Stumbling upon Gandhi's home makes up for missing the Taj

By Tammy Audi
Knight Ridder Newspapers

ROMAIN BLANQUART / KNIGHT RIDDER NEWSPAPERS An old Indian man repairs a window in the room where Mahatma Gandhi lived and worked in Mumbai, India.

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DELHI, India — There are times in life when only a public confession of some secret shame can truly cleanse a person. For me, this is one of those times. I know that what I am about to admit, though despicable, is not unusual. Many have done the same while in a far-off land, only to engage in a desperate cover-up back home.

But there are some lies that are too big to conceal. This one is roughly the size of the Taj Mahal.

Actually, it's exactly the size of the Taj Mahal. It is the Taj Mahal. I went to India and did not see it. That's right. I was three hours away from one of the wonders of the world, and I skipped it.

If you're still speaking to me after this, I could tell you we were in Delhi only for a day, ran out of time and had to catch a plane. But the facts won't matter in the long run. My India trip will forever have this epitaph: You went all the way to India and didn't see the Taj Mahal? I'll learn to live with it. Maybe I'll even have T-shirts printed.

As for the rest of you, the unshocked masses, I know your kind. You who went to Cairo and missed the pyramids because it was too hot and you could see them from the air-conditioned car anyway. (For the record, I did not skip them.) You who went to Rome and decided to go shopping instead of seeing the Coliseum. (No comment.) You, who've been to New York a hundred times on business but have yet to see the Statue of Liberty. (My parents took me, so I'm covered.)

There are icons every traveler feels pressured to see, and missing them seems like some cosmic insult to human history, and possibly the Discovery Channel. But the real secret is that skipping some of these major sites is ... OK? Most of them are overrated anyway. And how could they not be? Like an overhyped Brad Pitt movie, multiplied by generations of great reviews, they simply cannot live up to their inflated reputations.

Seriously disappointed to learn that the Leaning Tower of Pisa lives up to its name but not much else?

Annoyed that the line for the Eiffel Tower is way too long and not worth the end result? Dying to let the truth be known that the swirling majesty of Niagara Falls is impressive for 30 seconds, then it's about as exciting as watching a toilet flush over and over and over again?

Well, I don't know about you, but I feel better.
 
So here's what we did instead.

We went to a farm village with crooked dirt paths, pastel houses and unfettered oxen. We happened to turn up during the village's annual ritual to its two favorite gods, which they honor with heaps of flowers, drum music and dances to keep the village safe.

We went to a Hindu wedding, the ceremony itself a half-day event as elaborate as any opera, in a hall brimming with sweet-smelling jasmine and bright marigolds.

We tried 100 different kinds of dal, a spicy, Indian stew-like concoction, which burned the surface of our wimpy Western tongues and left our new Indian friends smiling. We went to a modern art gallery in downtown Mumbai (formerly Bombay) and roamed a quirky and delightful exhibit of large-eyed Indian children and happy cows painted in bright, primary colors. One of the exhibits was on the rooftop, and after climbing several sets of fire escape-like stairs, we were unexpectedly treated to a great view of the central city with its stately British-era architecture.

We saw packs of Indian children sneak into our hotel to meet their heroes, the national cricket team, and nearly faint with excitement when the sports stars stopped to cheerfully sign autographs over their omelets.

We walked into the house where Mahatma Gandhi lived in Mumbai. It was a totally unexpected visit. The cab driver said we were nearby and asked us if we wanted to stop. It wasn't even in my fancy, thick guidebook.

The house itself — called Mani Bhavan — was less than spectacular. It was a brown, colonial-style structure from the British era with peeling paint. I walked up the stairs, looking at the black-and-white photos of young Gandhi, reading the framed, handwritten correspondence between Gandhi and Hitler, Gandhi and Tolstoy, Gandhi and Roosevelt.

On the second floor was a bright, bare corner room with a fading tile floor and a mattress in the corner. An old man sat in one windowsill, repairing the window. He had taken his shoes off before entering the room, as if it were a holy place. A small plaque outside said simply: M.K. Gandhi lived and worked in this room.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It was the grandest site in India.