For those of you who weren’t convinced, the Taj Mahal really does exist, although I’m not sure it’s the great monument to perfect love our romantics would claim.

There’s something about the perfection of the place which makes me think that Mister Akbar was trying to settle a score rather than proclaim to the world the joy of living with and loving Mumtaz.

She didn’t love him. My intuition tells me that. She liked him OK, and had great affection for him; but I am ready to bet that he built the thing because she was no longer there to stop him.

But maybe it worked, maybe by building it and being buried modestly beside her in a larger although off centred tomb, he finally gained her love.

We got up at dawn to be among the first in to the mausoleum; and standing there we could not help but be awed into silence by the power of this love, as derailed as it may have been.

Above the two tombs were two doves flying a love dance. The only sound was the beating of their wings which echoed under the great domed ceiling.

Within minutes the place was swamped with visitors and so we walked around the Taj Mahal admiring the fine marble work on the outside walls, where Akbar had his workmen carve in bas relief Mumtaz’s favourite flower.

The Red Fort of Agra is also exceptional, giving us a glimpse into one of the more admirable aspects of Moslem civilisation wherever it was: architectural genius, finesse, and sensitivity.

Ruins in India remind you of old bar-maids: although once splendid they are sadly deteriorated and only a kind of offended dignity remains to them. Agra is one of the few places in the country where Moghul remains are maintained in excellent condition which proves that, even in India, it can be done.