Mandawa
Step through the gate and your jaw drops. Every inch of wall is dripping with frescoes, floral borders, hunting scenes, even a cheeky painting of a British lady in a Victorian dress riding a bicycle. The owners kept the best courtyard for their hotel guests, so book a coffee or dinner just to linger.
The wildest of them all: one wall shows a moustached man flying in an aeroplane while Krishna plays flute on the opposite side. Built in the 1930s, the paintings are surprisingly fresh because the family still whitewashes around them every few years. The caretaker will proudly point out Nehru on a horse.
Mirror-work heaven. The inner dome glitters like a disco ball made of tiny Belgian glasses. Outside, faded gods and goddesses watch over a courtyard where pigeons now rule. Look up, there’s a fresco of a train steaming across the ceiling, complete with British passengers staring out windows.
Golden yellow walls with lavish gold-leaf work that still shines after two centuries. The outer paintings are mostly gone, but inside feels like entering Aladdin’s cave, every arch dripping with floral vines and parrots. The family sometimes lets visitors in if you ask sweetly at the shop below.
Erotic panels hidden among the usual gods and kings, spot the couple behind the lattice if you dare. The blue-green tiles and delicate mirror work make it one of the prettiest. It’s locked most days, but the watchman appears like magic if you stand long enough looking hopeful.
Forget specific havelis, some of the best frescoes are on random houses no guidebook mentions. Turn down any narrow lane behind the bus stand and you’ll find peeling walls with 150-year-old portraits of stern merchants, steamships, and moustached soldiers. Bring a good zoom lens and zero hurry.