Dear India The Making of the Taj: Diary of Bir Singh, 1647

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Night has fallen over Mumtazabad, the sprawling settlement below the Taj Mahal, at one end of the great city of Arga. Here, in the kutcha quarter of Mumtazabad, which is home to artisans like me, the day's work is done. Men are home and the alleys are almost deserted. Within the hunts, aching limbs have laid themselves to rest and sleep is simply waiting to drift in. The very time of the day to start writing the story of my life as it unfolds from today.

My limbs ache too. And I am all by myself. I wish I had my parents, brothers and sisters with me at home, like other boys have. But I was the only child of my parents. I have vivid memories of my father, though. With him I spent most of my growing years. I am 12 and already feel like a grown up.

My father could read and write. His name was Budh Singh, and we are a family of marble cutters from Rajputana. My father was known for his skill in this art, he could breathe life into a block of stone. I remember him reading the Ramayana aloud in the morning and then getting on with his work, measuring the size of marble slabs. His writing was neat and his letters well formed, like black pearls on pale white paper. Indeed, my father was as proud of his scholarship as of his skill in stone cutting which ran in his blood. And both of these he hard tried to pass on to me. "Bira," he had called me as he lay dying… I have been Bir Singh to all. Only my father, when feeling Particularly close, called me Bira… I lowered my head to catch his words. "Bira," Said my father haltingly, " my chisels will help you earn a living all right. But you have a tough life ahead. You have to live up to the family name. I will not be here to see the Taj Mahal complete. But I do hope you will give your best to the work. What worries me even more is the lonely life ahead of you. For your sake, I wish I could live a little longer… Keep reading and learn to write well…. May you be a happy man…. A fine man when you grow up….

A sense of utter loneliness grips me when I think of my parents especially my father. If only he had lived some more. To beat this loneliness, I shall start talking to my diary.

Back of the Book

Diary of Bir Singh, a young boy who works on the construction site of Taj Mahal. He is an orphan taking on life all by himself. But he has been a witness to a glorious period in the Mughal rule in Agra and is watching Taj Mahal actually happen. Peep into his diary, let him speak to you…