Taj Mahal

The Taj Mahal lives up to all the hype. At sunrise, it surpasses it. I visited the Taj on a few occasions. It got better each time. (My landlord here agrees that it improves with age. I think it's the only thing on which we see eye-to-eye.) The work that went into it—20,000 workers over 20 years—is impressive: marble is cut with precision, inlays are intricate, windows with honey-combed openings are carved from single stone slabs, the facade is massive.

I think my favorite part is its story. (Pre-emptive apology for the brief history lesson.) The Taj was built to commemorate an Indian emperor's wife. Shah Jahan, who ruled the Mughal empire for thirty years in the 17th century, lost his beloved Mumtaz Mahal to pregnancy complications. He commissioned India's largest mausoleum in her memory. The emperor soon lost power to his sons, who locked him away in a palace. He could see the Taj only from afar and spent his final years admiring its beauty from a distant window. Shah Jahan is said to have loved his wife more than anything. It shows.

Imprisoned by his son, the disrobed Shah Jahn stared through latticed windows in his palace. He had this view of the Taj Mahal.

Skies in India (Part II)

I'm home in the U.S. for two weeks. It's wonderful, if only because I don't worry about shower water getting in my mouth and giving me stomach problems. But I'm missing my favorite things about India—cheap tasty food, cows on the road, auto-rickshaws, Hindi, sunrises and sunsets. A few months ago, I posted about India's skies. Here are more of my favorite photos. Can you believe the Himalayas at sunset glow pink?

India and Pakistan

Indian reactions to the killing of Osama bin Laden were unanimous, "We knew he was in Pakistan." It wasn't just people on the street. India's journalists echoed the sentiment for weeks. Headlines repeatedly accused Pakistan's government of knowingly harboring the Great Terrorist.

Putting aside who is right, it's clear that the rift between India and Pakistan is alive and well. Perhaps the best place to witness the tension is Amritsar, an Indian city just one hour's drive from the Pakistani border. There at dusk, patrol guards from each country participate in a border closing ceremony that is half pomp, half aggression. On the Indian side, guards must be a certain height (doesn't tall stature intimidate?) and kick their legs so high in the air that toes come several inches from foreheads. Rockettes on roid rage. Pakistan reciprocates with similar fanfare and grunting. Crowds on both sides cheer and boo and patriotize—Indians for India, Pakistanis for Pakistan.

And when the sun goes down? Arenas on each side of the border clear out, Indians confident in Indian superiority, Pakistanis robust in Pakistani pride. Tomorrow, the same thing. Ten years from now, probably the same. The day when Indians won't say, "I told you so," about Pakistan is a long time away.

Indian crowds (right) gather to watch the border closing ceremony. Indian police (left) prep for the event.

Guards stride towards the Pakistan border. Check out those hats!

After the ceremony has ended, spectators walk through India's large gateway.

Ladakhi horses and alpine lambs

I've always been a bit afraid of horses. I mean, they have huge teeth and could kick you. (My friend's great-grandmother has one eyebrow permanently higher than the other because a Nazi horse "hindlegged" her in the face.) But on my trek through Ladakh's Markha Valley, I spent some quality time with Mister Ed and his friends. As soon as I learned not to stand behind them—that's where the kicks fly—I wasn't nervous anymore. And if I was comfortable, so were they. Fast friends.

Several days into the trip, we walked by a flock of alpine lambs. I came this close (the tips of my thumb and index finger are an inch apart) to popping one of the munchkins into my backpack and taking him away with me. But I settled for petting. Probably a good move. Newborn lambs and New Delhi don't mix well.