Taj Mahal

No stories about the fact that I think I ate pork even though I ordered chicken. Nor about the dinner I had with an American (from America, er, Chicago, er, Kansas City, the process one goes through when realizing that someone's actually heard of your hometown) and his Japanese girlfriend. None about the old rickshaw driver, who did an Abbott and Costello routine with me about how cheap I am, that I keep seeing and we always wave hello. No stories about the bad young driver from Sunday night, who I ran into again. Nor about the 17 year old shopkeeper named Vicki (a boy) who gave me advice about girls (give them a present and tell them you love them), like life is a Bollywood movie. I won't talk about the Bangladeshi Secretary General of a southern district that I met. Not about the mob of kids who ran after me asking for "one cold drink." No. This post is about the Taj Mahal.

I could attempt to wax poetic about the majesty of the Taj Mahal when seen up close. But I fear Tagore's reincarnation might fall into depression if I try. So I'll leave it at this:


WOW!