Sandcastle City

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A fairytale vision in the desert gives way to tourist traps, crumbling facades and muck on the dusty city streets. Somewhat reluctantly we “cough up” the 600 Rupee entry fee and mandatory camera charge then head into the modest “Palace” complex armed with audio guide. Short on accessible buildings and museum displays the palace has honed the mythical angle of its history, quickly dispenses with the rudimentary “palanquin, sword, throne” and filling the void with fabulous fabrication and speculation. Is that stone swan really drinking pearls of milk flowing from the lactating mother’s breast down her lustrous locks? With aplomb the dearth of artifacts is compensated for through flights of fancy. Exhibits holding the greatest promise: stamp, coin and sword collection, were apparently behind securely padlocked doors and on enquiry the indolent attendant replied, “17, 18, no!” “21, no!” A plastic bottle collection in the courtyard completed the tour and we left somewhat saddened by the unfulfilled potential of this dramatic city.



The dichotomy of the place lies in the sharp contrast between the exquisitely carved latticework of the sandstone dwellings and the detritus of a seemingly uncaring population. Medieval conditions prevail, with foul water flowing in open drains. Pedestrians beware! Squeezing around a bovine rump, we leap back to avoid its second stomach disgorging breakfast, splattering walls and sandal clad feet.



The heat of the day lures us to the town’s water supply. We wander down to the water encircled by pavilions and ghats, but find little to command our attention. Eying the ageing pleasure craft, barely afloat on the turgid lake, we forgo the pleasure of a row and beat a hasty retreat to the seclusion of our hotel and a rest by the pool with a planters punch and vegetable pakoras, served with ketchup! Trading the latter for spicy relishes we kick back for a quiet afternoon with our books. Tomorrow’s another day!

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