I got there very late on a cold January night, well after midnight. There it sat in eerie, ethereal splendour as I wandered through the grand archway into the grounds. It was a sharp, clear night with the moon hung low in the velvety sky. I sat wrapped in a blanket on a wall for a while just inside the gateway, taking in what I was now glad I hadn't turned aside from.

The white marble dome pulsated in the light of the moon as though it was living. The water channels shimmered under that same light, and the breeze sang and sighed through the branches of the trees that line the pathways. I waited quite a while before walking up to the other-worldly marvel. I walked cautiously, feeling that I didn't want to intrude, but feeling too that I was being called, invited to approach. I had been noticed, and my time was now. In bare feet I walked around the marble platform, feeling at once the heat of the day that had been soaked in from the sun, and the cold blessing of the moon falling on my shoulders. The marble, smoothed by centuries of passing bare feet, revealed in the silvery atmosphere its internal texture, rich with the pale blue veins you see drawn in an anatomy textbook and covered with translucent skin.

It was a fine experience; and heart-rending, when I stood to look across the river Yamuna to see where a love-sick emperor planned to be buried, in a black replica of his wife's tomb- the Black Taj. Sadly his son had other ideas, and he imprisoned his broken, widowed father before he could spend any more of the family silver. I allowed the story of Shah Jahan's love for his wife Mumtaz to eat into my soul, to humble me, and to devour my cynicism. I felt drawn towards something, but what? Was it the history, the marble, the artistry? More likely it was all three, an orchestra playing a haunting melody, conducted by the moon and presided over by the night.

The blackness of the river was eased open from time to time as the ripples on the otherwise surface caught the light from the hideously close moon. It seemed to moan as if in grief and anguish, and this concert was performed for me alone. There were no other people there, no trace of the crowds that would frighten me when I was to return the next day. None of the monkeys, none of the beggars, none of the noise, just me. This was a gift. An undeserved grace granted by heaven to an unworthy, insensitive wretch.

Travel guides had not even hinted at this. They told me about the 22,000 men involved in the labour, the 22 years of construction, the improbable weight of marble used, the blinding of the architects to prevent a replica being built. No travel guide ever told me that I would cry, that I would stand humbled at the ancient tomb, tears running down the cold marble of my cheeks, tears welling up from a heart bound in ice. Not in my most extravagant thoughts did I reckon on being confronted with the knowledge of my own inadequacy, the knowledge that I am not in charge, but that heaven loves me.

Maybe truth is only given to those who come in secret, who come at night, afraid of what the scoffing Pharisees who rule the day might say.