The golden hue of the evening had quietly slipped away, giving in to the soft cloak of night. Streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting their pale glow on the cobbled paths and painted walls of the old city. Every shop around the stepwell was now bathed in warm yellow lights, their glass windows reflecting the rhythm of a place still breathing with life. We remained seated on the ancient steps, surrounded by sandstone walls that had seen centuries pass by, talking about things that don’t usually find a place in rushed conversations—things that demanded silence, setting, and time. And this place, under this sky, was perfect for such words.

While we spoke, a small group of tourists descended the stairs and entered the stepwell, their clothes and accents making it clear they were from beyond India’s borders. We paused to watch them, not out of curiosity but with a kind of quiet admiration. It was oddly heartening to see strangers so keen to understand our culture, our architecture—this land’s soul carved in stone and story.

But not far behind them came a group of local boys, barely out of their teens. Their laughter was loud, jokes laced with something distasteful. Their attention wasn’t on the structure or the history—it was fixed on the tourists, most of whom were women. The boys stared, smirked, exchanged comments. Their gaze wasn’t curiosity; it was hunger shaped by something far more toxic. It was the kind of gaze that made you flinch.

That’s when the unease settled in.

There it was—the damage done by content consumed without care, without context. The kind of content that teaches young minds not to admire beauty, but to objectify it. These boys could’ve been shaped into anything: artists, thinkers, leaders. But somewhere between algorithms and neglect, they chose poorly. Or maybe, they were never given a real choice at all.

No wonder tourists often complain about feeling unsafe or judged in this country. It’s not the architecture, the streets, or the food—it’s the eyes. The unchecked gaze of those who don’t understand boundaries, don’t value dignity.

We thought of intervening. But by the time we considered moving, they were already down near the tourists. And we—sitting higher up on the steps—could only watch. Minutes later, the boys came back up, still laughing, as if nothing had just happened. Not a single flicker of guilt crossed their faces.

It was close to 8 PM by then. The night had silently stretched itself across the sky, and the world around us had moved on without waiting. But something in our minds lingered.

We sat in silence again, words heavy on our tongues.


Funny how words carry such weight. They can create something beautiful or shatter it entirely. Wars aren’t always started by weapons—they’re born from the words spoken by powerful men behind closed doors. Love, too, is just words—wrapped in softer tones, coated with warmth and longing. Even truth and lies are nothing but words, separated by motive and timing.

If you think about it, everything is words. The promises we keep, the stories we tell ourselves, the dreams we chase—all strung together in sentences. Words are the quiet architects of our reality. They heal, they hurt, they guide, and they haunt. And sometimes, it’s not the loudest words that leave the deepest impact, but the ones spoken when no one else is listening.

Eventually, we stood up to leave. But just as we turned, a soft blue light caught our eyes. Across from the stepwell, tucked between the old stone buildings, stood a quaint little café. Painted in shades of deep indigo and washed in soft golden lights.

We exchanged a glance.

“Should we?”

“Why not? If we’re here, might as well experience everything.”

And so, with the night still young and thoughts still heavy, we walked toward the café