The rooftops of Agra should have their own postcode. Its different up there, its inhabitants speak their own language, no pressure from the world below. A man trained his homing pigeons. Acute whistles, screeches and calls perfected over a life time skipped across the concrete sprawl beyond the mausoleum gates. Kite flyers stood on rooftops, launching fragile coloured tissue into the hazy sky, boys left to dance on the end of the string. Monkeys scaled one building and the next, rested their bodies upside down on the warm tin, and viewed the icon we all know from their playful perspective. Neighbours waved from their balconies, all set on repurposed office chairs for the evening show. Horns felt distant, the Aladdin soundtrack played in my mind, the sun was starting to set and I couldn't take my eyes off the marble Taj. I left that rooftop feeling full and groggy on warm feelings, a dream fulfilled.

Back at home, Naghma cooked us a delicious dinner on our arrival whilst chatting about the intricacies of Indian society and being an Indian Muslim.

We were one of the first to arrive at the Taj Mahal as the sun rose and the light reflected off its onion top. The reflections in the water were almost as good as the real thing, so still and clear. The best I have come across to describe this wonder of the world is 'a love poem in marble'. It's beautiful, breathtaking, tragic, eternal and pure. The crown of all buildings is a living and breathing relic of regal opulence, rich in symbolism and myth - a Mughal masterpiece is no understatement.

Across the river and a few kilometres downstream, we picked up a guide, Kumar, to take us around the Agra Fort, home to the Mughal emperors (including Shah Jahan) until 1638. It's an amazing example of Hindu/Islamic fusion architecture, the walls, turrets and halls ring with stories of dancing girls, elephants, lavish parties, concubines, semi-precious stones and golden rooftops. It's a giant complex, and the white marble inside the queens quarters made it tremendously blinding in the 43 degree heat. A lot of the details were destroyed by the British and their fires during the 18th century, but somehow, it didn't seem to matter. It was so easy to imagine royal life there. Mukul was waiting by the roadside for us, keen to share an ice cream before setting of to our next destination.

Last on Mukul's list of 'must-do's' was the lesser praised 'Baby Taj'. The smaller and older brother of the big Taj, it was actually its inspiration, and maintains a quiet charm all of its own. It's known as the jewellery box, every surface embedded with semi precious stones, intricate carvings and exquisite paintings. This mausoleum was erected by a distraught daughter, wanting to immortalise her father Mirza Ghiyas Beg, grandfather of Shah Jahan. This family sure knew how to celebrate the people they loved....and splash around the State's cash. We wandered around the grounds and the gardens, before being dropped at Pizza Hut for one last hurrah before our ashram cleansing.

We had some time to kill in the afternoon, so we dropped into a couple of local handicraft stores, carpets and gemstones. We disappointed both salesmen, but they were fascinating processes to watch nonetheless...if only we had room for a carpet in our back packs...  

We had a bus to catch at 8.31pm, and after a nearly teary farewell to the family and our new best friend, we were swept away into the dust and heat, ready for the next adventure, stopped only momentarily by a dodgy police officer demanding 100 rupees to continue on.  Thank you, Mukul, for making the city of Agra everything it should be - full of love!

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