Russia has beckoned me like a siren’s call through the mists of time. Beyond the diplomatic bonds with India lies a deeper enchantment: the way the morning light catches frost-laden onion domes, transforming them into frozen teardrops suspended in time, only to turn them into molten gold, as if a divine alchemist had cast a spell. There are the primordial forests that stretch endlessly towards the horizon, where earth meets sky in a smoky blur.
While Western narratives often paint Russia in stark monochrome, for us Indians, it shimmers with the warmth of an old friend. Our bond of trust, forged during pivotal moments like the 1971 war, has interwoven the stories of our two nations. That war might have ended very differently had Russia not stood steadfastly by India’s side.
In 1984, that tapestry gained a cosmic dimension when Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma soared into the inky void aboard a Russian spacecraft. Through the static-filled grainy broadcasts, I watched two ancient civilisations reach together for the stars. The British Library in my hometown of Lucknow became my portal to Russia’s soul, dusty picture volumes revealing worlds where Byzantine spires pierce leaden skies, and Siberian winds howl across endless steppes. These childhood reveries seeped into my bones, becoming part of my very essence.
Each visit to Russia felt like peeling back the layers of an infinite matryoshka doll, uncovering something new yet never quite reaching its core. I even had a few of these dolls at home, tangible reminders of the country’s enigmatic allure. Yet, Saint Petersburg remained tantalisingly out of reach, like a rare butterfly, always just beyond one’s grasp.
When 2014 offered the gift of a fortnight, I seized it with both hands, my heart thrumming with anticipation at the thought of finally embracing the city I had longed to see.
The journey began in Moscow’s Leningradsky Station, where the sleek Sapsan train cleaved through the Russian countryside like a silver arrow. As Saint Petersburg emerged from the gloaming sky, it was as if a master painter had taken his brush to reality itself. The city’s golden spires pierced a sky awash in watercolour hues, cerulean bleeding into amber, rose gold melting into purple. Along the Neva, where the briny breath of the Gulf of Finland mingles with urban air, I felt the weight of centuries press against my skin.
The Hermitage Museum struck me as a temple to human creativity, its marble halls resonating with whispered centuries. Here, Catherine the Great’s vision bloomed into a sanctuary where Da Vinci converses with Rembrandt across time. The very air seemed to crystallise around the artworks, heavy with the accumulated wonder of countless visitors before me. Each room unfolded like a chapter in humanity’s grand narrative of beauty and ambition.
In Palace Square, the Alexander Column soars skyward like a petrified giant, its granite bulk commemorating Napoleon’s defeat. The cobblestones beneath, worn smooth by the tread of history, have witnessed empire’s twilight and revolution’s dawn. Here, the past is not merely remembered, it thrums beneath one’s feet, pulses in one’s blood.
The city’s monasteries offered pools of tranquillity amidst urban bustles. At Alexander Nevsky Monastery, autumn leaves spiralled down to rest on Dostoevsky’s grave, nature’s own requiem for Russia’s literary titans. These hallowed grounds served as bridges between epochs, where ancient prayers still echo in stone corridors.
The Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood erupted from the cityscape like a fever dream rendered in stone and glass. Its mosaics caught the dying light, fracturing it into biblical kaleidoscopes. Built atop tragedy, the assassination of Alexander II, it transforms suffering into transcendent beauty, a metaphor for Russia itself.
The canals threaded through the city like liquid history, their waters reflecting three centuries of dreams and upheavals. From a gently bobbing boat, I watched the city’s facades ripple and dance, each bridge a chapter in an endless story. Here glided the shadows of revolutionaries, there echoed the footsteps of poets, everywhere flowed the lifeblood of Saint Petersburg.
Nevsky Prospekt pulsed with contemporary vitality, yet hidden courtyards harboured secrets: crumbling Soviet murals, the melancholic twang of a balalaika, ivy-draped walls whispering tales to those who would listen. As darkness fell, the city transformed. Streetlamps painted the canals in molten gold, and during the White Nights, twilight stretched like taffy, blurring the boundary between reality and reverie. Along Nevsky Prospekt, I discover Dom Knigi, the House of Books, its Art Nouveau splendour crowned by a glass globe that has watched over the street since 1902. Inside, the grand staircase curves upward like a ribbon of marble, whilst the scent of paper and leather bindings fills the air. I lose hours exploring wooden shelves, my fingers trailing along the spines of Russian classics. Near the window overlooking the canal, afternoon light streams through stained glass, painting patterns on the floor whilst young couples share quiet conversations over coffee.
By day, Nevsky Prospekt pulsed with life, its grand avenue teeming with cafés, boutiques, and bookstores. Yet, amidst the bustle, I found quieter corners, ivy-covered courtyards, faded Soviet murals, and the soft strains of a balalaika played by a lone musician. These moments felt like glimpses into the city’s soul, as if it were revealing itself in layers, one whisper at a time. Under the glow of its streetlights, the canals became rivers of liquid light, casting an ethereal spell over the streets. The White Nights stretched the evenings into an endless twilight, blurring the line between dream and reality. Each step along the water’s edge felt like a journey into a painting, the city itself an artwork alive with movement and memory.
From the Troitsky Bridge, watching the Peter and Paul Fortress catch the last rays of endless evening, I felt the full weight of this city’s magic. Built as Russia’s window to the West, Saint Petersburg remains a portal between worlds past and present, East and West, reality and dream. Each visit reveals new facets, like a gem slowly turning in the light. It is a city that leaves an indelible mark on the soul, calling one back with the persistence of a lover’s memory.
In my final moments here, atop St. Isaac’s colonnade, I watch a last sunset paint the city in shades of gold and rose. The air sharpened with the cold winter eve, and I pulled my coat closer. Below, the city prepares for another night, another dawn, another chapter in its endless story. I realise that Saint Petersburg has not merely shown me its magnificence, it has made me part of its continuing tale, one more heartbeat in its eternal rhythm.
I leave knowing that a part of me will always remain in these streets where culture and history flow like the ceaseless river, carrying stories – including now my own, toward the endless horizon.
I have returned to Saint Petersburg many times now, each visit revealing the city anew like turning pages in a beloved book. I have watched autumn paint the parks in amber and crimson, seen summer’s white nights stretch the twilight into infinity, and witnessed winter wrap the city in its crystalline embrace. Spring brought the tender green of new leaves to the Summer Garden, while crowds gathered for the annual opening of the fountains at Peterhof. Through seasons and years, I have discovered hidden courtyards off Nevsky Prospekt I never knew existed, found new favourite spots along the embankments to watch the bridges rise at midnight, and gradually learned to navigate the city’s maze of canals like a native. Each visit has layered new memories over the old – a favourite café on Gorokhovaya Street, evening concerts at the Mariinsky, quiet mornings in the Russian Museum when the tourists have not yet arrived. It is a city that keeps revealing itself, no matter how many times you return.
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