City of Lakes, Reflections and Dreams
Prologue – Farewell to Jodhpur
The morning begins quietly. Only a few peacocks cry somewhere in the garden while the mist settles over the palace.
One last glance at Jodhpur – then the road calls. We head south, towards the hills.
Today our journey leads us via Ranakpur, where a marble temple awaits – and by day’s end: Udaipur.
The city of lakes. Of reflections. And perhaps of dreams.
On the Road to Ranakpur
The famous Ranakpur Jain Temple lies about 160 kilometres from Jodhpur.
No sooner are we on our way than the landscape begins to change: the road winds through villages and fields, past small shrines, mustard blossoms and herdsmen with their goats.
From Pali the road slowly climbs into the Aravalli Mountains – among the oldest ranges in the world. The air turns cooler, the trees denser, and a fine drizzle drapes itself over the land.
We pass narrow, curving roads and villages where men drink tea, women in bright saris laugh, and dogs and cows rummage for something edible in the dust.
“Every evening the cows go home on their own,” says Binny. “Very smart cows.”
I laugh. Yes – clever cows indeed.
Ranakpur – Stone Poetry in the Mist of the Hills
In the heart of the Aravalli Mountains, nestled in the solitude of the forest, lies a wonder carved from stone – the Jain Temple of Ranakpur, on the banks of the Maghai River.
Majestic, yet in perfect harmony with nature, it seems to rest in quiet bliss.
The Chaumukhi Temple is dedicated to Adinath, the first Tirthankara of Jainism – a three-storied marble structure with 1,444 intricately carved pillars. No two are alike.
Binny parks, explains the way back to the car three times – there’s no signal up here – and Reinhold smiles: “Don’t worry, we’ll find you anyway.”
He’s right. In the end, we always do.
Silence turned to stone. Inside the halls of the Ranakpur Temple, every echo dissolves – only the light wanders across pillars, arches, and marble ornaments that whisper stories of centuries past.
On the Way to Udaipur
We continue – through the choreographed chaos of small towns.
For lunch, we stop at a little restaurant well known among drivers and guides: clean, reliable, and pleasantly busy with travelers like us.
Binny nods with satisfaction: “Good food, clean washrooms.”
He knows exactly where to stop – and where not to.
In India, they say, there are more temples than toilets. I’m beginning to believe it.
Scenes along the road: Goatherds, women in red, schoolchildren with backpacks. India in its everyday rhythm – lively, colorful, unpolished.
Arrival in Udaipur
By late afternoon we reach Udaipur – quiet, softly faded, yet of an unmistakable beauty.
In the “Venice of the East,” the lake shows no sparkle, but it has a soul.
Udaipur lies like a dream slightly detached from time – embraced by the gentle curves of the Aravalli Hills, dissolving into mist.
The city is a weave of palaces and temples, narrow lanes, lively markets, and quiet moments by the water.
You feel the splendor of the past and, at the same time, the patience of everyday life that goes on as if beauty were the most natural thing in the world.
First glimpse of Udaipur – rooftops in the haze, markets bursting with color, voices and scents weaving into the evening. India, caught between everyday life and a hint of magic.
The Oberoi Udaivilas
Three nights lie ahead – at the Oberoi Udaivilas, a place almost too beautiful to be real.
And yet, here where almost every room has its own pool, the water remains untouched.
I smile. India reveals itself as it wishes – and that, perhaps, is what we love most about it.
A hotel like a dream: Domes, gardens, fountains – everything seems made for silence.
The City Palace – Splendor of a Bygone Era
Our guide the next day is Ronit – young, eloquent, his eyes lighting up as he speaks about the history of his land.
We meet him below the City Palace, Udaipur’s proud landmark.
The palace rises high above the lake, a labyrinth of balconies, domes, and towers that gleam like gilded memories in the sun.
It was begun in the 16th century by Maharana Udai Singh II, the city’s founder, and was expanded over generations by rulers who each added their own touch – yet never disturbed the harmony of the whole.
Today it stands as a living chronicle, an ensemble of halls and courtyards where stone and light tell stories together.
Ronit explains that “Maharaja” simply means “great king,” while “Maharana” means “great warrior” – a title reserved for the rulers of Mewar.
All Maharanas were Maharajas – but not all Maharajas were Maharanas.
A subtle, proud distinction – and one almost feels it in the breeze that moves through the open windows.
Splendor of bygone days: Mirrors, frescoes, filigree windows.
Here, history lives on in color – and at times, one almost hears the footsteps of the Maharanas.
A Sweet Surprise
As we say goodbye, Binny and Ronit hand me a bouquet of flowers and a small chocolate cake.
I’m touched – tomorrow is my birthday.
A sweet gesture from Mr. Simrit, our steadfast support behind the scenes. Some journeys shine brighter because someone is quietly thinking ahead.
My Birthday in Udaipur
The next morning: greetings, cake, flowers.
Our room is decorated with balloons, petals, and a large banner on the bed that reads Happy Birthday.
I treat myself to a visit to the hotel spa – Reinhold’s gift.
After a long, oily head massage, I ask carefully whether I can really go out among people like this.
“Oh yes, of course – the oil is practically invisible,” the beautician assures me with a smile.
Well. Invisible perhaps to her – not to the camera.
Later, during a walk by the lake, Binny offers to take a photo.
The setting is beautiful: Lake Pichola, slightly veiled, quietly mysterious.
I smile, he clicks – and shows me the result.
Oh my God. I look like a wet poodle dipped in oil.
“Delete it immediately, please!” I say, laughing.
Luckily, I have a scarf – and the sense of humor one should never lose in India.
Birthday in India: Chocolate cake, balloons, rose petals.
A tender moment between travel joy and cappuccino – with a smile that lingers.
Lake Pichola – Water That Reflects Stories
While Ronit takes care of our boat tickets, we wait by the lakeshore.
“Do you know this tree? It’s a Neem tree – Indian lilac,” says Binny. “You can pluck the leaves and chew them, like this. Good for everything.”
He demonstrates. And although Neem is indeed known for its healing power, I smile and think: I’d rather ask my doctor or pharmacist first.
Then we glide out onto Lake Pichola – a place of great cultural and historical significance for Udaipur.
The water reflects the splendor of the Mewar dynasty and the royal lifestyle of the Rajput rulers.
It’s not only the lake itself that enchants, but also the palaces and ghats that surround it – turning the water into a realm of legend:
Jag Mandir, Taj Lake Palace, City Palace, Jag Niwas, Gangaur Ghat, Ambrai Ghat …
Today there is no sparkle. Yet the mist hanging over the water lends everything a touch of magic.
We’re simply grateful it isn’t raining.
Mist lies over the water, palaces shimmer like paintings.
No postcard blue – only that quiet kind of beauty that stays, in the mirror of the lake and in memory.
Epilogue – Tomorrow We Continue
Tomorrow we leave the city of lakes and palaces behind and head into the wild heart of Rajasthan.
Next stop: Ranthambore-National Park
Once the hunting grounds of maharajas, it now promises a very different India – quieter, more primal, breathtakingly beautiful.
Back to: Jodhpur – The Blue City
About Edith: 70 plus – and more curious than ever. On wanderlust-knows-no-age.com she writes about journeys, memories, and the moments in between – poetic, honest, and always with a wink.
At her side: Reinhold – tireless navigator, impatient calm, and faithful guardian of the picnic bag.