Letter from Agra
We arrived in Agra two days ago–but as my son Max said:
It might as well have been years before.
The experience bent our perception of place and time.
Arriving via rail at Agra Cantt, the ever-present red-shirted porters helped us with our bags and into the car, which drove us through the pandemonium and color of Indian life. The ride was short, quixotic, and full of the tumult and joy of arrival.
The next day, in the moonlit darkness of early morning, we set out for the Taj Mahal. But instead of an impulsive atmosphere of honking and laughing, we rode through the dimly lit streets with a quietly expanding sense of anticipation.
I can't explain it, really. The day was like no other. Yes, I had been there before–but sharing it with my family was something akin to revelation. I just can't put it into words. It was both fleeting and enduring.
We all felt the same way about it.
It was a forever moment. Together.
They say tourism isn't travel—or is it the other way around? I don't know.
Something in particular happened there–something that I can't wait to share. It was a moment when past and present converged in reflection.
It raised the stakes for me.
For this project.
For this story I am trying to tell.
But I can't tell you about it now.
This is not the time.
I feel a sense of urgency to share the unfinished journey.
But it may simply be because I am beginning to realize there is no end.
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