The story isn’t about the heritage of my state, nor it is about the colours and the hospitality. It is about being home. Somewhere through the gali’s of the Old City where I found saag and kachoris, the one way traffic that leads to the Jagdish Temple, the narrow alleys of bazaar which led me to the bustling Ghangaur Ghat and the fragrance of coffee and the Dhoops lit near the Jheel Ginger. City Palace isn’t a tourist spot, it is a window to the waters of Pichola, the smiles of women selling fridge magnets near Doodh Talai, the passion of artists keeping the art of miniature paintings and sculpting alive and the numerous Desi dogs wagging their tales at the sight of Parle-G biscuits.
I still remember how mesmerising was the Zenana and the Mardana, how cerulean were the Belgian tiles, how peaceful were the Ragas played by the audio guide by pressing number 9 and how every staircase in the museum was a sneak peak through history. I always tell people that I tend to zone out a lot while travelling alone but in the City Palace I was just staring at the beauty, the grandeur and the serene satisfaction of exploring a home away from home.