History Sceptic

The slow Yamuna River, in peace with itself. The giant, marble structure, which somehow, defies its own structural immensity, as it stands tall, overlooking all its admirers, smiling humbly – a patronizing figure. TAJ MAHAL – the universal standard of undying love and devotion. The epitome of Mughal pomp and show. The domes, the minarets. The aura. The crowd. The cynic inside me, somehow always kept me from viewing this monument with a free will of an artist. Instead, I have always viewed it with the eyes of a young rebel, who had no times for kings and queens, and their whims and fantasies.
He was old. Probably fifty or above. A shabby shirt hung loosely on his lanky frame as he walked around barefoot in the glazing stone floor. Sweat and dirt gave a sultry effect to his face which was quite a contrast to his quiet demeanour. He smiled a lot. Revealing a set of worn out teeth, yellowed by the excessive consumption of tobacco. “Paan.” I looked at the unique Indian mouthfreshener. Tobacco and slaked lime mixture wrapped by a betel leaf. Yellow teeth. I smiled and politely declined. He nodded knowingly. He went back to showing around the palace. My group was transfixed to his commentary. I, in turn, gingerly walked around to kill time. He walked towards me. “Over friendly guide.” I kept off.
“Madam. I don’t spit this at public places.” He pointed at his mouth, the betel leaf juice. Red spots at public places, and you know you’re in India. I loathe paan.
Same old. How the emperor Shah Jahan, after being held captive unceremoniously, in one of the rooms of the mausoleum used to look at the Taj Mahal from a mirror. I wasn’t impressed.
“Can I have your watch for a moment?”I handed it over to him. He held it in the position where the alleged mirror used to be.
And there it was. The image of Taj Mahal, on the small dial of my wrist watch. He looked at me victoriously. I nodded, approvingly.
Atleast, there is some part of history which I completely believe now.