Curiosity is children's favorite toy, and it seems to last much longer than hopscotch or stilts

As I walked through the streets of Nashik, I often found myself the object of stares from children and young people. In India, it seems that a stranger wandering around with a camera dangling from his neck becomes an irresistible spectacle. The boys before me stopped their play and quickly gathered around. Curiosity, after all, is their favorite toy—far more durable than a game of hopscotch or a bamboo stilts. The two in front crossed their arms with an expression that all but said, “Go ahead, take the shot if you dare.” Such a stance is something adults usually reserve for bosses or politicians, yet here it was being casually offered to the lens of a foreigner’s camera.

Nashik has long been a site of ritual, a sacred place where the Godavari River—one of the tributaries of the Ganges—flows. But for children, their “holy ground” must surely be the back alleys and stairwell landings where they gather, and in such places, a foreigner’s black camera is far more intriguing than any scholar’s sermon. India may have a system of compulsory education, yet the sight of children roaming in packs through the town after school is entirely ordinary. Their curiosity is like an extracurricular experiment that can’t be contained within a curriculum, and for the moment, I was simply a specimen they had managed to capture.

One boy’s shirt hung untidily from his collar; another deliberately pulled a silly face; behind them, another struggled to suppress his laughter. For me, it was nothing more than a fleeting snapshot, but for them, it was an event—something they might later recount to friends or parents: “Today, I was photographed by a foreigner.” Of course, being photographed would not alter their futures in any way, and their curiosity would soon turn toward the next traveler to pass by. As I walked away, I remained unsettled for a moment by the sheer force of their innocent gaze—a gaze more searing than the Indian sun itself.