The Taj Mahal was more magnificent than I imagined. I have never seen a photograph that speaks justice for the mausoleum, that captures the feel of the place. Built by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his thirty-nine year old wife, Mumtaz, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child, the monument is a beautiful creation of love and devotion, a tribute to the life they shared and the promises he made. Our licensed guide, arranged by Anil, told us that the wife made these requests on her deathbed - that a great mausoleum be built in her honor and that he never marry again. The emperor kept both promises, living forty more years. After Mumtaz died, he consulted an astrologer who told him that twenty-two was the magic number. It seems he must have been right.

The place is definitely magic. It took twenty-two years to build the Taj Mahal. The numbers 22 and 14 (for the number of children they shared) are weaved throughout the design of the semi-translucent white marble structure. Delicate jewels of green jade, yellow jasper, blue lapis-lazuli, and red corral are arranged as flowers in the pietra dura, the marble inlay work. Black onyx arranged as Arabic letters in the stone, quotes versus of the Quran.

It was nice to have our own personal guide to direct us and to narrate the history. Saed said he was a lawyer, like his father and his brother. I found that interesting. I'm not sure what that says about him, or the law profession in India, or about the amount of money to be made in the tourist industry.

There were lots of tourists, including Indian nationals who were there to see the mausoleum for the first time. One young couple asked if they could have a picture taken with us. The woman snapped a picture of the guy with Steve and me on each side and the Taj Mahal in the background. I guess they found us exotic.

Saed pointed out the symmetry of the building as we walked through the south gate and looked over the long reflecting pool. A light breeze made faint ripples on the water, distorting what would have been a classic perfect picture. As we wandered towards the white marble rising majestically before us, listening to Saed tell us the story of love, Steve's romantic side rustled. "If you had another wedding ring, would you want it to be a diamond? 'Cause I picture you as more of a sapphire kind of girl." Hmmmm.... What a sweet topic of conversation in such a place. But I just smiled, "I don't think we should be speaking of such things."

He smiled back, partly joking, partly serious. As we approached the entrance to the mausoleum, a pigeon swooped down just before us through the doorway above. "An omen," he said.

"Of what?" I wanted to know. "Of true love," he grinned in keeping with the banter.

"Only if it swoops back out as we leave," I added quickly. And he laughed, "You're always deferring..."

Inside, the mausoleum was not as moving. In the center, behind white screens of intricately carved marble, was the woman's white marble casket with pietra dura of semiprecious stones inlaid as flowers. The real tomb is not allowed to be decorated, so her 400 year old remains were locked away in a plain casket in a basement room somewhere below. Her husband's marble casket had been placed by her side, offsetting the perfect symmetry for which the entire structure was famous. A son had laid the remains with hers all those years later, in her mausoleum, although it had been the emperor's wish to build a perfect replica of the Taj Mahal in black marble across the river for himself.

Three or four pigeons were in the spire above, and as we made our way around the small room with the center tombs, I wondered if one really would swoop out just as we were leaving. I half wished it would but thought myself silly. We were at the exit - without the second coming of the omen - but Saed stopped us just before the door to point out carvings in the marble walls. And then, as we were turning around, about to step through the doorway, one of the pigeons swooped so quickly through the door that Steve and I both questioned our own eyes as we looked at each other, to see if the other one had seen the same thing. Beyond the doorway was another outer door a couple of feet away. And as if to be sure we understood, another pigeon swooped out that outer door above us as we exited.

Saed left us alone for twenty minutes on the wide marble pathway surrounding the monument. He went to the mosque on the left of the Taj to pray saying that it was, after all, Ramadan. When he was gone, I took off the hot long sleeved black India made shirt that I had purchased in Connaught Circle. Beneath was a black tank with thin straps that exposed my shoulders. I had been trying to be so culturally aware throughout my visit, respectful of the unspoken dress code. Especially when traveling alone, I had been very careful to stay appropriately covered. But I had seen other tourists and travelers with shorter skirts and sleeveless clothes, some with thin straps and no brassiere. I had even seen a few Indian women less dressed, and the television channels of India are filled with beautiful, scantily clad Indian divas dancing around. And I was so hot. Inside I had seen a hip young girl, who looked Indian, wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with midriff showing. But everyone stared at me. Steve said a bunch of guys walked by with disgusted looks. I didn't notice them. He told me to put my long sleeves back on, and that just aroused my rebellious nature. But after a little spat and a bit of pouting, I complied. He was right.

Without asking, Saed then took us shopping. He wanted us to watch some of the descendents of the men who crafted the pietra dura of the Taj Mahal as they worked. The shop owner assured us that he was a direct descendent himself, learning the skill passed down through generations from his grandfather. He showed us a beautiful jewel box that his grandfather had spent years making that was about to be placed in a museum. And he took us around the workers who were grinding the stones by hand into patterned pieces and carving places for them in white marble. “special recipe" glue that they make themselves holds the stones in place. And, of course, he had a shop full of table-tops, chessboards, wall hangings and knickknacks if we wanted to purchase anything, anything but the fancy jewel box that is a family heirloom.