They say nothing prepares you for the Taj Mahal. Well, they got that wrong as I read all about it in the guidebook. Four towers and a Super Mario hat roof. Simple.
It was being harassed by men in saris that I was not prepared for.
Hassle from blokesI'd travelled on the Udaipur-Agra night train in the lowest class available. Zoo class - caged enclosures with all the realistic sounds and smells. I spent the night lying with my nose inches from the ceiling, drinking green Rajasthan Tequila, listening to country music and dreaming of life as a hobo. Meanwhile, Carrie and Becky (hello Becky), lauded it up in their AC compartment.
I was bleary eyed as we pulled into Agra at 6AM. When a member of a group of large hairy men tapped me on the shoulder and gesticulated I should add to his wad of cash, I was surprised. Surprised at the fact he was wearing a sari.
My surprise quickly turned to elation. This was like seeing a rare animal on safari; something I hadn't dared dream would come true. These were Hijras; eunuchs traditionally considered bad luck by Indians (how exactly can having your genitals chopped off be seen as anything but bad luck I don't know. Except of course if you are Max Mowsley, then perhaps castration would have been a good thing all round).
Hijras use their bad luck image to extort money from everyday Indians; pay me or I'll stay. And I'll stay singing, dancing and caterwauling like only a man in a sari can. So I sat back, folded my arms and waited to be harassed. This was going to be good. Sadly, he/she saw me for a whitey who wouldn't understand and moved on. Gutted, I trudged off to the Taj Mahal.
Then came the Americans
On the way back, compensation for not being harassed by men in saris came in the form of a train full of Americans. The aisles were choked by 15 college students, 30 large bags and innumerable classics like "That was intense. Thank you for being amazing" (help with bags) and "I'm totally sitting here" (the seat she reserved).
I knew this was about to provide great entertainment, as Indians don't board trains until they're moving. It's an unwritten law I have not been able to penetrate, but they stand around showing no interest in the train, until it departs. Then they all run alongside and fight each other to get on. This late surge would hit the procrastinating Americans. I sat back to watch. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? We were about to find out.
An hour worth of tangle later I had the answer. A strange phenomenon became evident. I noticed the emerging Indians all had branded US style T-shirts and jeans, while the Americans had red dots on their foreheads, henna hands and two were even carrying sitars.
So that's the riddle solved. What happens when the irresistible farce meets the objectionable objects? Everyone comes out looking a bit sad.
Except of course for the English. We all sat there looking smug. Indian platforms tell you exactly where to stand, so you can board in good time with minimal fuss and to sit looking holier than thou at all other passengers. Smug and loving it.
Oh, and the Taj Mahal was all right too.
But it is also where you can enjoy the fruits of modernity. Big bottles of Kingfisher are 50p each in some states. Bacardi Breezers are 70p. And they’ve got Lychee flavour, which I hadn’t seen before. 
Westerners dressed like Indians. You ain’t Ghandi, get it off. You are a student from Surrey. The Indians are laughing at you. I am laughing at you. 
