Last night I dreamt I was a princess. My splendid fiefdom was called Ajabgarh and the palace in pink sandstone looked resplendent in the borrowed rays of the sun. Statuesque date trees leaned their ebony trunks on the turrets and the kitchen was laden with the aroma of fresh herbs from the garden. In the kingdom, nobody woke up with the sound of a raucous clock, the birds twittered the morning alarm and when evening melded into night, the whistle of the pristine breeze doubled as a lullaby. Large verandahs skirted the palace, its ceiling as high as the heavens; pewter bowls held luscious pomegranates and charcoal painted animals stood framed in elegant ivory.

For color, the Aravallis lent their brown, the men wore red turbans, the women sarees the color of marigold. When you stepped in the cannons did not boom, instead a hymn was chanted for your peace and happiness, and when you left, there were no clichéd goodbyes, instead a spoon of yoghurt and sugar and the flickering light of a brass lamp…

Last night I dreamt I was a princess…

I woke up and found myself in Amanbagh (http://www.amanresorts.com/amanbagh/home.aspx).

I had walked out of a dream and into Amanbagh; my dream having stolen verbatim from the reality of Amanbagh, a luxurious resort roughly 160 kms from New Delhi. Spread over 46 acres and sitting smug in the village of Ajabgarh, Amanbagh is so far away from the chaos of a city that you almost forget the bedlam of a mundane world. “Sahiba,” I heard a gentle voice behind me. I thought I was dreaming again. I do not remember when was the last time someone addressed me so courteously. I pinched myself to believe that all this was for real.

I perched by the grey bolster and looked around at the 38-room resort – lilies in large vases, villas with private pools lined with votive lamps, rooms with spectacular views, private dining spaces, lawns manicured to perfection, library with a thousand books, and staff gracious enough to reconfirm your faith in the goodness of the world. In the large verandah not only did I dig into scrumptious food, but also into history - Ajabgarh takes its name from its founder Ajab Singh Rajawat, whose grand-aunt was Jodha Bai, the favorite queen of Mughal emperor Akbar.

The Emperor is said to have stayed in the village during the inauguration of Somsagar reservoir. The land on which Amanbagh now stands was once the camping ground of Maharaja Jai Singh of Alwar. And if you want to peep into the days of the yore, Amanbagh arranges everything for you, including camel cart rides, cow dust walk, treks…. But much before masons started chipping sandstone blocks to carve pillars for Amanbagh, the area used to be the neighborhood of the gods. The sixth century temple town of Neelkantha, positioned high on a plateau, was then dotted with intricately sculpted temples that stand in ruins now.

As I step into the courtyard of the Neelkantha Temple, the lashing rains completely blurred my vision; I am drenched to the core but even amidst the slanting raindrops I could see the exquisitely carved pillars and samadhis of the sages who lived here centuries ago. The bell clangs loudly to down the thunder and from the hill the villages look like specks. The road snakes and the mist flits past casually. The view from the snaking road is absolutely spectacular. I was soaking in it, thinking nothing more beautiful could come my way.

But how wrong could I be! There was the Amanbagh shikara waiting in the Mansarovar Lake – a Kashmiri shikara painted orange and red with diaphanous curtains and beige bolsters. Amidst the murmur of the oars chopping through the placid water and the strains of mellifluous music, I knew this was the closest approximation to bliss. Alwar and Sariska sanctuary are the usual destinations, but most people forget the abandoned city of Bhangarh, now a national heritage site.

History has it that Bhangarh was built in the 1500s by Diwan Madho Singh, the city replete with bustling bazaar, ritzy palace, countless temples and hamams. But the city was not ordained to live long – the evil designs of a black magician who wanted to seduce the beautiful queen sounded the death knell of a flourishing city.

As I curled on a sticky mat for yoga lessons on a temple’s platform, I could hear the clamor of a city that was destined to die an early death. Even after centuries, the bricks of the bazaar stand stoically as if waiting for the whisper of a pretty woman haggling over the price of a silver anklet. Driving back to Amanbagh, I wished the clock could turn its hands back. On the terrace of the resort, smoke bellowed from the hawan kund, I was sitting cross-legged for fire meditation.

At Amanbagh, even my soul was getting its ration to slough off urban malice – mediation, reiki, a massage in the spa, early morning yoga lessons and food fit for the gods. That evening I sat by the large beryl pool and listened to the man who played the tabla relentlessly. That night in Amanbagh I buried my angst. That night from the startled sky there fell a star and I made a wish…. That night as I curled up in the colossal fluffy bed, I dreamt I was a princess. Just that this time I knew my dream had been fulfilled in Amanbagh. Amen!