ANTAR #009

The Taj Mahal in 1975 had not yet learned to pose.

It stood calmly, doing what it had always done—existing with unnecessary beauty. No queues snaked politely. No phones rose like ritual offerings. Tourists arrived carrying cameras the size of small furniture and confidence the size of empires.

ANTAR appeared near the reflecting pool, adjusting his scarf while pigeons debated whether he was worth the effort.

A guide froze mid-sentence.
“…and this marble was brought from—oh.”

ANTAR smiled apologetically and stepped aside so history could continue.

People stared, then recovered. In the 1970s, people were excellent at pretending unusual things were normal. Someone assumed he was a foreign poet. Another decided he was a government official. A third concluded—wisely—that it was none of their business.

ANTAR admired the symmetry, then deliberately stood slightly off-center.

He watched couples argue about framing. He listened to earnest explanations that had improved with repetition but lost accuracy along the way. He nodded thoughtfully at facts that were almost right.

A photographer offered to take his picture.

“No,” ANTAR said kindly. “This place prefers not to remember me.”

The man accepted this with surprising ease.

ANTAR noticed how the marble absorbed light differently back then—less polished by expectation. He ran his fingers just close enough to feel the air change, not close enough to be escorted away.

A child asked, “Are you from here?”

ANTAR considered centuries. “Not originally.”

At sunset, when the monument turned quietly pink without asking permission, ANTAR stepped back.

The Taj remained timeless.

ANTAR moved on.

The pigeons approved.

End of Log #009