Before I get out of the car, Chander my driver warns, “Don’t talk to anybody. There are going to be many people inside trying to get you to do a tour or pay money inside the mosque. You do not need to do this, Ok? Don’t talk to anybody, just go see mosque, come out, ok?” Everyone wants to be my daddy, I thought. But I heeded his words and warily entered the mosque with my poker face on.
Immediately I am accosted by the beggars and the peddlers. I storm past them, like Paris tossing aside paparazzi. I get inside and many are asking me if I want a tour. ‘No, no no no no no no “ I say to each of them, breezing past them. One is particurarly persisent. I ignore him and he keeps talking to me, telling me I am walking in the wrong direction of the mosque that I must walk counter clockwise. I think to myself, ‘Funny, I could have sworn Lonely Planet said clockwise, but maybe I was wrong.’ The persistent fellow keeps talking to me as I walk clockwise around the temple ignoring him. Finally I stop and say, “No entiendo. No hablo espanol”.“Hablase espanol? A mi, tambien! Hablamos espanol si quieres- de donde eres?”
Great. He speaks Spanish. Truthfully I admit, in English, “Listen, I just want to be left alone”.
“I do not want your money, madam, I am not a peddler, I am not trying to hustle you.", he replies, "I am a volunteer of the mosque, I am Muslim, and I donate my time to assist tourists on the history of the mosque. I want nothing from you, I promise. Will you follow me?”
I don’t know what made me trust him from the rest, but I did and I followed him as he began to tell the history of Muslims in India and the importance of the mosque. We approached a temple where I had to remove my shoes and wear a religious Muslim cap to cover my hair. He gave me a great background on everything one could know about the temple. It was a beautiful history, rich with triumph and poetry.He led me to this marble wall that was tied with red and yellow string, “Here is where you make a wish, you get three if you like. Allah is listening and it will come true, but you must keep it secret and not tell me”, he hands me three pieces of string, each representing one wish. He hands them to me and takes my camera while I tie the first bow in a knot. He takes a picture of me as I make a wish and I place it onto the marble in a tied bow, “Muy guapa” he says, looking at my digital image smiling. I tie the next bow, making a second wish, believing in the Muslim ritual, wanting my wishes to come true ('thoughts become things').
He takes another picture and smiles at me. I fumble with the third bow a bit, trying to find an empty place on the marble screen to tie my third wish on. I am having a hard time tieing the bow and it takes me longer to make my third wish. After I make my third wish, I look around, and my Muslim guide is gone. I look around the temple, dizzily spinning, but he is nowhere to be found. My heart races, I gasp trying to yell, but am too afraid of the worst. I run out of the temple, but am grabbed by a priest who says I have to leave the temple going clockwise, ‘But my camera!” I yell at him, but he insists with a firm pointing of his hand on how to exit a mosque. Although I knew I had no time to waste with religious formalities, I did not want to disrespect his god. I spin on my heels and appropriately yet quiclly exit the temple clockwise thinking how absolutely stupid of me to hand over my camera! As I approach the exit, I’m running and panicking, knowing the worst has happened. I get outside and look around frantically, ready to run and catch up to him if I see him. But there he is, seated right in front of the temple cross legged, listening to the stories of old muslim men in front of the temple with my camera resting in his hand, “Don’t worry, he is good boy”, says the Muslim priest over my shoulder who had just told me to leave the temple clockwise. I am out of breath and a minute from having a heart attack. My young Muslim guide rises as he sees me and asks, “What’s wrong?” I grab my camera and punch him in the shoulder.I spent the rest of the afternoon with the young fellow whose name I later learned to be Chand. He took me all over the grounds of the mosque and to the top of an elephant tomb, sealed beneath a tower at least 4 stories high. He took me to the top via a spiral stone staircase full of bats. It was like walking up a light house. The view from the top was wonderful. Chand sang old Muslim love songs to me, which was both sweet and creepy. But I didn’t mind. This, I thought, is all apart of the adventure. I just pray he doesn’t flip out and push me to my death.
