Every morning at nine I descend the stairs, order a milk coffee and settle on cushions against an enchanting backdrop of Lake Pichola and the Aravalli Hills. Deep, the owner of Dream Heaven Guesthouse, is accustomed to this routine and links my sleepy arrival to the daily rounds of the local waste collector who uses a catchy jingle to entice residents into bringing out their rubbish. More tellingly, the tune marks the imminent return of Soph from her yoga class. “I've been up for hours sweets!” Udaipur, in the Mewar region of southern Rajasthan, is a city of lakes and islands, of extravagance and spectacle, of artistic endeavour. It is sometimes tranquility, sometimes gridlock. It is the white city on account of its architecture and as a counterpoint to the hues of other Rajasthani destinations: the blue of Jodhpur, the pink of Jaipur, the gold of Jaisalmer. It has provided the stage for films as varied as Octopussy and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, and weddings that astound for their unbridled opulence. Its history is epic and one of which the Mewaris are intensely proud. We immerse ourselves in the royal lineage via the city palace which soars majestically as a clamour of turrets and domes compete for supremacy. Past the temporary building site of a lavish wedding, we step into a series of tranquil courtyards, glass-clad rooms and pillared hallways, each reflecting the tastes of a long succession of Maharanas. The paintings and murals that colour the walls tell of the honour and gore of battle as the Mewaris sought to stave off Mughal rule. We learn of horses adorned with elephant trunks, of daughters promised to rival dignitaries, of Maharana Bhopal Singh who brought reform to the education system. Countless windows frame the lake below, its waters lapping at cafes and havelis and the ghats where locals bathe. The arts and crafts scene provides a wholly different experience. Shop owners invite us in to look at their patchwork and paintings, talking us through the process and meaning behind each product. “You know about the way we make the paint? You know what the animals represent?” We hate to tell them we’ve heard it before. The stones are sourced from the Aravalli Hills and their powder mixed with tree gum and water before being added in fine detail to silk squares that are glued to a card backing with rice water. The elephant is a sign of luck in reference to the Hindu deity, Ganesh; the horse represents power in line with their role in ancient warfare; the camel speaks of love “because if you can love a camel with its bad breath you can love anything”. We settle on several old postcards, the vibrant paintings of revered creatures overlaying the ancient scribblings of messages that never reached their intended recipients. Our seller of choice is Sonu, a charming 16 year old still learning the trade. “Look at this!” he exclaims once again, inviting us to marvel at the latest picture of Ganesh or a smoking sadhu that he pulls from the draws below him. Sonu stands out from the others who have sought our custom, not interested solely in the sale but also in learning about us, making a connection, making us laugh. The day before, he talked freely about his philosophy of life, about Kharma and the importance of being happy. He seems to be succeeding and we are happy to part with our rupees. At certain times, the narrow streets of this creative hub come to a standstill. Head out at 6 and you can watch the cars, motorbikes and pedestrians partake in a slow-moving game of “find the gap”. It’s a spectacle in its own right. We are forced to seek refuge on the steps of a shop as riders and drivers try and squirm through. “Where are they going?” I ask a fellow observer. “To hell” he replies, no hint of humour. “Crazy India” he adds for good measure. It’s the hour or two before this daily grind that I like the most. The light gradually softens. Men play cards by the lake. There’s a more gentle purr to proceedings. I find myself joining a volleyball match on a dusty pitch complete with floodlights and a cow that sits unperturbed by the net. The ball never hits it. I am chastised for some failed attempts, congratulated for some winners. I begin to sense some roles: the joker, the rule-enforcer, the risk-taker. And then me, the tourist guy treading carefully to avoid the sharp stones. What else, I am yet to work out.
