'Life is Cheap'

A fellow traveler told a story over dinner the other night, he had been crossing a road in Calcutta when an old man pulled him aside and said 'You be very careful, here life is cheap. Someone run you over and not care so much. It's different for you'. That though keeps bouncing back into my head whenever I'm traveling around. Trucks bumping along the highways with fifteen people clinging to the top, cyclists going against the traffic on dual carriageway, kids playing in the dust and shit by the side of a major highway - dodging the cars, trucks, camels and tuk tuks which in turn are swerving out to the side to dodge a cow. The whole attitude to human life seems to be different - no so precious here? People take risks everyday that any westerner would balk at. The most obvious example is in the traffic. Drivers in the smallest vehicles driving into a gap between two overloaded trucks, old men on cycle-rickshaws sharing the roads with overcrowded busses (typically with one guy hanging out the gap where the door would be, acting as a turn-signal). The road toll here is 100,000 annually, around 274 a day - more than the combined total of the Bali Bombings and the July 7 attack on London every single day. I did a quick google search and the first article I found on the Indian road toll seemed more concerned with the economic impact of loosing a hundred thousand workers every year.

Speaking of the traffic I just got a rickshaw from the Agra Fort to the markets near the gates of the Taj Mahal - the fifteen minute journey cost me 10rs - about 75p. The guy peddling was very happy to have the fare even though it meant dragging me and my bag around in the midday heat with the strength of his 60ish year old legs. People here are willing to work, and work bloody hard for the most meager remuneration. The old man who cycled me here offered to wait (no charge, 1 hour 2 hour no charge!) and then take me to my next destination. Women in particular seem to get the short end of the stick. As we drove into Agra the highway was under repair - women were carrying rocks from the fields to the road, squatting down on the highway (not a traffic cone in sight) and filling in potholes. Want a job involving grueling physical labour, high prospect of a sudden violent death and shitty conditions for less than 1 pound a day?

Back to the basics though, I got into Agra last night and opted to wait till dawn today to see the Taj Mahal, the morning light is apparently the most spectacular, dependent on smog. This morning I woke up to my alarm at 5 and met my driver (for the last time, he went home today) to take me to the Taj. About five minutes into the journey he says 'Oh no - Today is Friday?' I replied that I didn’t have a bloody clue what day it was (I love that about travel). He pulled over and asked a local in Hindi who seemed to confirm that yes, today is Friday. That part of the conversation I didn’t understand but the way the guy looked at me and chuckled let me know that something was amiss. Veer (driver) then said to me, and I quote as closely as I can remember 'I make big mistake, very much sorry. This day is Friday. Taj Mahal is not open on Friday. Very much sorry'.

Fuck.

We drove through some back streets in the pre-dawn smog and emerged on a bridge that looked like it was build as a rail crossing but has since been covered converted, in a sort of Indian way, to a road. After crossing the river and driving through a small slum (there is no other word for it, people were living in tents and children were shitting on the side of the road) he found the river bank again and I got a view of the back of the Taj as the sun rose. It was quite nice - would have preferred to time my Taj trip on any other day of the week but it was nice. A local kid appointed himself our guide and led us around the riverbank suggesting bad photos and taking a few pics for me - he was very impressed with my camera.

After the sun rose a small group of local men appeared on the beach. One had a spade and started digging a deep hole in the sand. I asked Veer what was going on, he asked the kid and the reply was 'small baby'. The men solemnly stood around while the hole was dug, then one of them carried a small, wrapped parcel down to the shore of the river and washed it in the filthy water. Another man followed and with the slightest conciliatory arm around the shoulder, gently wrapped the parcel in a clean blanket. The men rejoined the group around the hole - formed a circle and stayed there for about twenty minutes. When the circle broke and the men started towards the slum one stayed behind with the spade and filled in the waist deep hole in the sand.

Greg
Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India.