I had been planning to go for the Jaipur Literature Festival since I was 15 and I finally went this year, at the age of 22. Years of planning, plotting, figuring out finances, asking friends to come along culminated in an impulsive two-way train ticket and a random hostel reservation.
The colours struck me, making a home in my eyes; vibrant and earthy tones contrasted by bright pinks and yellows of fabric. Rajasthan played out in front of my eyes as I'd seen it on every travel website ever, but better, because I stood on the street and took it in. Narrowly escaping eager salesperson voices and gestures of welcome, I made my way through the crowded Bapu Bazaar, the smells of hot masala chai drawing me to a corner. Jaipur is dry and cold in January and the steam warmed my face even if it burned a little.
The festival is held every year at Diggi Palace, a supremely aesthetic place festooned with ribbons, as if there weren't enough colours already. Walking sideways became a habit because of the sheer number of people, some eagerly waiting to get their books autographed, some roaming around just like me and the others just there to take photos.
The most beautiful piece of architecture that I saw during my 5-day stay has to be City Palace. With its shades of pinks contrasting with the cirrus clouded sky, it stands out like a jewel in my memory.
We walked on old stones of the 'Panna Meena ka Kund', an old stepwell near Amber fort, looked up at the brilliant blue sky through the ruins of old temples, crinkled our noses at the smell of Jal Mahal and wonder how clean water smelled, and wiped the dust from our faces after travelling in a 'metro', a local version of the rickshaw.
I went there with a backpack and came back with two, the other full of souvenirs. Now I travel back to Rajasthan through the postcards I brought at the City Palace in bunches and an audible sigh escapes my lips, waking me up and plunking me in the middle of reality.
