Category: Blog

I arrived in Jaipur with a heart full of anticipation, stepping onto its dusty roads with the weight of twenty years of longing pressing on my chest. For two decades, I had imagined this moment—walking through the Pink City and immersing myself in the world that had captured my imagination long before I ever set foot in it.

A Chance Encounter with the City Palace

That morning, I had no particular plan. Jaipur, with its chaos of honking rickshaws, wandering cows, and the scent of street food wafting through the air, welcomed me like an old friend. I let my feet guide me, wandering aimlessly through narrow lanes lined with red-hued buildings. Then, as if fate had conspired to surprise me, I found myself standing in front of the City Palace.

For a moment, I simply stood there, unable to process what i was looking at. This was the place I had dreamt of and imagined through books and photographs. Now, it was no longer a picture on a screen or in a book. It was real—its towering gates, the intricately painted walls, the grand archways—all standing before me in warm, golden sunlight.

Stendhal Syndrome in the Pink City

As I stepped inside, I felt something strange—an overwhelming rush of emotions, a dizziness that made me pause. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes darted over the stunning courtyards, the delicate paintings, the white patterns on the pinkish walls. Then, I felt my eyes well up.

I had read about Stendhal Syndrome before—a phenomenon where people become so overwhelmed by beauty that they experience dizziness, tears, or even a sense of euphoria. I never thought I would experience it myself. But standing there, surrounded by the centuries-old artistry of the palace, I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

Maybe it was the sheer beauty of it all, or maybe it was the realization that I had waited twenty years for this moment. The years of longing, of imagining what it would be like, of wondering if I would ever see this place in person—it all came rushing in at once. I was standing where so many artists, royals, and dreamers had stood before me, and now I was part of that history, even if just for a fleeting moment.

Finding Myself in the Details

I wandered through the palace slowly, touching the cool marble railings, studying the vibrant murals, and absorbing the artistry in every carved panel. The blend of Rajasthani and Mughal architecture, the softness of the faded pink walls, the weight of history in the air—it all spoke to me in a way I couldn’t fully put into words.

I thought about how this moment had been waiting for me, just as I had been waiting for it. I had always been drawn to Indian art, to its intricacy, its devotion to detail, its love for storytelling through patterns and colors. And here, in the halls of the City Palace, it felt like my love for it had come full circle.

A Beginning, Not an End

Leaving the palace, I felt lighter, as if something had shifted within me. The twenty years of waiting were over, but in their place, a new feeling had emerged—the desire to understand this city beyond its grandeur. Jaipur had given me what I had longed for, and now, it was inviting me to stay, to learn, to create.

Maybe I had experienced Stendhal Syndrome that day. Or maybe, beauty—when it speaks so deeply to the soul—has the power to transform us.

As I stepped out into the warm Jaipur afternoon, I knew this was just the beginning.

As I wandered through the crumbling meditation caves and traced my fingers over the faded colors on the walls of the residential buildings, the hum of mantras still vibrated in the earth beneath me. The Beatles Ashram, long abandoned, felt less like a ruin and more like a place in waiting—holding onto echoes of the past, whispering them through peeling paint and overgrown vines.

Only in India can you climb to the top of a six-story building, stand at the edge of a rooftop without a guardrail, and peer over at the vast expanse of the Ganga, spread out as far as the eye can see. No barriers, no warning signs, just the weight of space and air and possibility. Safety is less of a concern in these places—not out of carelessness, but because life here is not so tightly controlled. There’s a raw excitement in the risk, a thrill in the idea that the building beneath your feet might not last another decade, another year, another breath.

The walls, covered in graffiti and devotion, tell their own story. Some messages are from wandering seekers who left behind words in Hindi, English, and half-finished thoughts in marker pens. Others are just timeworn imprints of another era—paintings half-swallowed by moss, prayers that have settled into the cracks like dust.

The ashram even in its crumbliness is majestic, I wondered what it must have been like in its heyday, supported by all those famous people with deep pockets. The walls are pasted with images of its lovers, The Beatles, Mia & Prudence Farrow, Donovan, Mike Love…it must have been a beautiful sanctuary. The ashram itself, now a ruin reclaimed by the forest, still carries the echoes of that brief but legendary moment in music and spiritual history.

There’s a strange sense of peace here. Not the curated, meditative calm that polished retreats promise, but something wilder, more honest. A place where stillness doesn’t ask you to sit cross-legged with your eyes closed, but instead urges you to climb, to touch, to listen—to be present in a way that feels both exhilarating and completely natural.

I stood on that rooftop for a long time, the wind moving through the empty halls behind me, the sound of the river below steady and endless. For a place that many would call abandoned, it felt more alive than anywhere I’ve been in a long time.

I had imagined a tranquil afternoon by the Ganga, painting the riverbanks and bridges as the sunlight danced on the water. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with one of the most assertive art critics I’ve ever met—a little boy, no more than seven, with impeccable English and even more impeccable confidence.

He didn’t ask if he could paint; he demanded it. “You’re missing trees,” he declared, peering over my shoulder at my half-finished painting. “And why is the sky so empty?” Before I could respond, he plopped down beside me, grabbed a brush, and announced, “I’ll show you.”

I handed him his own page, hoping to redirect his creative energy. But the boy had other ideas. He dipped the brush into green paint and began covering everything—his page, his hands, my paint set, and eventually me. Green streaks appeared on my clothes, smudged across my arms, and, somehow, onto the edges of my painting.

As he worked, he explained, with great authority, how my painting needed more “life.” “Look at the trees over there,” he said, pointing to the forested hills in the distance. “Without them, it’s just water. That’s boring!” His passion was undeniable, even if his method was a bit chaotic.

By the end of the session, he had painted the world entirely green, including himself, and left me with a smudged but oddly endearing painting that I couldn’t bring myself to fix.

Later that evening, still speckled with green and carrying my paint-stained supplies, I went to the Ram Jhula Aarti. The river, now glowing in the golden light of dusk, felt like it had forgiven the day’s interruptions. The chants of the aarti carried through the air, weaving everything into a calm rhythm.

Standing there, watching the flames of the lamps ripple in the water, I thought about that little boy’s critique. Maybe he was right—maybe my painting had been missing something. Not just trees, but the life and unpredictability that Rishikesh brings to everything.

That smudged, green-streaked painting will never win awards, but it holds a memory I wouldn’t trade for anything. And isn’t that the point of art? To capture a moment, however messy, that makes you smile when you look back on it.

Some sketches of the local area.

Christmas Day was a bit different. Sitting by the river, i painted the peaceful waters flowing past. This area is famous for the story of Shiva holding the poison Halahala in his throat, to stop it destroying all of creation. The poison surfaced after the ocean was “churned” revealing divine jewels, and the goddess Lakshmi. Shiva bathed in the Ganges here to soothe himself. Shiva saved the world and became as Nilkanth, or the blue throated one.

Maybe I’ll paint the story some day, but here is a painting i did of Shiva and his blue throat a couple of years ago.

Visited the beautiful `Marble Palace. It’s probably the first place I’ve been where photography is completely banned, and it was so much a nicer experience for it! Rather than tourists swinging on columns or posing in front of the ornate sculptures, you could actually LOOK at the beauty for a change. I was armed with pencil and paper and was able to record the architecture. I have to say there was a look of envy in others eyes that i got to take home images of the place and they didn’t. Yet another reason to draw!

I’ve never visited a temporary aquarium before, and the tunnel that has been built in park circus is rather impressive for a temporary feature. Walking underneath thousands of gallons of water, i just hope it holds!

Trying out the GIF i made from a drawing i imagined of the aquarium.

Practising to draw means you start to look at the world differently, or perhaps start to look at it, in reality for the first time. The texture of the different plastic Christmas trees, the folds of a t-shirt, the colour of a bauble.

Christmas in Kolkata is a funny mix of traditions, edible delicacies and music. It’s a lot of fun and exciting to draw. Last time I was in India i had KFC for Christmas dinner, perhaps I’ll have biryani this time. If only i could find some sprouts…