You walk out of the railway station. And it seems that you are in ordinary Indian city. Rickshaws, honking buses, concrete, biscuit and tobacco stalls, two cows in the middle of the street. But walk through the gate to old city and you are in peach ice cream.
All the buildings are painted pink-orange. No wonder it is called Pink City. It used to be yellow. Then at the end of 19th century princ Albert was about to pay Jaipur a visit. And so they painted the city pink, traditional colour of hospitality in Rajastan. Since then the pinkwash is regularly reapplied. But only the main streets are pink. Walk away from them and after few paces the pink is gone. (Interestingly, Pink City is laid out on strictly perpendicular grid. No winding backstreets. Unique in India.
To the south of the Pink City's ramparts is a main Jaipur's street. Luxury brands. Which here means Bata, Reebok, Levi's. All the buildings there look the same. Same height. None is breaking the street line. Traffic is absurdly fast. When you are around before the sunset, when shops turn on the neons and rubbish and dirt disappears in the shadows you feel like in Need for Speed: Carbon.
And I went to the museum! Those who know me know I do not go to museums. I do not like them. Made and exception. But who knows if it counts. They call it Museum of Indology. Part of a junk collection amassed by writer and painter Acharya Vyakula. Map of India on a grain of rice. Glass bed. Amusingly shaped stones. Coins of leather. Poststamps of copper. All of it wonderfully chaotic and dusty.
In the price of a ticket is included a guided tour. Never that the guide barely speaks English. She will show you all there is, pointing to exhibits. Giggling at their absurdity. But when she asks „Museum good?“ at the end, answer „Very good“ makes her verry happy.
Few pictures
