Growing up in Udaipur never felt special, except when it rained.
With the onset of the monsoon, the lakes would rise suddenly from their parched beds, spilling onto the roads as if reclaiming the city. The Aravallis turned a deep, seductive green, releasing an aroma that the trees had been holding all year. In the villages beyond, streams and waterfalls emerged from nowhere. From Gogunda to Kumbhagarh, Fatehssagar to Haldighati, every spot opened its arms wide, inviting you in. Fires would be lit, baatis baked crisp in the embers, dal set to boil. Picnic time.
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The other seasons were a long, gruelling punishment that defines Rajasthan. The wet cold froze everything during the winters, which were best spent in quilts, or layers of warm clothes.
The summers sizzled, often turning the lakes into cycling tracks. People would take boat rides to the island park near Jagmandir, eating ice cream on the ghats, barely glancing at the pavilions where Mughal prince Khurram, later Shah Jahan, had once taken r
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