It was a wonder in red. As I went past the dry, dusty terrain and entered a mammoth gate into the complex, a lump formed in my throat. I could see the huge complex comprising myriad structures from the locally quarried red sandstone. Fatehpur Sikri, Akbar’s dream city replete with a dargah of Salim Chisti, is a poetry written with honesty and sincerity. It was an encounter with the great Mughal emperor. I could feel the vibrations when my hands felt the pristine red walls and my feet explored the spacious terraces defining the edifices. As my eyes browsed the façade and the sober interiors, I could feel the emperor’s presence, led by him through his creation and being at the receiving end of his hospitality. It was like interacting with the statesman on the ideals of secularism. Fatehpur Sikri is imbued with Akbar’s persona, pulling me into the past. My pulse went racing as I stroked the pillars of his values and ideals which slowly but surely got absorbed into every pore of my being, sending a delightful chill down my spine.
Exactly 45 km away, the other Mughal poem, this time written for love and beauty, stood the Taj. Its sheer opulence is overbearing, sometimes even intimidating. The Taj Mahal, a love story engraved in cold marble and precious stones (now in glass cases in the British museum) is awe-inspiring. This romantic verse was Shah Jahan’s epic tribute to his young wife, Mumtaz, who died in child birth. The king’s begum before death had extracted a promise of getting a magnificent mausoleum built in her memory. But isn’t love a spontaneous and unconditional emotion? The fact that the Taj was a love-on-demand made me distance myself from it. The cold, overwhelming marble structure made the unfriendliness of the Taj complete for me.
The grandeur in marble is opulent, dressy, beautiful, but it remains just that. It did not pull me into its past, like Fatehpur Sikri did. It left me admiring it for its workmanship and beauty; for its sheer size and planning; for its exquisite and delicate beauty. But Shah Jahan’s sentimental ode lacked the heart and soul of Akbar’s vision, his dream of a unified religion; of a cohesive nation. Taj lacked the warmth of Fatehpur Sikri’s simplicity and pragmatism. It only reflected the selfishness of Shah Jahan giving in to his dying wife’s irrational demand, and not the sensibility and benevolence of Akbar.
The gorgeousness and perfectness of the Taj is no patch on the honesty and friendliness of Fatehpur Sikri.
Indeed, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Exactly 45 km away, the other Mughal poem, this time written for love and beauty, stood the Taj. Its sheer opulence is overbearing, sometimes even intimidating. The Taj Mahal, a love story engraved in cold marble and precious stones (now in glass cases in the British museum) is awe-inspiring. This romantic verse was Shah Jahan’s epic tribute to his young wife, Mumtaz, who died in child birth. The king’s begum before death had extracted a promise of getting a magnificent mausoleum built in her memory. But isn’t love a spontaneous and unconditional emotion? The fact that the Taj was a love-on-demand made me distance myself from it. The cold, overwhelming marble structure made the unfriendliness of the Taj complete for me.
The grandeur in marble is opulent, dressy, beautiful, but it remains just that. It did not pull me into its past, like Fatehpur Sikri did. It left me admiring it for its workmanship and beauty; for its sheer size and planning; for its exquisite and delicate beauty. But Shah Jahan’s sentimental ode lacked the heart and soul of Akbar’s vision, his dream of a unified religion; of a cohesive nation. Taj lacked the warmth of Fatehpur Sikri’s simplicity and pragmatism. It only reflected the selfishness of Shah Jahan giving in to his dying wife’s irrational demand, and not the sensibility and benevolence of Akbar.
The gorgeousness and perfectness of the Taj is no patch on the honesty and friendliness of Fatehpur Sikri.
Indeed, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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