cows wandered aimlessly along the beach, depositing patties at random.

Gone were the crowds, the throngs of rushing rickshaws and honking taxis, the incessant push and shove of people that had occupied every square inch of space in the cities of the north. Situated along the western coast, Goa had the relaxed, laid-back atmosphere of coastal places everywhere, an inherent easy-going nature born of salt tides and palm trees.

On the second day of that tranquil sojourn along the beach, we hired a driver to take us to the local sites - a fort and a temple, specifically. Along the way, my Bombay-born friend spoke to the driver in Hindi, asking about the locally renowned feni, an alcoholic brew of fermented cashew nuts. He smiled at her in the rearview mirror and promised to deliver the best feni in town.

In less than five minutes, we were seated at a roadside stand held together with plywood and bright paint, a bottle of home-brewed feni on the table in front of us. It was clear as water, and had a fruity, vaguely nutty smell that belied its burning taste.

We sipped the bootleg brew and toasted the wonders of the Indian subcontinent, its billion people, 330 million gods, and countless, varied contradictions.