If there is MAGIC, it can be found in Mandu.
A forgotten city of the 9th century, holding tales of love and valor in its bosom, Mandu looks quite comfortable with the fact that it has been forgotten. Maybe being left alone has helped to keep its magic … untrampled by touristic hordes, with a few stragglers, or hard-core heritage fans who trudge into this remote, off-the-beaten-track Mandu is like Roopmati with her memories of the Poet-prince Baz Bahadur who thundered through the city streets, while she waited at her Pavilion, hair swirling and dupattac flying in the incredible wind that blows over the plateau.
Mandu and its nearby environs is still essentially rural. One might suddenly come across a beautiful stepwell, where the lowing cattle would quench their thirst after a full day, or see a ruin behind the giant Baobabs, while a sheperd sits traquil with his herd grazing around it.
The Ujali Baori is a sight to behold. A stepwell right at the entrance of the city, one can almost hear the jingle of bangles or the tinkle of jhanjars, as the women go down the steps to fill their shining, brass pots.
Forgotten now, it only echoes our sighs of rapture, and gratitude that allows us to see a slice of the past.
Mandu will call again … and I am sure, I will not be able to ignore its call …