Jaipur — tickled in the Pink City

Jaipur is a jewel in the crown of The Land of Kings, as India's fairy tale state of Rajasthan is called. It's a microcosm of the state, possibly of the nation. Sumptuous palaces pamper the soul. Time-worn hilltop forts capture the imagination. Life's daily swirl dances in the eyes. The color of it all paints indelible memories.

My sister Sharon and I visited in March, arriving by train from Delhi, six hours to the north. We alighted into a frenzy that defines train stations all across India, then were lassoed by an auto-rickshaw tout out front.

Piling in, we were set adrift on a river of traffic on Station and MI Roads, two main thoroughfares, lined with shops, offices, and restaurants. Truck horns pierced our ears and bull horns nearly gored our doorless three-wheeled conveyance. The disorder of it all belies the meticulous planning of the center's grid, based mathematically on an ancient Hindu map of the universe. We were enthralled by the surreal impact.

Our first stop was Samode Haveli, a 200-year old hotel neatly tucked within the charming walls of the Old City, but away from its relentless din. Entering into a placid, grassy courtyard, we felt as if we had come home. In a sense, we had. A haveli is a mansion, a private (formerly, in this case) residence built as a palace in miniature.

For $76 a night, we were treated to crisp sheets on double beds in cosy ambience, chilled by life-saving air conditioning and greeted each day by happy turban-sporting attendants. The comfort kept us here for several meals in the most elegant dining room, we both agreed, we had ever banqueted in.

But we hadn't come all this way to sit around our hotel, no matter how snug. We set out for the center but not before we were rounded up by an auto-rickshaw driver, lying in wait for a fare outside the hotel. Rick Shaw, as we called him privately, became our driver during our four days here, taking us around town and as far as Amber Palace, 11 kilometres to the north. His services proved an efficient means of hassle-free transportation.

We traded the hotel's calm green courtyard for the Old Town's frantic pink avenues. So much for painting a town red, in 1876 Jaipur's walls and buildings were coated pink to mark the visit of the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII). Ever since, The Pink City has left this color of hospitality out like a welcome mat for visitors of all social ranks.

We zipped up Johari Bazaar Road to the Old City. The heart of the area was beating a sonorous song. Color spilled from silk and souvenir shops. Snake charmers charmed tourists (Sharon even petted one — a snake that is). Fruit vendors juggled their produce. We jostled for space to walk on the crowded street and sidewalks in a sort of people-and-cow slalom.

Eventually, we emerged on MI Road in the new(er) part of town. We were soon entangled in a string of stores hawking everything from fabrics to dolls to semi-precious stones, for which Jaipur is famous. I was happy just to look around, but Sharon gobbled up several meters of silk and four skillfully hand-painted pictures depicting the leisurely times of the Mughals. Two hours and a $150 later, she had curtains and wall decorations for her new apartment.

At dusk, we refreshed with a meal at Niro's Restaurant, further down the same block. We tanked up on Chinese food for just a few dollars, then walked round the corner straight into a scene out of Bollywood (the Indian version of Hollywood based in Mumbai).

Raj Mandir Cinema is perhaps India's finest movie house, making for catching a kitschy Hindu film here a must-do. Stepping onto the plush royal blue carpet of its grand rosewater-perfumed Art Deco-like foyer, I felt as if I tripped into the 1920s. Well-dressed families huddled round low tables waiting for the doors to open, sipping tea, licking ice creams, and chatting. Apparently, we were where it's at.

We splurged for the 46 rupee balcony seats, the best in the house. The section was full of tourists. We were serenaded by love songs and dazzled by well-choreographed dances. And, as expected, boy got his girl.

The next morning, with a nod we summoned omnipresent Rick for the short ride to our first stop, the Hawa Mahal, or the Palace of Winds. Jaipur's most recognised landmark, with its five-storied pyramidal frontage unfolding like a gigantic sandstone fan, dominates Johari Bazaar. Ingeniously deigned to catch the wind (hawa), it was built in 1799 for ladies of the royal house-hold to look upon the street below without being seen.

We buzzed round the honey-combed interior imagining graceful women in swirling colorful skirts and veils, laden with bangles and strings of pearls, brimming with regal gossip. The easy climb to the top was rewarded by marvellous views across the city, skirted by rolling arid hill-tops bedecked with weathered forts.

Nearby, we spied the 27-metre-high ski jump-like ramp of the Vrihad Samra Yantra sundial. It punctuates Jantar Mantar, meaning 'instruments for measuring the harmony of the heavens', a 270-year old observatory. The grounds are at once whimsical and precise, a garden of functi-onal if not religious sculptures (Hindu beliefs coincide with the rhythms of the universe). While I did some climbing, Sharon took a dip in a pool of shade.

From there, it was to the City Palace, home to the last Maharaja. In places such as this, one can only admire the grandeur of its Mughal and Rajasthani blend of architecture, marvel at its dimensions, and envy the opulence of its collecti-ons. Such a place is what dreams are made of, and I was drifting off to princely nirvana.

The next day the fantasy continued on the back of a lavishly decorated elephant, our 'taxi' up the ramparts of Amber Palace, a bygone resi-dence to a succession of Maharajas. Here, too, we wandered unfettered through passageways, up and down stairways, and along rooftops. All corners turned into different and marvellous expressions of design.

It's hard to imagine anyone forsaking this 400-year old mansion garnished with exquisite details, ample courtyards, and sweeping vistas of the girdling valleys. But that's exactly what Maharaja Jai Singh II did in 1727, who apparently felt cramped and bored enough to lay out the 'pink prints' for Jaipur.

We descended from the heavenly abode for Rambagh Palace. As one of Jaipur's most celebrated hotels since its conversion from a private residence in 1957, its gardens and dining rooms make it a sightseeing gem.

On the final evening of our stay, we dined there alfresco. The barbecued chicken and lamb were smothered in otherworldly flavours. Mid-meal, Sharon stopped to have a whimsical henna design painted on her foot.

We lingered unhurriedly, swaddled by dusk's magenta shawl, adorned by a yellowy string of pearly light bulbs profiling the hotel, soothed by the green grassy carpet underfoot. But mostly, we were tickled pink by the thoughts of Jaipur's charms.

Text and Photos: Jono David