The "City of Lakes"

Rajasthan’s southern city of Udaipur is known as one of India’s most romantic destinations. The surrounding ginger-shaded mountains give the impression of a secluded and serene retreat, far from the flat lands of Gujarat. Intricate, sun-bleached buildings surround the placid lake Pichola, at the center of which sits the extravagant bone-white Lake Palace on a tiny island all to its own. Dozens of rooftop terraces provide excellent views of the golden city palace, the famous Jagdish temple and a chaotic urban sprawl.

I was immediately put off by the commercialism that had (according to locals) transformed the most historic part of the old city. Every shop was designed to appeal to tourists. French bakeries and Italian restaurants lined the narrow streets. Overpriced tailors advertised that they could sew exact replicas of H&M jackets. “Madam, you like this dress?” one man asked, thrusting a British Vogue in my face. “Only 4,000 rupees.”

It did not help matters that we were two of many tourists. Crowds of foreigners, their white skin turning pink under the Indian sun, sipped espresso on verandas and took pictures of locals without asking. Small groups of middle-aged women donned skimpy tank tops and large Chanel sunglasses, eagerly buying large numbers of overpriced, striped pashminas. Men wore shorts. Young partners kissed in public. Elderly British couples held hands as they shooed away begging children.

Understandably, relations with residents were tense. Nearly all interactions ended in talks of money. Groups of boys lit fireworks in our path; Onlookers laughed as we covered our ears. Alexander’s attempts to contact a textile dyer dead-ended in several textile “boutiques” where salesmen lied about their products. “So this is tie-and-dye?” I asked, looking at Alexander. (By this point our knowledge of different crafts can easily distinguish an imitation). “Yes, yes, hand tied, natural dye, my family makes,” said the desperate retailer. “Oh,” I replied, obviously unconvinced. And then: “We live in India…yes…no, we study textiles…yes…but this is screen printed imitation, no?” The salesmen gave a disappointed smirk. “Yes, yes, imitation, but a good price for you.”

Despite some unrewarding interviews and an unshakable sense of discomfort, we managed to have a spectacular time. We visited the colorful Indo-Aryan Jagdish temple with its ebony black stone image of Vishnu as Jagannath. A young boy with a bowl cut greeted us at the entrance. “What country?” he asked. When I replied “the U.S.” he broke into song:

“I’m just a buffalo soldier in the heart of America…Stolen from Africa, brought to America.” Then he smiled and said, “Bob Marley- American, no?”

In the afternoon we explored a restored 18th century haveli consisting of 138 rooms set around a central courtyard, and enjoyed the setting sun from its rooftop. The following morning found us at the enormous City Palace where we examined countless miniature paintings, intricate stained-glass windows, carved stone lattices, jewel-encrusted mosaic sculptures of peacocks, ornate tiles, delicate glass work, and mirrored rooms. The view from the top balcony was breathtaking. On the third day we wandered the gardens of Saheliyon ki Bari, where countless Indian mothers took pictures of us posing with their children.

Our less touristy experiences included a peek into an empty junk shop. The salesman, a once nomadic musician with a passion for German psychotherapy, shared stories about the many foreigners who came to Udaipur to “find themselves” and “get cured.” He explained that chosen people were naturally attracted to his shop; he always had a steady stream of strangers requesting his assistance. “Five years ago, an Olympic rower from Seattle marches in here and announces, without any explanation, ‘I am a narcissist. Can you cure me?’ And I reply, ‘Why, of course. I can cure you in one sentence: You let the world go to hell.’ Then the man ran in circles, because I had cured him.” The junk salesman gave a satisfied nod. He commenced to tell us several additional vignettes about curing foreigners and told us about his “hot hammer” technique, a four-five hour intense process in which he yells and insults his “patient” until they “open-up.”

Perhaps to erase my look of doubt, he presented several leather-bound books, each brimming with the comments of “satisfied customers.” I flipped through the pages and saw the business cards of Stanford professors, the email addresses of Brown University students, and the gushing gratitude of countless foreigners. “You have changed my life. I will remember you forever,” one letter read. “You are the man I have been searching for. You are the star I saw from my balcony. I will never doubt again because fate has brought us together,” another page said. And then: “You have given me my second birth. You are an angel, touched by god.”

“People come here, and they are all so unhappy,” the junk seller said. “I send them home with a lighter heart and a clearer mind.” I withheld judgment and answered, honestly, that I was truly happy. Then I purchased a vintage postcard and Alexander and I departed.