The Bengali poet and philosopher Tagore described the Taj Mahal as 'a tear on the face of eternity'. A splendidly evocative phrase, the Sage will concede, but this particular scribe experienced his own tears of frustration when visiting the building often considered to be the most beautiful in the world.
There's no doubt the Taj Mahal is stunning, luminous and fairy tale like with its gleaming white exterior, wonderfully subtle decoration and dimensions of perfect symmetry. It stands proudly above 300 metre square gardens lined with fountains, water pools, flowerbeds and tree lined avenues, equally meticulous in their construction. Yet it's difficult to truly absorb the sheer magnificence of the Taj when a) it's pouring with rain and b) you're sharing the moment with teeming hordes of multinational tour groups jostling their way around the site like rush hour commuters.
I'll start with the weather. It's common practice for visitors to the Taj to arrive at dawn (around 7am) to see it at its most atmospheric as the sun rises above its towering dome and minarets. Unfortunately, the day I picked was probably the only day this year when there was no sun at all. Bleary eyed after a 5.30am start, I found myself splashing through puddles with plastic bags on my feet, shivering as the wind and drizzle did its worst around me. It certainly felt like February - but in England, not India.
And then there's the tourists. OK, OK - I know I was one too, and travelling on an organised tour as well. But there's something depressingly mechanical about the vast, 50 strong Japanese groups that surge around the Taj like cultural locusts, coalescing into one collective entity of Oriental aggression that ruthlessly elbows aside all in its path in a relentless bid to break the world record for the highest number of photographs ever taken in one place. Oh, and they wear name badges too, just in case they still can't remember who's who after three months of barging their way around the world's great historical attractions together.
I do hope I don't sound insensitive singling out Japanese tourists for my irascible tirade just after their country has undergone such a terrible tragedy, and I know there's plenty of annoying people from other places too. But one of the joys of travel is having room to breathe and move and take in the sights and sounds of where you are at your own pace. At mega sites like the Taj, this just isn't possible because of the huge numbers of people there at the same time, many of whom sadly seem somewhat less inclined to pause for a moment of reflection.
Rather more to the Sage's liking was the unheralded, predominantly rural state of Madya Pradesh, in the centre of India. With the exception of Khajuraho, the home of the famously indiscreet Kama Sutra-inspired temple carvings (even horses get in on the fun...) there was barely a foreigner in sight during our four day stay in the region, and those in search of a 'real' India of traditional villages and oxen carts would be well advised to pay it a visit, before everyone else finds out about it.
Be warned though - in the otherwise serene riverside town of Orcha, I was the victim of an unexpected, completely unprovoked assault - at the hands (or rather the hooves) of an adolescent cow with clear anger management issues. I had innocently posed for a picture alongside the beast when the belligerent bovine suddenly and without warning charged at me head first, depositing a hefty dollop of saliva and snot on my leg. Thankfully no more serious injuries were sustained, but the laughter of the watching locals suggested to me that I would have certainly been left to my fate had my assailant opted to mount a more concerted attack upon my person.
As most of you will know, the cow is sacred in India, and this ancient status seems to have given them the freedom to do whatever they please. In almost every town, these holy herbivores randomly roam the streets, eating rubbish, wandering into shops and stepping in and out of the traffic with all the carefree nonchalance of a Victorian aristocrat out for an afternoon stroll. This is a much more serious matter for the motorists, who face the same penalties for hitting a cow as they do for running over a human. What's more, if the mooing masses ever tire of dining on rotting vegetables and withered grass, Hindu customs dictate that the first chapati cooked in each house should be offered to a cow before the family can eat, so there's never long to wait before a dutiful father emerges around the corner clutching a generous helping of piping hot homemade bread.
Also held in high regard in India are the Maharajas, the ancestral rulers of many of the country's historic kingdoms. These titles were technically phased out after independence in 1947, but their descendants often continue to live in the palaces of their forefathers and remain individuals of significant wealth and influence.
One such man is the Maharaja of Alipura, whom I met while staying in his palace, some of which has been converted into a hotel rich in period character. A devout man, he had returned home from Madya Pradesh's state capital, where he is a leading politician, to attend a Hindu festival in his village. We enjoyed a most stimulating conversation about the development of tourism and conservation in the region, and I went to bed hopeful that His Highness was impressed by the intellectual and moral fibre of the kind of people he had welcomed into in his princely abode.
Any such impression was rudely shattered the following lunchtime when the Maharaja decided to take a walk onto his roof terrace and was met by the unedifying sight of The Sage clad in nothing but a pair of shorts, swilling a bottle of lager with a bikini-clad young lady sat on either side. He took one look at us before walking downstairs without a word, and thus my brief encounter with the ennobled elite of India's society was over.
NEXT TIME: The Sage Goes South...
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