Shekhawati

Shekhawati is not just a region—it feels like an open-air gallery. The towns like Mandawa and Nawalgarh are filled with old havelis, their walls painted with stories—mythology, British-era influences, daily life. Even if one doesn’t understand every detail, there is a quiet richness in simply walking those streets.

What made our visit truly unique is that it coincided with the Total Solar Eclipse of October 24, 1995.

The painted walls of Shekhawati tell stories of the past, but that day, the sky itself told a story—one that no artist could capture.

Our small group of 10–12 people had planned this journey to witness the Total Solar Eclipse of October 24, 1995, and we travelled to a small town in the Shekhawati region, known for its clear skies.

Our close friends from Mumbai had their family haveli there. Although we did not stay in it, one evening we were invited for dinner on its terrace. What I remember most about the haveli were the drawings on its walls—beautiful frescoes, some traditional, and some surprisingly modern. One painting even showed a motor car, which felt so unusual in that old setting, as if different time periods were meeting on the same wall.

We ourselves stayed in a small government building—simple, with several rooms on the ground floor and a terrace above. It had a large compound, open and quiet, which turned out to be perfect for what we had come to see. At the precise moment of the eclipse, we were all gathered outside in the garden.

What remains with me most strongly is not just the sight, but the feeling. As the light began to change, there was a strange stillness. And then, quite suddenly, the birds stopped chirping. It lasted for some time—perhaps ten minutes, though it is hard to judge now—but the silence felt deep and noticeable. It was as if nature itself paused.

From there, we went on to visit several other havelis in the Shekhawati region, many of them belonging to families known to us. Each haveli had its own character. Some were grand, some more modest, but all carried the same sense of history. The walls were covered with paintings—mythological scenes, daily life, and occasionally glimpses of changing times, like the image of a motor car I had noticed earlier. It was fascinating to see how these homes were not just places to live, but also a way for families to express their world, their aspirations, and their memories. Walking through them, I often felt that these were not just buildings, but stories preserved on walls—quietly standing in the midst of a changing world.

Mandawa

It so happened that , the time of our visit was close to Diwali, the New Year period in India. One evening, we went to Mandawa, where there was a large celebration.

What impressed me most was not the food or the gathering, but the way the entire haveli was decorated with diyas—small oil lamps placed carefully along walls, terraces, and doorways. The whole building seemed to glow softly in the night, each tiny flame adding to a larger sense of warmth and festivity. It was a simple form of decoration, yet deeply beautiful—something that stays in the memory more than any grand arrangement.

During our stay, we also visited some very interesting havelis belonging to families known to us. One that I remember well was that of the Podar family. It felt like a personal connection, as I had studied at a school established by the same family—Podar Education Network—in the suburb where I lived, within walking distance of my home. That made the visit feel even more meaningful. What I had known as a name connected to my daily life in Mumbai now had a visible history in these old havelis of Shekhawati.

Nawalgarh

We also visited Nawalgarh, which had a very different atmosphere. There, we saw a building that reflected the old royalty of the house. It was not just in its structure, but in the feeling it carried—something restrained, dignified, and belonging to another time. In the compound, there were horses, which added to that sense of an earlier era still quietly present.

What I remember most is the silence. The place was rather quiet, almost withdrawn, in contrast to the celebration and light we had seen earlier in Mandawa. It felt as though time had slowed down there, allowing the past to remain undisturbed.

All this sightseeing—visiting Mandawa, Nawalgarh, and the various havelis—was done before the day of the Total Solar Eclipse of October 24, 1995. For the eclipse itself, we moved to a smaller town in the Shekhawati region, where we stayed in a simple government facility. It had a few rooms on the ground floor and a terrace, along with a large open compound. It was in that quiet, open space that we all gathered on the day of the eclipse—away from the more visited towns, in a place that felt almost untouched.

Our stay there was short. After the eclipse, the two of us, along with another doctor couple, left by car for Bikaner. The drive turned into an unexpected experience. Along the long stretch of road, we could not find a single place open where we could stop for lunch. Everything was closed. Only later did we understand that this was not due to any festival like Diwali, which had already been celebrated, but because of the solar eclipse itself. In many places, especially in smaller towns, people observe the eclipse in a traditional way—keeping shops closed and pausing daily activities for that period. Coming from a city like Mumbai, where life rarely stops, this felt quite striking. The stillness was complete, extending even to the highways.

When we finally reached the guest house where we were to stay in Bikaner,  even there no cooking had been done. With some difficulty, they managed to arrange simple sandwiches for us. After the long journey, that modest meal felt more memorable than any elaborate one.

And then, as if to bring the day to a quiet and personal close, I was reminded of a connection close to home—my immediate neighbour in Mumbai is the daughter of Karni Singh.