In its otherworldly beauty, the Taj Mahal has always been more than a marble monument to me; it is a story in the act of being told, a tale immortalised in white marble. Revisiting this architectural wonder yesterday was like seeing it for the first time; its magnificence still took my breath away. What never stops to bewitch, however, is its revision, its quietness and the possibilities of musing it offers. But this visit held a new layer of discovery, resulting from an unexpected conversation.
The white marble shone brightly in the sun, its reflections so bright that they seemed artificial. The cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan rested within, somber memorials to the love story that gave rise to this wonder. The don’t-touch-me curls of worked marble, the laboriously inlaid semi-precious stones, everything about the cenotaphs spoke of refinement, of devotion. But in hanging around the cenotaphs, wondering what secrets did the monument hide, my curiosity only grew. That was when I struck up a conversation with a local guide, a middle-aged man with a weatherworn face that bore an easy smile. He had the air of someone who’d lived with history, of someone accustomed to quietly asserting his authority. “This is not the real graves,” Ravi said, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “But the actual burials would be lower down in the tomb chamber, underneath this hall. Few know this, far fewer have seen it. The chamber is “locked,” the public “out.”
I had known this before, but this realisation piqued my interest. I had known about the lower tomb chamber but had never paid much attention to its existence. “Their by law did not permit our entry,” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Preservation,” said Ravi, referring to the ornate marble screen that surrounds the cenotaphs. “There is not too much of want of disturbance down there from the Archaeological Survey of India.” The air, the vibrations, it can harm the structure. And then there’s another reason i.e., it’s holy. “This is where the actual Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal lie.” His voice softened further. “There’s a time and a place for silence, for remembrance — it should be that.”
I nodded, imagining the lower chamber, a clandestine sanctuary cloaked in the hush of history. And with that thought, the Taj Mahal was all the more deep. And here, in the throngs of gawks and the echoing of click-click-clicking cameras, was another little slice that kept what makes the monument’s story tick concealed from view. I took the guide’s words with me as I walked around the grounds. The Taj Mahal is often a monument to eternal love, but this time around, it felt like a monument to things kept secret. The splendour is on display for the public, but the substance of this shrine, the body itself have been closed to view.
Knowing this changed my perspective of the Taj Mahal. I saw the lush gardens and the Yamuna River beyond as mute witnesses to memories, of whispers, of footsteps that were invariably short-lived. The lower chamber also felt like something decidedly more multi-dimensional, or maybe simply detached from everyone else, which reminded me that what is most intimate in the history of our history is often hidden from us — left for us to figure out from whispers and tales passed around refrigerators and barstools.
“So what is down there like?” Before we left each other I asked Ravi.
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes sparkled with pride and mystery. “Dark, quiet, and simple. No grandeur, just peace. It’s that way by design, by Shah Jahan. He wished to lie beside Mumtaz for eternity, far from the world’s din. It’s not for us to disturb.” I walked away with his words ringing in my ears. Magnificent the Taj Mahal as it is, it holds its true soul in the hidden chamber, open only to time and to silence. I also realised that some places are not meant to be seen but felt, a truth as constant as the monument itself. The Taj Mahal, for me, will always be a miracle of the seen and unseen. It is a monument that speaks its tale in marble and silence and grants each visitor the opportunity to discover a piece of it in their own way. I discovered my own piece yesterday, and it was concealed in a room I will never visit but will always envision.
Iftikar Ahmed is a New Delhi-based art writer & researcher.
