The Unfortunate Lamb Incident, Evil Genius Jeweller, and 12 hours in Agra

Yesterday afternoon Hirsch took us to a wonderful pashmina shop where the owner spent well over an hour helping us find the perfect color and “bery best qwaleerty for you meh-dem” shawls handmade in the Himalayas. Please note that Himalayas should be pronounced Him-al-yaz. Please also note that I have been referring to the famous mountain range as frequently as possible in order to speak the name with the correct pronunciation, which rolls off the tongue with great aplomb. The price negotiations for the Him-al-yan shawls were lengthy but amicable and in the end I paid slightly more than I wanted which was slightly less than the shopkeeper felt he could get. But we had some laughs, so he let it be, although he did let me know that if he hadn’t liked me so much he would have “fwound a whey to teerick meh-dem weert lesser qwaleerty”.

After posing for some photos with our Sikh hotel doormen, we went to dinner at the famous Dumpukht Restaurant in the ITC hotel. We arrived hungry and eager for a 5-star meal. The extensive menu posed a challenge, as there were too many dishes to choose from and none familiar. In the end we chose a variety of specialties recommended by the waiter. This would prove to be a strategic error. The first course arrived, the special Dumpukht lamb kebob.

The kebob bore an unfortunate resemblance to a rather large piece of dog poo (see pic) but I cut into it with gusto excited for the tantalizing taste sensation I was surely about to enjoy. I popped the morsel in my mouth and felt an oddly slimy texture not unlike gelatin, only grittier, slide down my throat. I looked over at Hilary who was uncomfortably trying to swallow the tiny bite she had taken. I sliced another small piece of the lamb jellostick and smothered it in mint sauce, but this tactic only served to accentuate the problem; as the mint brought out the severely unpleasant smoky flavor of the dish. The waiter appeared and inquired if the dish was to “meh-dem’s liking”, it is “berry femousse deesh from Dumpukht”. In a panic and not wanting to be inhospitable, I smiled widely and nodded my head vigorously, hiding the offending meat jelly as best I could in the hollow of my cheek. When the waiter had returned to the kitchen, I did my best to cut the remainder of the gelatinous kebob into as many odd shaped sections as was possible, and moved them about my plate thereby creating the illusion of consumption. Hilary, severely traumatized by the offending lamb jello, refused to touch the kebob in spite of my supplications, and left in lying on her plate in plain sight.

The rest of the meal was uneventful by comparison, although the two couples at the table next to us did insist heatedly on speaking to the chef in order to lecture him on some apparently serious issue with the preparation of the dal (lentil stew). I considered calling the chef over for a small tete-a-tete regarding the meat jello, but decided against it. After dinner, grateful for the case of energy bars we had each packed, we returned to the Imperial, and after a lengthy consultation with Hilary on the right kind of sleeping pill to take given our 5:00am wake up call, turned in for an Ambien assisted night of quiet slumber.

Mr. Dith and Hirsch fetched us at 5:30am and we headed for the train station. We piled into the “AC Chair Car” along with 50 other Caucasian tourists and 2 short hours later arrived in Agra. We met our new driver, hopped in his white van and made for the Taj Mahal. After declining a ride from the parking lot to the Taj Mahal by a camel driven carriage, we walked up the road passing wild baboons along the way. Soon we came upon a large archway through which I caught my first glimpse of the magnificent Taj Mahal. Built by the 5th Moghul King as a final resting place for his beloved queen (1 of 3 wives but clearly his very most beloved), the monument took 22 years to build and is made from impressive gleaming white marble, and adorned with precious stones inlaid as mosaics into the walls. Photography is strictly forbidden inside the main chamber where the Queen and Moghul King’s marble coffins rest, but not strictly forbidden enough for Hirsch who graciously snapped a low light photo of us in front of the tombs.

After an hour at the Taj we came to the realization that our train back to Delhi was not for another 11 hours and so we would need to come up with an aggressive plan for how to spend the remainder of the day. Our first stop was a marble factory where the art of using precious stones as inlay in table tops and small boxes is being lovingly preserved by a merchant whose style with his artisans was akin to a pharoanic overlord. He moved us through the various stations with great flourish explaining the origin of this dying art form with lyric language and enormous personal concern for the slow death of this cultural heritage, which is now “solely up to da gin-ee-roz-itty of ‘merry-can too-wris like meh-dem.” The work stations, which were no more than areas on the floor demarcated by different collections of tools, were occupied by squatting stone grinders, stone polishers, stone pacers, stone finishers, and master designers.

Our host grunted out commands which would spring one or more of the squatting workers into action like organ grinder monkeys, and it became readily apparent that the entire scene was solely manufactured for our benefit. I had little doubt that the moment we left the factory, the group would stand up remove their turbans and languish about on cigarette break watching Bollywood videos until the next van pulled up, sort of like a marble brothel. In spite of the fate of this art form being laid squarely upon our “merry-can” shoulders, we left empty handed.

We then informed Hirsch that it was time to visit a jeweler in search of emeralds, natch. We arrived in front of the steel gates of Kohinoor Jewellers, hidden behind 15 foot high armored walls and guarded by some rather fierce looking, machine gun toting men. This particular jeweler is not the one our tour company “has an arrangement with”, per Hirsch, but he informed us that this was the best jeweler in Agra and that if we would keep it a secret he would take us. We pinky swore, subtly aware that this was likely the jeweler that Hirsch had an “arrangement with”, but excited at our middle aged rebelliousness.

Inside the factory we joined a group of Swedish tourists who were hearing a lecture from a diminutive yet highly distinguished looking Indian gentleman of about 70 years of age. This we would learn was the famous proprietor of the business Mr. Ghanghyam Mathur. Mr. Mathur resembles the slightly egg-headed arch evil Megamind of the animated Disney film. He speaks in a deliberate and clipped manner with a smooth almost slick British English with only the slightest hint of an Indian accent, betraying his English boarding school upbringing. Mr. Mathur made quick conversation with Hirsch, looked Hilary and I up and down, and nodded in approval. He then announced to the Swedish group in a royal page-like fashion or perhaps more akin to the announcer’s voice at the Pyramids of Giza in the 1977 James Bond film, The Spy Who Loved Me, that, “We have the honor (pause) of being joined (pause) by these two (pause) lovely (pause) American ladies (long pause) who will accompany us into the Museum (pause) where we shall enjoy wonders (pause) the likes of which (pause) have (next part said with extra emphasis) never been witnessed (crescendo, pause) outside of our great city of (pause) Agra.”

Mr. Mathur then ushered us into a large, rectangular and very dark carpeted room. I could barely make out the framed built-in display windows in the low light but it was reminiscent of the Museum of Natural History’s animal encasements. Each display window was covered in glass on the exterior and opaque black velvet on the interior so that the contents were completely shielded from view. Mr. Mathur had us gather around the first display window and gave a rousing introduction full of “priceless”, “unique in the werld”, and “nevah before seen outside these walls” references before pressing some buttons on his remote control LCD panel, which he was very very proud of.

Instantly a spot light was illuminated from within the display case and the electric curtain lifted, revealing a 10x8 foot tapestry embroidered with the most beautiful silk depicting a large lifelike rooster and chicken and surrounded by a border covered in embroidery and precious gems. The room gave out a collective gasp, and Mr. Mathur smiled slyly, he knew he had his audience under his control now. One by one, in Dr. No style, Mr. Mathur revealed his precious collection of encased and embroidered bejeweled tapestries until we were left with no choice but to clap gratefully for the privilege of the exhibit tour. Mr. Mathur then invited us upstairs to view the Moghul Queen’s jewelry collection.

I volunteered to model the Moghul Queen’s emerald ring and Mr. Mathur seemed pleased with my performance before the Scandinavian crowd. He posed for a photo with me and even introduced me to his son and daughter who both work in the business. The son, a newlywed, spent some time explaining the virtues of arranged marriages to me and how living with his parents was a genuine pleasure. The daughter, a “famous Indian jewelry designer” according to her Papa, showed me some of her latest jewelry designs. Let’s just hope nepotism does not run too strongly in the family business.

With Hirsch’s help we managed to see every single sight in Agra including the Moghul palaces, the Third Moghul’s tomb, the spice market, the Oberoi Hotel for lunch, as well as the ITC hotel for tea. When at last it was time to board the train back to Delhi, we settled into the overly air conditioned rail car and shivered happily all the way home to the Imperial.