The café  bathed in soft blue hues and adorned with royal Rajasthani aesthetics that gave it an charm. The entrance led us to a narrow staircase, its walls lined with vintage lanterns and intricate tilework. As we climbed, the ambience slowly unfolded—quiet, calming, almost secretive. To our surprise, the café was empty—no chatter, no crowd—just the two of us and a quiet staff moving gently through the silence.

We ordered simple coffees and ascended another staircase that opened to a rooftop terrace. The moment we stepped up, the view greeted us like a calm. To the right, the majestic Mehrangarh Fort loomed in the dark, its silhouette glowing softly under scattered lights. To the left, the stepwell whispered stories of the past.

It made me think—how small a human life truly is, and how fragile we are in the grand design of time. Kingdoms that once believed themselves eternal, rulers who thought their names would never fade—now they exist only in stories, in worn-out pages and weathered stone. They once stood right where we stood, breathed the same air, looked at the same skies, and believed, perhaps, that their world would never end.

But all of them are gone, and yet the place remains—silent, enduring, whispering the tales of those long vanished. And it struck me: we too will vanish, sooner than we think. In a few years, we’ll be echoes in someone else’s memory—if we’re lucky. What will remain of us? Will there be anything that carries our story forward? Have we built something—an idea, a feeling, a mark—that can outlast us in this vast universe, where the only constant is change?

The breeze carried with it a kind of stillness that allowed thoughts to settle. Our coffees arrived, warm and inviting. We sipped slowly, letting the moment linger—no rush, no noise, just the comfort of a view that made everything feel a little lighter. After a while, with night fully upon us and hours slipped unnoticed, we quietly made our way back.