Saturday and Sunday 21 & 22 January - Toggling from tourist to disciple

Saturday a tourist day: Taj Mahal and Agra fort, better suited to pictures than words. I'll post those after I'm home.

Sunday: Arrival at Fatehpur Sikri is a swim upstream thru a seaweed meadow of waving arms offering plastic trinkets and laser printed guide books. "Cielo, cielo. Bas!" "No, no, enough!" Inside, oh what a visual feast it must have been, when this most resplendent of Mogul cities was in its glory. Imagine the richness of blue tiled roofs and mosaic wainscoate reflecting piercing sunlight, intricate carvings of sandstone and jasper jali, grand pietra dura (semi-precious stones inlaid in marble).

Water connected every nook and cranny of this vast complex coursing under, around and thru each building in a contiguous flow. Narrow channels cut each room, the source of cooling; reflecting pools spaced between structures, the source of interior light; and specifically tuned fountains provided opportunities for private conversation, where no hidden spy ould overhear.

I admire the simple geometry of the Astronomer's Pavilion; the graceful detail of the Harem's Quarters; the cool of the Palace of Akbar's Hindu wife Jodhbai; and the way the Wind Tower, where ladies observed court through jali lace-screens, draws the eye up, up, up to the bluest of skies. There's an observation minaret and a Parchesi Court, where servant girls played the part of game pieces.

Back out we traverse aross the gauntlet of commerce again, thru a gargantuan carved redstone gate into Jami-Masjid - 84 colonaded rooms surrounding a footballfield center, open to the sky. Qawali musicians draw us towards the Darwgh of Salmi Chisti. His heart reaches across the marble courtyard, drawing me in, steadily absorbing, in, in, in to the void, the vastness of being. By the time I step across the threshold of the inner veranda I am lost. Circumambulating slowly thru the thickness of energy leads to complete surrender thru the portal to the tomb. I have no remembered realization of this inner circuit, of sprinkling the rose petals upon silk-draped tomb, of receiving the blessing, of backing out into the veranda once again. Finding my way to a cool corner, I sit in stillness, discover silence amongst a chattering throng, until called to join the others for tea, I reluctantly emerge back to a r tangible realm.

Heading back to our bus, the hawkers swoop and with our sensiblities wide open and raw, it is too much to bear. We form a circle and drawing our consciousnesses together, ground to the earth, reach heavenward, and open our hearts with detached compassion. The reception courtyard sinks to sweet silence around us. Ahhhhhh.

I write this from a 2nd class train sleeper berth to Ajmer, where tomorrow we will be privileged by audience with Pir Inam and blessed by the presence of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, founder of the Chishtiya order. His axium: dedication to protecting the poor; self discipline and personal prayer; zikr as a means of spiritual transformation; generosity; and tolerance and respect for religious differences.

P.S. There are no signs on the train platforms we pass, so we have a 'firedrill' of assembling to get off the train before we finally arrive, blissfully, at Agra. Our luggage is hauled to the roof-top carrier, we squeeze into a bus that looks too small to hold half our number, and gratefully tumble into bed at the beautiful Havell Heritage Inn