No, Meghalaya isn’t dangerous — but our prejudices might be

If Emily Brontë would have ever visited Meghalaya, she might have mistaken it for the real-life counterpart of her wild and wind-swept moors in Wuthering Heights — mysterious, romantic, and quietly powerful.

In the tradition of Victorian literature, where places often carried the weight of emotion and memory, Meghalaya too, feels like a living character — not just a backdrop, but an experience that shapes those who pass through it. It is not merely a city in the hills; it’s a landscape of feeling. Calm yet spirited; distant yet deeply embracing.

Meghalaya isn’t just a name on the map for me and definitely, not “just another hill station”. For me, it was — and still is — my first love; the kind that leaves a mark on your soul.

The kind you carry with you long after you’ve left. I spent more than half a decade studying in Shillong, travelling to different parts of Meghalaya, and if there’s one thing I can say with absolute certainty, it’s this - Meghalaya is one of the most welcoming, warm, and peaceful places I’ve ever known.

Be it the humble roadside Kong’s cha-jadoh dukaan that served warmth in every spoon, or the kind “Baa” who waited patiently in the cab until we reached our hostel safely on late nights — Shillong’s kindness has always been quiet, consistent, and deeply human.

There were shopkeepers who didn’t just sell souvenirs but proudly shared stories of their culture and traditions, turning every transaction into a lesson in heritage. And then there was our canteen’s Kong — who didn’t just serve food, but taught us how to respect it.

I used to joke with my friends — that while I may feel a little wary walking alone at night in Delhi or Bengaluru, I never felt that fear in Shillong. The city has this quiet confidence, a natural charm that doesn't scream for attention but offers comfort in its silence. It doesn’t try to impress — it simply embraces you.

And so, when news broke of the disappearance — and now, murder — of a tourist from Indore in Sohra, and the name “Shillong” began trending for the wrong reasons, many who have known the region were taken aback.

Not just by the tragedy itself, but by the rapid public vilification of the entire state of Meghalaya and its people. As if one horrific incident had somehow rewritten the character of an entire place. As if a crime couldn’t happen anywhere — in Indore, in Delhi, in New York — but when it happens in the Northeast, it suddenly becomes a referendum on the entire region.

The internet has become a loud, impatient jury. Within hours of the incident, misinformation flooded timelines. Comment sections turned vile. Anonymous users called for boycotts of the state. And national news channels, often guilty of treating the Northeast as a curiosity rather than an equal part of the country, followed suit with narratives that leaned more on speculation than fact.

But let’s pause here — because this is not just about one place or one crime. It’s about a larger pattern of how we, as a society, are too quick to judge what we do not fully understand.

When violence erupts in mainland cities, no one blames the entire population or dismisses the cultural identity of those regions. But when it comes to Meghalaya or any state in the Northeast, the same courtesy is rarely extended.

The truth? Meghalaya — like any other part of India — is complex. Yes, it has rules and traditions that may be unfamiliar to outsiders. But complexity is not hostility. Respecting a region’s culture is not just good manners — it’s basic decency. And in return, Meghalaya has historically welcomed people from across the world, provided they bring not just curiosity but also courtesy.

The people are not known for violence, but for hospitality. The landscape is not hostile, but breathtaking. The culture is not closed — it is proudly its own, and all the richer for it.

What is truly dangerous is not Meghalaya, but the way our collective prejudices flare up at the slightest provocation. It is this rush to judgment, this eagerness to reduce a nuanced community to a headline that causes more long-term harm than any single act of crime.

So let’s rethink the questions we’re asking. Instead of “Is Meghalaya safe?” — a question rooted in ignorance — perhaps we should ask - “Why are we so quick to doubt what we don’t know?”

Because places like Meghalaya — much like Brontë’s moors — don’t lose their beauty or character because of one dark chapter. But the way we speak about them, judge them, and report on them — that shapes the story the world reads next.

And Meghalaya deserves a better story than this one.