Intro
Every journey has a beginning and an end, but some places refuse to let you go. Udaipur was one of them. As we packed our bags and prepared to leave, it felt less like departure and more like a promise to return.

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The Last Morning

We woke early, the sky still soft with dawn. Getting ready felt heavier than usual—not because of fatigue, but because of the weight of leaving. Udaipur still had so much to explore, yet our time had run out. With that thought, and the quiet vow of returning one day, we checked out of the hotel.

The ride to the airport became a kind of farewell procession. Deepak ji steered us through Udaipur’s narrow lanes, where life carried on as it always had: chai stalls steaming, children in uniforms rushing to school, shopkeepers tugging open shutters. For the city, it was just another morning. For us, it was the end of something precious.

The domes of the City Palace slipped slowly from view. Lake Pichola became a shrinking mirror in the rearview. I thought of all that we had gathered in these few days—temples older than imagination, palaces steeped in grandeur, rain-soaked forts, and stories of kings, queens, and saints still alive in stone.

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From Stillness to Chaos

At Udaipur Airport, the contrast struck me. Small, simple, it felt like Rajasthan’s final gesture of unhurried charm. Within hours, though, we were at Delhi’s Terminal 1, swallowed by chaos—rushing travellers, blaring announcements, a pace that left no room for pause.

The shuttle to Terminal 3 felt like stepping between two worlds: from the silence of lakes and ruins to the din of a modern city. My wife dozed lightly while we waited; I scrolled through our photos, each one opening like a window into a moment I wasn’t yet ready to let go.

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The Flight Home

The flight to Ranchi was uneventful, but my thoughts were not. They wandered through Nathdwara’s crowded queues, Chittorgarh’s misted ramparts, the echoing courtyards of City Palace, the taste of dal-bati-churma, and the evenings by the lake.

I thought of Deepak ji, nervous yet glowing at the thought of becoming a father. Of Vishal ji, his voice alive with Rajput valor and lore. Of my wife—stubborn, insistent, fearful of monkeys, yet luminous with joy at every darshan, every sunset, every story. Journeys are remembered not only for the places, but also for the people, and ours had been full of both.

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A Journey That Stays

When the plane finally descended into Ranchi, I realized something. Udaipur was not behind me. It was inside me. Its lakes and temples, its rains and songs, its stories and silences had already woven themselves into memory.

Some journeys don’t end when you return home. They linger, like the reflection of a palace in still water—waiting for the day you go back.