Defacing the Taj Mahal

1980 – DEFACING THE TAJ MAJAL

I vomit easily.  I have ralphed in most of the third world.  Over the years, we had developed a system wherein Dick would just slow down to a crawl so I could open the door and throw up in a patch of gorse, rather than stop, let me out, and delay the whole drive.   This works fine if you aren’t on foot in one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

After all, as Dick reminded us, the Taj Mahal would be “the pinochle” (our family malapropism) of our trip to India.  We and the children toured Delhi, had lunch with my cousin at the embassy, and headed out for the Taj in about a 1966 Chevy with no a/c and what sounded like a loose axle.  Our driver lay on the horn almost every second of the 125 miles, a 5-hour drive since barefoot peasants, beggars, cattle, and an ox or two crowded the road.  

It was only about 95 degrees, but it was a bit muggy and a lot dusty.  The open windows were a mixed blessing.  As we neared Agra, I began to feel a little queasy from the potholed road, the swerving to miss our fellow man, and the smell of the animals who ambled along with us, often keeping pace with ease. 

Finally we arrived, bribed the driver to hang out till we were ready to go back, and entered the magnificent Taj.  There were steps and there were narrow passages, and they twisted and turned.  My husband took one look at me and raised his eyebrows at me; hand over mouth, I nodded.  He quickly waylaid a young Indian guide and explained that his wife was sick and needed a restroom.

The guide was all over it.  He asked me, “Do you vant to womit?”  I nodded.  He led me to a parapet and said, with the flourish of an impresario, “Here!  Lean over here!  Then you can just womit onto the ground.”  I peered over the edge.  “Sir,” I said, “I can’t!  See, there are people down there!”   “Oh,” he reassured me, “they von’t mind.” 

I’ll tell you later where I actually threw up.