The way I see it, most Indian men/women pay their first visits to Agra with their parents. It is a phenomenon, unexplainable by any realm of logic. My father did so and so did his father. With him on the wheel and me on my mother’s lap, three generations now had the same stories to tell.

Once we stepped into the Mughal capital of old, we were frighteningly surrounded by a strong floral scent locally called attar. For the uninitiated, Attar is a perfume extracted from flowers, a beloved indulgence for Muslims and as I then noticed, for Agra folk. For the curious kid in me, the city had much to offer. Yes, the Taj Mahal was an aesthetic delight. Like everyone else, we rushed in with impatient curiosity, trying to beat others to it but were forced to stay put, stunned and dumbfounded at the sight. Young and old alike, stood dazed and appalled by its simplistic magnificence. As we walked closer to the Taj - past the gates, beside the fountains and above the stairs, paces fell and walks slowed in sheer disbelief.

That said, Agra was essentially, a land of story tellers, each unique and conflicting, but with an inherent quality of spreading joy. Before we knew, we had stories seeping in from just about everywhere. From the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort to Fatehpur Sikri, fascinating anecdotes followed us. At Sikri, another Mughal Capital once, we came across a story so often repeated it was deafeningly resounding. It so goes that a soldier once tried to escape the capital through the infamous tunnel in Sikri. As he got out in wait of a free life, he was welcomed by none other than Akbar himself, in a virtual canopy of soldiers surrounding him. The emperor bend forward calmly, looked at the soldier and asked him in a father-like tone, ‘Humari khidmat ne tabiyat-marz kar diya, janab’? It finds you wondering whether to laud the historic tunnel more or the tale woven around it.

The story, most heard is the one where Shah Jehan, ordered the limbs of the chief architect of the tomb stone, to be cut off. Most people would take that as a co-incidence but this story would inevitably be followed by two other stories. The first being, a story about how the emperor desired to built a replica of the Taj Mahal for his final resting abode. While it was still being erected, Shah Jehan was imprisoned by his son, the oppressive Aurangzeb confining him within the walls of Mussamman Burz, an isolated chamber in the Agra fort. Shah Jehan lived for another 8 years in absolute seclusion, with nothing but a mirror image of the Taj Mahal to keep him satiated. That, as ironic as it might be, would be the second story.

When it comes to Agra and more so the Taj, a million such stories need to be told and listened to. What, in the eyes of a curious eight year old, makes the city what it is today, is not the message of love or the exquisite designs or the fascinating history. It is indeed the flawless brilliance of these story tellers, rich in attar and drenched in narrative.