This is a translation of a Bengali story, TAJ MAHAL, written by Banaphool.
The very first time I went to Agra, it was to see the Taj Mahal. I still vividly remember my first viewing of the Taj. The train hadn't reached Agra when one fellow passenger shouted out loudly, "look there, you can see the Taj Mahal!" Quickly, I looked out of the window.
Seeing the Taj, in broad daylight, from a distance, I was disappointed. It seemed a pretty ordinary Mahal. Is this Taj Mahal? Yet, I kept on staring. After all, it's the Taj Mahal! Shahjahan's Taj Mahal! ... late evenings captive Shahjahan sat on the verandah of Agra fort and kept on looking at the Taj ... Taj was very dear to Mumtaz ... besides Mumtaz another man lies buried here ... possibly still he is there ... by the side of the Taj. Dara Sheikh.
Soon, this ordinary looking masjid went out of my view.
It was the following day after full moon. The moon was not visible as yet. That day, towards late evening I went to see the Taj for the second time. I can still remember that experience. On entering by the gate, I could hear an imperceptible cry. No, it was not emanating from the bushes around. It seemed to be coming from some distant ages -- not imperceptible, but concealed crying. Slowly, I inched forward. Soon the minar, minaret, the tomb became visible now. The moon appeared. It now seemed as if Shahjahan & Mumtaz's dream was beckoning me. I was spellbound!. I kept on looking in amazement.
A few days has elapsed since that incident. Which contractor has earned how much from the Taj, which hotelier turned into a millionaire because of the Taj, which rickshawpuller extracted exorbitantly from innocent tourists -- all that is stale for me now. Since then I have seen the Taj on numerous occasions -- in darkness, moonlight, evening, winter, summer, monsoon, autumn -- several times on several occasions. I have seen it so many times that it no longer appears extraordinary to me now. Even when I go pass by its sides. I have to pass by its sides quite frequently these days.
I am working as a physician in a clinic at Agra. Taj Mahal attracts me no longer. But one day -- okay, let me tell you from the beginning.
That day after my outdoor duty, I was alighting from the verandah, when an old mussalman entered through the gate. He was carrying a huge sack on his shoulder. He was barely able to carry the massive load. I thought he was a fruit seller. When he lowered the sack, I found he wasn't. A burkha clad woman was sitting inside. The man ( i.e the mussalman ) came towards me, gave me a salaam and in chaste urdu said -- he had carried his begum on his shoulder to show her to me. He was poor. He couldn't have paid my fees had he called me to his house. That's why he brought her there. If I could attend to her kindly ---
When I went near, I could smell a stench. After taking her inside my clinic I removed her burkha ( she protested a lot ) and could understand why. Half her visage has become festered. Her right face was badly disfigured. Her protruding teeth added to the ugliness. It was extremely difficult to bear such horrid smell. This patient, carried through great distances on shoulders by her husband couldn't be treated effectively. There was no room left in my indoor. So, I asked them to stay on the verandah of the hospital. But I couldn't keep them in the verandah for long. It began stinking horribly. The other patients began voicing their protest. Even the compounder, dresser and the sweeper refused to go near her. The old mussalman remained unruffled. He was all along looking after his wife with outmost care. When everyone protested, I had to remove them from the verandah. There was a huge tree near my clinic. I asked them to stay under its shade. And they did stay there. Everyday the man came and took relevant medicine from the hospital. At times, I went to administer her injections. Days were passing thus.
One day, it was raining heavily. I was returning from a 'call,' and I saw the old mussalman standing there in the rain. He has tied a shawl to the end of a tree, and was holding the other end with his hands. Beneath the shawl, sat his begum.
Unhesistatingly the man stood there trying to shield his wife in this manner.
I turned my car. Just a shawl could hardly protest his begum from this downpour. I found her completely wet, and she was shivering. She smiled in a diabolical manner. Also, I found she was running a high fever. I said " Bring her to the verandah of the hospital." The old man asked "does she have any chance to survive, huzoor?"
I had to tell him the truth - "No."
The old man stood there silently. I came away. The next day, I found the old mussalman and his wife has disappeared from there.
A few days later, I was returning again after attending a 'call' -- while coming through a field I sighted the old mussalman. He was engrossed in doing something. The scorching sun was no deterrent for him. What was he doing? Is it something to do with his dying wife? I inched forward. He was making something with bricks and mud.
"What're you doing, miya sahib?"
The old man got up and respectfully gave me a salaam.
"I'm burying my begum, huzoor"
"Burying?"
"yes, huzoor"
I stood there silently for a while. Then I asked him "where do you stay?"
"I move in and around Agra begging for survival, huzoor"
I said " Strange, I didn't see you before in Agra. What's your name?"
"Fakir Shahjahan"
Stunned, I stood there silently.
About the writer : Banophool (1899-1979) was educated at Patna Medical college. His real name was Balaichand Mukhopadhyay. He was a qualified pathologist. But perhaps, he was more gifted in writing remarkable stories. His noteworthy novels includes 'Jokhom,' 'Soptorshi,' 'Dana' ( all in Bengali) and many others. Winner of several prestiguous awards, he was conferred the Padma Bhusan by the Indian Govt. in 1975. Several of his novels have been made into films, noteworthy being Mrinal Sen's Bhuvan Shome, Tapan Sinha's Hatey Bazare & Arohi, and his real-life brother Arabindo Mukhopadhyay's directorial ventures like 'Agniswar' and 'Kichukhon.'