The morning town bustled, jostled and hassled. Amidst the hullabaloo I spotted a sign advertising ‘Jolly walks in landscaping garden’. It was noted, and later in the day, searching for some respite from the intensity of the city, I ambled through the peaceful rose garden of Udaipur on a still afternoon in a perfectly soft light and temperature. This new situation transcended my sense of time.
With no plans nor expectations for the day, there was a feeling that this stillness, this space, was unlimited, like the state of Truth.
I looked across a patch of grass to a wall half a metre high. Some way beyond that, was a building with a dome – painted Bengal red and Naples yellow, it looked like a small shrine. I sensed a void between the two, something missing.
There was a small gap in this wall, enticing me towards it, then through it. I found myself on a wide stone staircase leading down to another wall. Within it was a set of double doors, each hanging on one hinge, and dirty from the bottom up, showing the age of many monsoons. I continued, through the doors, to find a second stone staircase the same width, it led even further down to a formal rectangle, with a stone walkway around it. This rectangle contained a well of clear water, and the staircase continued down, submerged into the depths of that well.
The whole construction was an inverted stepped pyramid, a reverse ziggurat working its way deep into the water table of the ground.
I paused to enjoy the moment longer, and to bask in the zephyr-like breeze, taking pleasure in the clement sound of a water-source trickling into the placid well, and those of the birds in the park, chirping and warbling.
This hole in the ground was lined with local stone, which bore red and ochre striations.
Four niches were cut into the stone walls; two were empty, one contained an idol of Siva. The fourth niche held a sculpture of his eldest son, Ganesha; its patches of peeling silver foil indicated neglect. Weeds and rubber plants grew from between the cracks in the stone, emphasising its age and challenging its formality.
I took pleasure in the stones, and their layers of mosses and algae that had later been baked and blackened by the searing May temperatures, before being refreshed by the next monsoon rains; this annual cycle created a rich patina that softened all hard lines, without disturbing the complex form of the construction.
Beyond the far wall was another opening, which led to a pragmatic pump house; it was covered and enclosed by the domed building. Tentatively, I ventured inside. The walls were soot black, the floor of its perimeter walkway was caked with bird and animal droppings, and the cavernous well at its centre was extremely deep. There was the pervasive smell of must and an acid stench of urine, and I felt my muscles tighten.
After enjoying the open, dancing light of the first well, this one bore little. It hemmed me in; a feeling of dread seeped into my soul. I was looking into the bowels of the earth, and in an instant, it scared me.
I became chilled to the core, my skin puckered. I could feel an inexplicable presence, and I left the building hurriedly, then through the open hole in the wall I returned to a gentle sun and the dancing light, trickling water, and the birds and trees overhead.
I took a moment to gather myself, took out my sketchbook, and slowly returned to an equable state. Nothing now but to observe the closing of the day. and admire the skill and formality of the construction, the clarity of the mind that designed it, but more than that I admired the way that nature and time had softened and challenged it.
It was a point of great beauty, cheek by jowl with the Devil’s pit.