#6: Udaipur Diaries
It is a city of colour—Udaipur. There's blue from the lakes, shades of green from the trees, pink and orange from the flowers, and yellow, beige and white from the Mahals.
I remember knowing it—when I booked the flight tickets, even when I unlocked the door to double-check if the lights and fans were off. And the geyser. And that the gas pipeline knob pointed sideways. But, when I stepped out of the airport, it was as if I didn't care—why I had come to this city.
The evening was setting in, and an umbrella of clouds, escorted by a gentle wind, followed me as I walked out of the airport. There were lawns and trees around. The colour of the leaves hinted at Summer's arrival. A guy swept the detached, dried leaves off the sidewalk. Cabs passed me by. I kept walking, looking around.
The morning after, I woke up early. I couldn't sleep. The A/C didn't have a remote, and it got too cold in the room; we were lucky it even worked. A quick Google search suggested the sun would take another half an hour to rise. So, I decided to go to a nearby lake for a walk.
A New Day
I got off the cab and began to walk along the pavement outlining the water. Kids cycled around. Few runners disappeared in the distance. Other people, mostly old, walked in groups; some huddled around the vegetable juice vendors. I kept walking, looking around.
The rising sun was proof of a new day. But my left arm ached after last night—maybe I slept weirdly. My eyelids were heavy from yesterday's lack of sleep. I wore the same clothes as yesterday. Even my chappal was a bit loose—someone stepped on it from the back; yesterday. If I carry so much from yesterday, how can it be a new day? An empty, neat little box on the calendar?
My morning alarm went off and interrupted this train of thought. It was 7:00 am. Then, it all came rushing to me, like the first drops of cold water from the shower hitting my face. The raison d'être of the trip. I had come to play a chess tournament, the first FIDE Rated Classical tournament of my life. 90m+30s time control. Nine rounds.
After the games got over, I decided to go out for dinner. It was Sunday, anyways.
Khamma Ghani
The road to the restaurant meandered around a part of Lake Pichola—water on one side, houses on the other. Perched on the edge of the lake, it was a dimly lit restaurant—with only candles and a few warm lights. It had a garden in the middle, a bar on one side and an open kitchen on the other. The tables were in front, on both the ground and the mezzanine floor—with a view of the lake. The furniture was royal, the lanterns antique. Soft, instrumental music played in the background; "Saazish mein shaamil, saara jahaan hai..."—I could figure.
I was keen to have the famous Rajasthani mutton curry—Laal Maas. So I ordered the curry, a couple of rotis and some iced tea (from Long Island). Then, I went to look around the garden near the entrance. When I came back, it seemed like there was some confusion. A couple had mistaken my table to be available and sat there. A waiter clarified the situation and showed them elsewhere. Another one brought my drink along. "Schadenfreude", I proposed a toast. Maybe I was salty from blundering in the second round. Or perhaps, it was something else.
The food was delicious — succulent meat, spicy curry, and soft bread. I washed down the meal with another glass of whiskey.
The next few days went by like the steady evening breeze; morning game, lunch, afternoon nap, evening game, dawdling in the yard listening to Coldplay and some scribbling in the diary.
In the last round, both of us—a friend and I, managed to checkmate our opponents rather quickly. With a couple of hours to spare before I had to leave for the airport, we decided to explore parts of the city.
The friend called up an old rickshaw guy, an acquaintance from his last visit to the city, to drive us around. We visited a temple in the old part of the city, then went through the narrow lanes into the bazaar. There, I bought a couple of postcards.
Travelling Alone
I remember sitting on a bench in a park beside the lake, leaning back, looking up at the flowers on the trees, listening to the gentle splashes of water, the wind running its fingers through my hair. It was serene. But, as the feeling sank deeper, a strange familiarity surfaced; and brought with it the memories of watching sunsets after work; when I'd have company.
Maybe, that's how travelling alone is—moments brimming with the present, shadowed by an intense longing to share them. It is a longing not fueled by mere loneliness but kindled by beauty. It is like the longing of artists.
It is a city of colour—Udaipur. There's blue from the lakes, shades of green from the trees, pink and orange from the flowers, and yellow, beige and white from the Mahals. There's always a breeze blowing, and one can hear the gentle splashes of water.
I visited Udaipur last year. Your post brought back memories of many fantastic meals, including one at Khamma Ghani, so thank you!