An 11km tuk-tuk ride out of Jaipur, the fort sits imposingly above the town of the same name. The defences are high and bristle with crenellations and the gate is still impressively stout. If you did not know better, you would think that the fort was named after the attractive honey colour of the walls and towers, but not so.
Outer walls snake along the hill top ridges, enclosing the fort in a valley that can only be entered at one end or the other. Amber town sits at one end of the gorge, notably, outside the fort gates. When the fort was built in 1592 for the Mughal Emperor, Akbar, Amber was a small settlement a day’s journey from Jaipur. Now it has spread to a moderate size but from the battlements it still glows Jaipur pink and Brahmin blue in the morning sun and the modern buildings are lost in the picturesque haze that hangs over the far end of the valley.
Until the 1980’s the 300 year old tradition of slaughtering a goat daily at the fort continued. The reason is lost in the mists of time.
Above it is the Jaigarh fort (Jai being the builder and Garh meaning ‘the top of the hill/mountain’, the latter being a permanent feature when discussing the names of Rajasthan fort locations). It has the distinction of being one of the few forts that was never taken; an impressive fact bearing in mind the seemingly never-ending series of wars that produced the need for the forts in the first place. Lonely Planet, perhaps patronisingly in light of its pedigree, calls it ‘whimsically-hatted’ when referring to its towers. It still houses the largest wheeled cannon ever made. If the apocalypse comes, this is the type of place you want to be stock piling your tins and bullets.
As you stand, looking down on the giant water tank that fills with mountain run-off during the monsoon, you momentarily catch a glance of the enormous war machine, unchanged from the days of anger. So well preserved is it that it doesn’t take much of a leap of the imagination to hear the sound of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded or smell the jasmine that once perfumed the sensuously named Hall of Pleasure.
Back in Jaipur, we were drawn irresistibly back to Ganesh. The experience was as good as we remembered. A cricket match in the dusty lot beneath the restaurant entertained us as we ate. A powerful hay-maker propelled the ball over the wall and into the remains of our half eaten special. Ganesh was reluctant to give the ball back but all was salvaged and the game continued as the chef joined us to smoke hash and eat pickled chillies in his break from the kitchen.
Perhaps the euphoria as we paid the bill wasn’t the final cover drive that sealed the match.
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