Taj a Mirage

The film 'Taj Mahal' to release in Pakistan on April 28

On my second business trip from USA to India in March 2000, I had an opportunity to visit the Taj Mahal. A dazzling monument constructed on the bank of the river Jamuna on the orders of a Mogul king Shahjehan (king of the world, they’d take any title of their choice and history would repeat it so often that one forgets their real name) in the memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. She died young in her late twenties, after giving him more then a dozen children- this might have been the cause of her death. It is said that she had asked him from her deathbed to promise not to marry again and build the Taj as a token of his love for her. He kept his promise. He loved her too much, had power and wealth to fulfill her desire. Unfortunately, he died as a prisoner of his own son Alamgeer (this one took the title of the “one in whose reach is the whole of universe”), who put Shahjehan’s bed in one of the balconies of the Red Fort with a window facing the Taj on other side of the river, a gesture of his appreciation for his father’s love for his mother.

It took more than twenty years, 30,000 laborers, artisans and engineers to finish this magnificent work of art. The art and the architectural skills of the people of that time impressed me more than the motive behind its grandeur. As Sahir very rightly expressed the feelings of many in his famous poem, Taj Mahal in these verses: IK SHAHEN SHAH NAY DOLAT KA SAHARA LEKAR, HAM GHARIBON ,KI MOHABAT KA URRAYA HAY MAZAK.
(simple translation: A wealthy king made fun of love of all the poor)‘ ‘

The tour also took us to one factory outlet near the monument where they manufacture furniture and artifacts made of white marble and precious and semi- precious stones and gems, with the same type of material and art used in Taj MahaL. All the workers are claimed to be the descendents of the artists who built the Taj. The art of engraving, inlaying and carving has been passed on from generation to generation. No recorded document of the art is available. Today a fat, rich and miser capitalist exploits these artists. Only the players have changed, the game is the same- exploitation of the weak by the mighty.

I saw a group of young artisans sitting on the floor outside of the showroom of the factory, probably to draw the tourists’ attention to the intricate work of art, busy transferring their hidden skills to the round piece of white marble. They looked timid and frightened, their head bent down trying to concentrate on their work, but at the same time wanting to communicate with the onlookers. It was obvious from the body language, they seemed to be watchful of the other employees parading up and down the yard and the owner’s brother, who probably was the supervisor. This was later confirmed during my brief conversation with them. I went inside the showroom, but the prices of the objects drove me out back into the yard.

So I went to watch them again. One of them asked me where I was from. They were curious to know my origin, because everyone else in the tour for them was obviously a foreigner from the west. Which they were used to seeing everyday, they did not care what was their origin. Because to them they were all the same. It did not matter if they were Italian, French or German. I was the center of their curiosity. They were dying to know who I was and how I ended up there. Because natives do not take tours with foreigners. I told them I live in the USA, but I am originally from Pakistan. I saw a shine in their eyes and a smile on their faces. I knew they were expecting this answer, but wanted to hear it from me.

One of them said in Urdu: “We are all Muslim too. We all are from the same family. Our ancestors built the Taj”. The other said: “We have ‘relatives ‘in Karachi. I have been to Karachi three times." The other said he went twice and so on. After that they only spoke Urdu with me. But very careful of the surroundings, watching for those who maybe watching them. I was careful too, not wanting them to be in trouble, if at all there was any.

Before we left, the youngest of them gave me a small flat heart carved out of Lapis azuli (blue stone, abundantly found in Afghanistan. It was now imported from Peru, because of Afghan war at that time) saying, this is from us. I got on the bus not with the fond memories of visiting Taj Mahal, the memorial of kingly love, but meeting these young Muslim artisans, offspring of the people exploited by their own kind.