Book 2, Chapter 5 – “The Birth of a Child”

“Cause I'm no angel, but please don't think that I won't try and try
I'm no angel, but, does that mean that I can't live my life”
Dido

8-31-06

“Saeed Sadegh” felt something grabbing him.
He considered the moment.
His wife was pulling his wrist as it was time. For the fourth time in their marriage, it was time to rush Sheerin to the hospital. For the fourth time he was going to be a father.

Pride, fear, concern and desperation all went through his body as if electricity traveled through him.

Quickly they put their clothes on. Sheerin gave instructions to their older daughter of 13, Banoo, to watch out for the younger kids, Mostafa and Gita. Then Saeed rushed outside to find his two-wheeler. In this old city of Uttar Pradesh (a Northern Province) in India, two-wheelers, otherwise known to the rest of the world as motorcycles, were the most common means of transportation.

Saeed had lived all his life in Agra. Many knew Agra as a city of some 200 Kilometers south east of New Delhi. It was the place Queen Mumtaz Mahal had laid in rest by her husband Shah Jahan. The world knew it as the one of the seven wonders, Taj Mahal.

For over a million residents, Agra was as poor of a city as one would find in India. Tourism was the main source of income for the residents. Taking tourists around, haggling them for fake souvenirs, post cards, calendars and hundreds of other objects were about all the jobs locals could do. More successful ones guided the tourists and showed them the beauties and mysteries of Taj Mahal. Now that was an important job.

While one would have made 200 rupees a day (3 dollars) to sell statues and books and post cards, Taj Mahal guides could make up to 600 Rupees (9 dollars) to show tourists the wonders of “The Lady’s tome.”

Sheerin with her traditional outfit, a long sari in faded yellow with silver sparking spots, sat on the back of Saeed’s two wheeler like millions of other women did on these vehicles; side-ways.

Foreigners could not understand their customs and ways of lives but that was not his problem. Saeed had a bigger mission.

“Hurry up Saeed, the pain is getting worse”, said Sheerin in Urdu.

India, a country of more than one billion and one hundred millions was host to all religions and English and fifteen national languages. Urdu was the common one that most Moslems spoke in India. Hindi was the national language, but these were the languages of his generation. The younger ones were all taught English as the country had become the magnet for offshore investment. The more investment came in, the more India’s economy became the hostage of the world economy and the more traditions changed.

“I am hurrying, just hold on tight.”

They lived in a relatively poor neighborhood of Agra near Kachahri Road. Their rent was 1000 Rupees, or thirty dollars. He could run the household with five thousand rupees a month and that included sending his three kids to school.

Oh how much he valued school.
“That is the way to the freedom,” his father had said.
“But not for you my son. There are bigger plans for you.”

When he was a young boy, he was not sure what that meant. Why was it that his other four brothers and six sisters got to go to school or allowed to leave town for better jobs. He was the last of the siblings and wanted to be like Farid, his oldest brother, who went to Delhi and studied law.

“That is not your calling my son. God has other duties lined up for you.”
As a child he was convinced that God always had duties he couldn’t understand.

Sheerin squeezed his arm.

“My water just broke. How much longer to the hospital?” She said with a voice full of pain but still respectful as women had been taught to be toward their mates in the Indian culture.

“Another 5 minutes. Why so much traffic at 4 in the morning?” Saeed was talking to himself more than he was asking.

When he was twelve, his father took his hand and they went together to Taj Mahal. It was a place his father, Sadegh, worked as a guide. His grandfather was also a guide before him. That tradition had gone for some three hundred fifty years and ten generations.

They were guides to foreigners who would come for a few hours and visit this most beautiful place on earth. His father would call it “the paradise on Earth.”

Would they truly appreciate the sense of history? He didn’t think so.

How could they? They were there to be impressed by the vastness of the site, the smell of the garden, take a few pictures and move on with their lives and visit other beautiful structures and gardens.

These foreigners would then take the pictures and show them to others. Then the photos would be a part of collections that could include “The Great Wall,” or Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty. For many tourists, customs and traditions of the societies they had visited would be forgotten before they reached home and the two dimensional photos would become the representation of people living and working in places they had visited for days or a week.

“Saeed, it is our family’s tradition to work at Taj Mahal.
Do you know why?”

Saeed remembered that moment so well.
That was when his world changed and he found, no he was told, his true calling on this earth.

“We are not just the guides my son.”
“We are the guardians.”

Saeed didn’t understand what guardians meant.
Guarding what? Guarding whom?

Father’s explanation just made things more complicated.

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