A New Era of Love

by Joy Rao (Australia)

I didn't expect to find India

I jolted violently. Again. We had finally arrived after a thirty-minute squeeze in a tuk-tuk across a dusty, pothole-filled road. I unwound the scarf covering my face and immediately started sputtering as I felt the thick dust particles sit in my lungs. My sister pulled me dazedly through the arch of the East Gate as I continued my onslaught of coughing. Suddenly, my breath caught. And not from the dust. The white marbled Taj Mahal with its magnificent sparkle was more glorious and grand than I had ever pictured. The long, glittering body of water where stood its perfect reflection was breathtaking. Inside were the marble tombs inlaid with shining jade, and the archways were elegantly inscribed with calligraphy. Just as much as the outside, the inside was a reverent sight to behold. Having stood for 400 years, it was certainly a grand display of the Mughal King’s love for his favourite Queen Mumtaz Mahal. A Queen who had been cherished with a piece of art worth the work and drudgery of twenty thousand workers. After I’d stared and stared until the pure white of the Taj Mahal, reflected intensely by the sun became blurred with the light sky, it was time for the long homeward journey. I wondered if Mumtaz Mahal had seen the gallant efforts of her beloved on Earth. With such beauty on my mind, I forgot about covering away the dust and guessing where the next pothole was. But I was shocked out of my reverie with the crazy sight of three huge cows swishing their tails daringly in the middle of the road. As I watched little boys scoot between them without a second glance to sell us boxes of fruit and snacks, I realized this was the normal. Five kilometres down. Tiny little monkeys trying to open a bottle of coke elicited a peel of excited aaawwing from my sister. I thought of the contrast with our last destination – Geneva – where the air was bitter and unpleasant, save for the bit of delicate snow that floated down as we strolled along the luxurious Rue de Rive. As we kept on driving through the fearful traffic with chaotic honks from drivers going in all directions, I remembered standing on the serene banks of Le Jardin Anglais, looking silently across the lake at the postcard perfect hotels coated in pretty pastel. “Slums”, pointed our driver. It was a jerk back to reality. To the right of the busy road was a low clay brick fence. Beyond were tight rows of thin plastic tarp covering little homes. I watched the children flit between the browned rags that had been hung beneath the tarp, kicking up dirt whilst playing amongst the crowded space. “Rohingya refugees, they haven’t anywhere else to go.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away until we had moved past them. I recollected the memory of my excited visit to the UNHCR in Geneva mere days ago, a comfortable building in a neat, fresh quartier. I hadn’t expected to find real refugees, and now it was all I could think: what a contrast between those who deal with refugees on paper and the conditions of real refugees. Now as we continued our bumpy ride, I wondered if Mumtaz Mahal was still watching down. 400 years ago, the Taj Mahal was a beautiful love story where a King used the world to create a marvel to remember his Queen. But surely a modern-day love story is one where kings and queens compassionately use their capabilities to create marvels, or even just comforts, but for the world. I didn’t expect to find what lies beyond the dust. I just had to uncover my eyes. India, with its scents of fruit and spices drifting through us, the reverence for its animals who traipse around us, and the heat from the dimmed-out sun that covers us. It is a world separate to the recognizable comfort and monotony that we are used to, but one that is closer to the real problems and to the real solutions, not just the ones on paper. As we rolled to a stop outside our hotel, I realised I hadn’t jolted once off my seat.