Agra. Everything But Romantic Appeal
Everybody who’s craving for beauty and romanticism are now welcome to go somewhere else as in the following few passages I’m going to be extremely cynical.
Once upon a time there was a rich and mighty indian shah. Nevertheless he had whole harem of fine maidens for quenching his lust he got stuck to the only one loving her to death. Indian shahs knew nothing about contraception and so this poor maiden had to give birth to eight sons and six daughters virtually without resting or stopping. Giving birth to the last fourteenth child this heroic woman signed with a sense of relief and breathed her last. Because of this unexpected outcome her husband turned grey and spent most of state treasury on building huge white mausoleum. He was just about to spent the remaider of GDI on another mausoleum - exactly same but black - for himself but opposition formed out of his own sons was quick enough to put him from the throne to jail. And it was where he died overlooking white domes of Taj Mahal in the narrow loophole of his cell.
Generations of shahs came one ather enother, then there were English and finally India became democratic republic highly dependent on income from tourism. To see this monument of pitiless muslim love would cost you quite an amount - 750 rupees, enough to cross the whole country in a train from the very top to the very bottom or to live some days in a nice village by the ocean. And naturally Taj Mahal gave grow to a number of hotels, restaurants and souvenir shops just by it. But becides the white silhouette on the horizon Agra is an ordinary relatively dirty indian town.
If you belong to those backpackers in stretched out old t-shirts travelling along LonelyPlanet routes then your Agra most probably will begin with an autorikshaw to the Taj South Gate and one of local hostels or restaurants with some view of the monument.
Over the roofs of ordinary indian houses.
And with local sweets made from glucose, pumpkin, saffron or rose syrup.
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January 30, 2009 1:39 pm | 
That’s how we usually started talking about oneself on English lessons in our primary school. About the same time on Russian lessons we used to write compositions and one was about who we were going to become when we’ve had grown old. At that time I wrote that I was going to become a traveler, could there be any better profession? It was a striking contrast to usual communistic want to be a nurse, an engineer or even a cosmonaut. As I was the best pupil in the class the teacher did not comment anything, though I do not doubt that everybody who read that text only signed of too dreamy girl.
