It was around 3 p.m. when I reached home. The heat outside had settled into everything—the walls, the floor, even the silence. Inside, it was cooler, though not by much. My friend was already there, stretching out lazily, waiting for lunch. We sat down and ate together, without much talk, just the occasional sound of spoons clinking against steel plates.

After lunch, we decided we’d step out later in the evening, maybe explore a few places around the city. But for now, we had time to waste, and we wasted it well. The hours stretched lazily, the way they do when there’s nothing demanding your attention.

By 5 p.m., the sun had softened just enough to let us step outside. We geared up and took to the road.

The breeze was hot and dry, brushing past us.  People were stepping out of their homes, small street vendors setting up for the evening crowd. The hot breeze carried dust and the scent of chai from roadside stalls.

We stopped by one of them—a small tea shop, packed with people like every tea stall in India tends to be at this hour. Conversations blended into the clinking of glasses, the rhythmic pouring of tea from kettle to cup. The stall owner moved fast, barely looking up as he handed out cups one after another, his hands moving with the ease of years spent doing the same thing.He didn’t smile, didn’t talk—just poured, served, repeated. Like a machine running on muscle memory.

After finishing our tea, we got back on the road. The streets changed as we drove—wide, open roads turned into narrower lanes, and soon, the ride became a little chaotic.

We had entered the old city of Jodhpur.

The roads here weren’t made for speed or modern vehicles. They were thin, unpredictable, like veins running through a body. The walls of houses on either side were so close that if two bikers came from opposite directions, they’d have to pause and negotiate their way through.

And the houses—blue. Different shades, different textures, some freshly painted, some weathered by time. The whole city felt dipped in color, glowing under the evening light. There was something quiet about these homes, something untouchable.

The ride got crazier as we moved further in. The roads twisted and turned, sometimes climbing up like they were leading to the sky, sometimes sloping down so sharply it felt like falling. The vehicle swayed with the land, taking each uneven stretch with a small jolt, as if dancing to an old rhythm only this city knew.

And then, after all the turns, the slopes, and the close calls—we arrived.