In the distance, the imposing fortress is outlined against the skies; white domes, symbols of prosperity and fertility, soften the military costume of a palace surrounded by thick multi-layered ramparts. The iron gate at the bottom of the hill opens, and a long lane climbs up to the top. The heavy and spiky black door blocks the entrance to powerful elephants, mounts of the brave warriors from another time. For the few who succeeded in climbing the hill under the flow of lethal arrows and passing through the unbreakable door, one first courtyard reveals the rough appearance of stones relinquished to centuries.

The man stands, strong and frank, unpretentious. Behind him, a beautiful woman unveils, door-by-door, corridor-by-corridor, a secret garden to the most privileged. In days gone by, only women could cross the threshold of the zenana. Inside, all whiteness; flawless marble cools down the bare feet as a carpet opened out to stroke the sole.

Domes and balconies offer desired shades, sometimes punctuated by a light breeze. In the uncluttered gardens, groves flirt with bright pink roses, a pure aesthetic pleasure. On the terrace and from any bow window on the village side, behind the few tall houses of Lawa, the green of trees dominates as far as the eye can see.