Bundi?

Driving North from Mumbai to Delhi, dodging decorated tractors, and being skirted by smoke-blowing Tata monsters, Bundi expects a double-take. Compared to the miles of hut-strewn villages and roadside chai stands, Bundi seems like a mistake. You look again—it's real. An architect's dream, it's golden-hued palace perches on the side of a hill, like a bird looking out from his aerie to the sights below. Above the palace, fort walls loom ominously at the crest of the hilltop, announcing that this place is worth protecting. And below, a miniature Jodhpur awaits, the houses glowing blue in the waning sunlight, smallish streets showing the way. Where did this fairytale town spring from, and why haven't I heard about it before?

Many people discover Bundi accidentally, as it's on the road between two of India's biggest cities. But, it isn't on a main train line, and the closest hub, Kota, is not much of a destination at all. Essentially, Bundi is rather out of the way, and, truthfully, that's probably for the best. Because it's off the beaten path, Bundi hasn't had seen the influx of tourists that some other places have; therefore, its residents are still quite innocent, the children friendly, the locals desirous to be of help. This is a far cry from some of the overrun areas where men and children can be overtly aggressive, either saying brash and inappropriate things, or patting down your pockets looking for treats and rupees.

I heard about Bundi from a Danish girl who hadn't been, but had met people who had. They had raved, and she told me she was going to go check it out. It sounded nice enough, so, on a whim, I scrapped my other plans to see Udaipur and Mt.Abu - well-known places in Rajasthan- €”and headed for Bundi.

The day I arrived, it was near sunset, and the first cutting of the mustard seed plant had occurred that day. Although it sounds rather romantic, the effect is rather dismal due to a small black fly, quite like a fat gnat, that finds this plant's oils irresistible. When the stalks of the plant are severed, the aroma of the oil fills the air, and billions of these little buggers smell it and swarm with the confidence of locusts, looking for a snack.

Even Indians, who usually seem impervious to the perils of their country (they drink the water, they eat the street food, etc.), were besieged by the flies, and walked through town covering their mouths and noses with the end of their saris or with a cotton handkerchief. I didn't notice the flies until I'd walked down the street about twenty steps. That was more than enough time for them to wiggle themselves into the wet corner of my eye, my warm nostril, my open mouth. So much for my flight of fancy, being footloose and spontaneous. What had I gotten myself into?

I harbored secret wishes that the flies would miraculously disappear by morning, but I heard from a local that they were here to stay. But, even with the little varmints buzzing about, Bundi charmed and wooed like no other place. Due to a vicious asthma attack I had had on a train across the desert, en route to Bundi, I wasn't able to move around much the first two days I was there. I would get winded just climbing a set of stairs, but, luckily, I found refuge in my hotel.

The Kasera Paradise just opened three months ago, having been refurbished after 80 years of neglect. It is a 16th century old haveli with an inner open courtyard that rises up the length of the four story building. On each floor, there is a window seat-cum-compartment (in India, everything is a something-cum-something) fitted with a thick mattress and cylindrical pillows. When you climb into the little cupola, you are essentially climbing into your own little nest that looks out over the town on three sides, through intricate latticework windows. Since I couldn't get around without coughing, sputtering, and wheezing, I soaked up the view and read or wrote in one of these little cubbies for the first two days.

When I did finally venture out into the town, I discovered sweet people, hairy piglets, a bustling vegetable market, young boys wanting to practice their English, and colorful neighborhood temples. Although moving about was tiring due to my weak lungs, the people and the atmosphere were calming and magnetic.

On my third day, I mustered the energy to go up to the palace. I'd spent so long looking at its frontis from the roof of my guesthouse, that I had started to think it quite ordinary, after all, its outer walls were only a matter of feet from the back of the Kasera. Other guests had told me that the palace had incredible frescos and an interesting stepwell where the queen once bathed. But, from my seat on the roof of the hotel, the palace looked like it couldn't possibly hold that much of interest. It looked pleasant from the outside, but I had no idea how huge it really was. Upon climbing the steep road up to the entry gates, I entered a new world. The face of the building never betrayed all that it held inside - €”the soul of this building was magical.

Walking through the grounds, it was no stretch of the imagination to feel like an archaeologist discovering this place for the first time. Unlike historical sites in some places, particularly London's palaces or Edinburgh's castles, there were no guards protecting certain areas, no red ropes cordoning dangerous stairwells. At times, it would have been nice to have a guide to explaining the significance of a creamy white marble room or the meaning of a mirrored turquoise and gold wall painting; on the other hand, it was incredible to roam around and explore at will. In America, this place would be a lawsuit waiting to happen, but for the wannabe explorer, it was heaven. Gingerly crossing over landings with gaping holes, lowering myself into dirt covered rooms, winding up tall curved stone stairwells, peering out of blue and red stained glass rooms - €”it was the find of the century. And it was all mine. Three hours of poking about, opening heavy wooden doors, entering bat filled rooms, finding myself in the marharani's dressing quarters, in the soot-filled cooking rooms, in an ancient lavatory (with a view!).

As mentioned above, most often, visitors to the palace gush over the well-preserved wall frescos. Maldives green, peacock blue, poinsettia red—the colors and the images are remarkable. But, I was more mesmerized by the incredible architecture. So many rooms, and split levels, narrow staircases, secret rooms - the design is ingenious and extremely complex - and an absolute dream to explore!

I'm told that we have this place, Bundi and its mystical surroundings, to thank for the Jungle Book. It's said that once upon a time Kipling came here and stayed in the fort and explored the palace and a nearby reservoir. It inspired him to create Mogli and his various jungle friends. Not surprising since a wildlife sanctuary, the Ranthambhore National Park is just 45 kilometers away.

Unfortunately, I didn't make it to see the tigers and bears, oh my. I spent the rest of my days climbing down deep stepwells, exploring the fort, and visiting a nearby cave temple where the monkeys seem to worship Shiva as much as the local people. Since I left there, I've had conversations with several Indians and foreigners about where I've been. Everyone gives me a quizzical look. What's in Bundi? Where is it?

I'm not telling.