Prithvi Mukhopadhyay
Chapter 1:
The aircraft trembled slightly as it descended through dense rainclouds. From the tiny window, Armaan Roy caught fleeting glimpses of green — endless forests, swollen rivers, and distant ridgelines lost in mist. The runway came into view like a wet ribbon stretched across the wild earth. With a final lurch, the wheels kissed the ground, water spraying out in silver arcs beneath them.
Armaan inhaled deeply, as if trying to drink in the unfamiliar air through the tiny vent. Even inside the cabin, he could smell the monsoon — wet earth, woodsmoke from distant fires, and the faint tang of pine.
Dimapur airport was little more than a modest terminal, its paint weathered, its roof patched in places with sheets of tin. Beyond the gates, jeeps idled in puddles, their drivers sheltered beneath blue tarps or umbrellas.
As he stepped down onto the tarmac, the drizzle mingled with the warmth of the earth, wrapping him in the welcome of a land both ancient and untamed. The hills beyond seemed to wait, their outlines blurred by the rain, their secrets hidden within folds of cloud.
At the arrivals area, Armaan spotted a man holding a simple placard: Dr. Roy.
The man was lean, his face tanned and lined from years of mountain sun. His hair, mostly hidden beneath a woolen cap, showed streaks of grey. A quiet strength radiated from his posture, and his eyes, dark and sharp, seemed to weigh the stranger before him.
“I am Tenzing,” the man said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, his smile understated but warm.
“Armaan Roy. Thank you for meeting me,” Armaan replied, relieved to find a guide who seemed both capable and sincere.
“The hills are not far now,” Tenzing said. “And they will welcome you, if you are ready.”
The jeep groaned as it left the airport behind, climbing steadily into the waiting hills. Dimapur’s chatter faded into the hum of the engine, the hiss of rain on the windshield, and the occasional call of a hornbill hidden in the trees.
The road narrowed, curving along ridges where the earth dropped steeply into valleys choked with bamboo and fern. Villages appeared now and then — clusters of wooden houses on stilts, smoke curling from hearths, children in bright sweaters chasing goats or playing with wheels of scrap metal.
Armaan kept his window down, despite the spray, unable to resist the heady mix of scents: wet leaves, woodsmoke, crushed wildflowers. His camera lay forgotten in his lap; this was not a scene to be captured — it was one to be felt.
“You’ve guided others like me?” Armaan asked, breaking a comfortable silence.
Tenzing kept his eyes on the road. “Enough to know most outsiders come seeking something they cannot name. The hills give their stories only to those who listen.”
Armaan smiled. “Then I hope to listen well.”
The guide nodded. “Good. But remember — here, stories are not written. They are lived.
They stopped at a tea shack: walls of bamboo, roof patched with tarpaulin, and the smell of ginger and cardamom thick in the air. An old woman served tea in dented tin cups. Steam rose in the cool air, warming Armaan’s hands and chest.
Near the shack, an elder sat carving a piece of wood. His knife moved with the slow certainty of one who had done this all his life. A hornbill emerged beneath his fingers — sharp beak, fierce eyes, sweeping crest.
Armaan sketched the scene in his journal, noting every curve, every shadow.
“Careful, sahib,” the elder said without looking up. “If you steal our stories, the hills will ask for payment.”
Armaan chuckled, but later, as they drove on, the words lingered, like a warning half in jest, half in truth.
As dusk fell, the jeep rounded a final bend, and Kohima revealed itself: a town strung along ridgelines, its lights flickering through the mist like fireflies caught in a jar.
Their guesthouse was simple — timber walls polished dark by years of rain, a tin roof that sang softly beneath the drizzle. Armaan’s room was small but clean, a bed, a writing table, and a narrow balcony overlooking the endless undulation of hills.
He stood there as night deepened, the mist thickening until the town was only a memory of lights. From somewhere in the darkness came the slow, steady beat of a drum.
Not music. A heartbeat. The hills were alive.
Armaan wrote by lamplight: “The hills breathe. Their stories seep into the air, into the rain, into the earth. I came seeking culture, lost rituals. But already I feel I have stumbled into something larger. Something waiting.”
He drew the outline of the hills, the suggestion of masked figures in the mist, shapes born of imagination — or perhaps of memory his soul had not yet claimed.
That night, sleep came fitfully. Armaan dreamed of forests where the trees whispered in forgotten tongues, of dancers in hornbill masks moving through shadows, of a fire that never warmed but only beckoned deeper into the dark.
When he awoke before dawn, the rain had stopped. The world smelled fresh, washed clean. But the feeling of having crossed a threshold — that remained.
Chapter 2:
The dawn broke gently over Kohima, washing the ridges and valleys in soft gold. Armaan stood on the balcony of his guesthouse, watching as sunlight touched the mist, turning it into rivers of molten silver. The night’s dreams — of masked figures and wordless chants — still clung to him like dew on the railing.
Tenzing appeared at the door below, his silhouette sharp against the morning light. He carried a small basket of provisions slung over one shoulder, and his face, as always, seemed carved from quiet strength.
“Today we go to Longkhum,” he called up.
Armaan felt his pulse quicken. Longkhum — the village that locals whispered of in half-sentences, as if speaking its name too clearly might awaken old powers. He had read of its legends: the last outpost before souls journeyed to their final resting place. A place of seers, of drums, of echoes that belonged to the past.
Their jeep growled as it climbed narrow tracks that coiled around the hills like ancient serpents. The air grew cooler with each turn, the forests thicker, the silence deeper. Pines gave way to rhododendrons, their red blossoms like splashes of blood against the green.
Armaan gazed out, notebook forgotten on his lap. The world here seemed untouched by time. At one point, the road narrowed so much that the jeep’s tires scraped against rock on one side while the other hovered above a sheer drop into mist-shrouded valley.
Tenzing’s hands were steady on the wheel. “Longkhum lies just beyond the next ridge. But first, we will stop at the Sky Rock.”
They climbed on foot to a massive outcrop — a rock that jutted out over emptiness, offering a view that stole Armaan’s breath. From here, the world was an endless sea of hills, wave upon wave rolling into the horizon.
The wind here was stronger, carrying with it the scent of distant fires and wildflowers. It seemed to speak — not in words, but in something older, a language the bones understood even if the ears did not.
Tenzing stood with eyes closed, arms slightly spread, as if greeting the wind like an old friend.
Armaan did the same, and for a moment, he felt weightless — as if the land beneath him was only a memory, and he was part of the sky.
Longkhum appeared suddenly — a cluster of houses with roofs of thatch and tin, built on terraces that clung to the mountainside. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the mist.
The villagers watched them approach with quiet curiosity. Children peeked from behind their mothers’ skirts; elders sat on porches, pipes in hand, eyes sharp beneath drooping lids.
An old woman approached, her hair silver, her back bent with age, but her gaze steady.
“Tenzing,” she greeted softly.
He bowed. “Mother Imala, I bring a friend who listens to the hills.”
She studied Armaan, then nodded. “Then let him listen well. The hills speak loudest at night.”
They were welcomed into a home where the walls were darkened by years of woodsmoke. A simple meal of rice, smoked pork, and bitter greens was laid before them.
As they ate, the elders spoke — of ancestors who had walked to the edge of the world, of drums that called the spirits, of a festival long forgotten by outsiders.
Armaan scribbled in his notebook, but more often he simply listened, letting the cadence of their words sink deep.
That night, as darkness pooled in the valleys and stars pricked the sky, the drums began.
At first, they were distant — a slow, rhythmic thump that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Then others joined, weaving a pattern that was both chaotic and precise, a music meant not for ears but for the soul.
Armaan stepped out into the night. The air was thick with the scent of burning pine. Shadows moved near the edge of the firelight — masked figures, dancers who became the very spirits they invoked.
Tenzing stood beside him. “Tonight is the festival of parting. Few outsiders see it.”
“Why do they dance?” Armaan whispered.
“To remember. To guide the lost. To remind the living that we, too, will one day journey beyond the last ridge.”
Armaan watched, entranced, as the dancers circled the fire. Their masks were carved with care — hornbills, tigers, human faces frozen in expressions of ecstasy or terror. Their feet beat the earth, their hands reached skyward, their voices rose in chants older than memory.
The drums quickened. The air seemed to pulse. The line between real and dream blurred.
And for a heartbeat — or a lifetime — Armaan felt himself swept into the rhythm, part of the circle, part of the story.
The drums faded with the first light of dawn. The dancers removed their masks, revealing faces exhausted yet peaceful.
Armaan sat on a rock, the ground cool beneath him, the sky pale with coming day. He felt changed, though he could not say how.
Tenzing handed him tea. “You saw the truth of Longkhum,” he said quietly. “Few do.”
Back in his room, Armaan wrote furiously:
“Longkhum is not a place. It is a threshold — between now and then, between here and beyond. Its people guard more than traditions; they guard the bridge between worlds.”
As they left Longkhum that afternoon, the villagers stood watching, their gazes kind but distant.
The road ahead led deeper into the hills. Deeper into mystery.
And in Armaan’s heart, the drums still echoed.
Chapter 3:
The jeep’s tires crunched over gravel as Armaan and Tenzing left the misty ridges of Longkhum. The road wound through valleys where rivers glistened like silver threads beneath the morning sun. Nagaland slowly gave way to the gentle rise and fall of the Khasi Hills.
Armaan sat quietly, his notebook unopened in his lap. The drums of Longkhum still echoed in his mind, their rhythm a heartbeat he could not silence. Yet now, the hills seemed to hum a different tune — softer, secretive, as if inviting him closer.
Tenzing broke the silence. “Mawphlang awaits. There, the forests speak as the drums did. But listen carefully — the language of trees is harder to hear.”
They crossed into Meghalaya, the land of clouds. The landscape softened: waterfalls tumbled down cliffs, wildflowers painted the meadows, and forests rose dense and ancient.
The jeep climbed ever higher. From a lookout point, Armaan saw the plains of Bangladesh shimmering far below, veiled in heat haze. Above them, clouds gathered and scattered, their shadows playing over the hills like silent spirits.
Tenzing pointed to a distant line of dark green. “That is Mawphlang. The sacred grove. No man cuts its trees. No hunter takes its beasts. There, the oracle waits.”
They arrived as evening fell. The village of Mawphlang lay at the grove’s edge — neat houses of wood and stone, gardens fragrant with herbs, and children who ran barefoot over the soft grass.
An elder greeted them, his hair white, his eyes bright as polished obsidian. “Tenzing. The oracle dreamed you were coming.”
Tenzing bowed. “And this is Armaan Roy, who seeks the stories of the hills.”
The elder studied Armaan. “Then let him tread softly. The grove remembers all who pass beneath its boughs.”
They were given shelter in a home near the grove. A meal of rice, curried beans, and roasted yam filled their bellies, but it was the air — heavy with the scent of pine and rain-wet earth — that nourished Armaan’s soul.
That night, sleep came uneasily. The grove called to him in dreams — voices like the rustling of leaves, eyes gleaming in the dark, a path of stones leading deeper, always deeper.
At dawn, the elder led them to the grove. It rose like a cathedral of green — towering oaks and pines, their trunks gnarled with age, their branches woven into a canopy that filtered the sun into shafts of gold.
No birds sang. No breeze stirred the leaves. The air was thick, expectant.
They walked single file, their footsteps muffled by centuries of fallen leaves. Armaan felt the weight of unseen eyes upon him, and with each step, the world beyond the grove seemed to fade — until only the forest remained.
In a clearing, they found her. The oracle.
She was old — so old that the lines on her face seemed carved in wood rather than flesh. Her hair fell in a silver cascade, her eyes were pale as moonlight, and her voice, when she spoke, was like the wind through hollow reeds.
“You seek stories,” she said, looking at Armaan. “But stories are not given. They are earned.”
He knelt, unsure why, but certain it was right. “Teach me how.”
She placed a hand on his head. “Then listen. And do not forget.”
The oracle spoke of the grove’s birth — a time when man and nature were one, when the first hunter wept for the deer he slew, and the first tree bent to shelter the orphaned child.
She spoke of invaders who tried to cut the grove, and of how the forest swallowed them, leaving no trace but bones entangled in roots.
She told of a festival once held in secret, where dancers in leaf and bark garments called the rains, and the clouds wept with joy.
As she spoke, the trees seemed to lean closer, their leaves whispering assent.
The oracle gave Armaan a sprig of the sacred herb that grew only in the grove’s heart. “Burn this tonight. The grove will show you what words cannot.”
That night, by the fire, he did as instructed. The smoke curled around him, and the world shifted.
He saw —
…dancers circling a tree that bled sap like tears…
…a tiger watching from the shadows, protector of the sacred ground…
…a river of stars flowing between the roots, carrying away forgotten souls…
When the vision faded, Armaan felt both exhausted and reborn.
At dawn, the oracle was gone, as if she had never been. The villagers said nothing, only nodded as Armaan and Tenzing prepared to leave.
As they descended the hill, Armaan looked back once. The grove stood silent, timeless, keeping its secrets.
In his notebook, Armaan wrote:
“The grove does not speak in words. It speaks in memory, in dream, in the breath between wind and leaf. I came seeking stories, but I leave with mysteries. And perhaps that is the greater gift.”
Ahead lay new hills, new voices, new songs. The forgotten tribes were not so forgotten, after all.
Chapter 4:
The journey from Mawphlang toward the hidden village of Nongriat began under a sky heavy with clouds. The air was thick with moisture; the hills seemed to hold their breath, waiting for rain.
Armaan and Tenzing followed a narrow path that wound through dense forest, over moss-covered stones, and along cliffs where waterfalls spilled like silver threads. The sound of water was everywhere — in the rush of streams, the drip of leaves, the distant roar of unseen rivers.
“The people of Nongriat live between water and stone,” Tenzing said, adjusting his pack. “Their bridges are not built, but grown.”
Armaan had read of the living root bridges, but to walk among them — that was what had drawn him here.
Hours later, the forest opened to reveal their first living root bridge — an ancient tangle of fig roots, trained over generations to span a raging river. The roots twisted and braided together, their surfaces slick with moss, their strength unquestionable.
Armaan stepped onto the bridge, heart pounding. Beneath him, the river foamed and thundered, the water white with fury from the coming storm. The bridge swayed slightly, alive beneath his feet.
Tenzing grinned at his awe. “It is said these bridges have souls. They remember every footstep.”
By midday, the clouds had thickened into a low, bruised ceiling. Thunder rumbled, echoing off the cliffs. The villagers of Nongriat — who met them partway — urged haste.
“We must reach shelter before the storm breaks,” said Risa, a young woman who had come to guide them the rest of the way. Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked nervously at the sky.
Rain began as a whisper on the leaves, then a roar. The forest darkened; the path became a stream. Armaan felt the storm not just above but all around — the world awash in water, the land drinking deep.
At last they reached Nongriat, hidden deep in the gorge. The village clung to terraces carved into the hills, its houses of bamboo and thatch standing firm against the rain.
Smoke curled from chimneys despite the downpour, mingling with the scent of wet earth and wood. The people moved with quiet purpose, securing roofs, guiding animals to shelter, lighting fires that glowed warm against the storm’s gloom.
Armaan was welcomed into a home where a hearth fire burned low but steady. He shed his soaked jacket, accepting a mug of hot tea that tasted of ginger and wild honey.
That evening, Armaan met the elder known as the Keeper of the Bridge — a wiry man named Tharai, whose face was lined by years of sun, wind, and care.
Tharai spoke of the bridges not as constructions, but as kin — living entities that must be tended, trained, and respected.
“When the storm comes, they feel it before we do,” Tharai said, his voice low. “They tighten their grip on the stones. They hold the village together.”
The night brought the storm’s full wrath. Lightning laced the sky; thunder cracked like the shattering of worlds. Rain fell in sheets, drumming on roofs, turning paths to rivers.
Armaan lay awake, listening to the tempest’s voice. At times, he thought he heard more — the groan of the bridges, the whisper of the roots as they flexed and fought against the river’s rising fury.
Tenzing sat by the window, watching. “This is the time of testing,” he said softly.
Before dawn, the alarm came — the oldest bridge, the great span that linked the heart of Nongriat to the forest beyond, was in danger.
The villagers moved as one. Armaan, swept along, found himself at the river’s edge, where the water had swollen to monstrous size. The bridge’s roots strained, some submerged, some flailing like wounded limbs.
Tharai led the effort. With ropes, with stones, with their bare hands, they worked to steady the bridge, to guide its roots deeper into the bank, to anchor it against the river’s rage.
Armaan joined them, mud to his knees, water lashing his face, hands raw from gripping the slick roots.
At last, as dawn broke pale and trembling over the hills, the storm spent itself. The rain eased; the river began to recede. The bridge held.
Exhausted but triumphant, the villagers stood in silence, watching as the first light gilded the wet roots, the dripping leaves, the steaming earth.
Tharai placed a hand on Armaan’s shoulder. “Now you have truly met the bridge,” he said.
That afternoon, as the village dried and mended, Armaan filled page after page with notes:
“The bridges of Nongriat are not made but grown. They are a pact between human patience and nature’s will. The storm tested that bond — and it held.”
When Armaan and Tenzing left Nongriat the next morning, the bridges were once again calm, the river’s fury a memory.
As they climbed the stone steps out of the gorge, Armaan looked back at the village hidden among the trees and mist.
He vowed he would return — not just as a recorder of stories, but as a keeper of them.
Chapter 5:
After the storm-ravaged farewell to Nongriat, Armaan and Tenzing made their slow ascent from the deep gorges to the rolling highlands of Meghalaya. The journey was long and silent. The path, carved through forest and meadow, offered shifting views of sunlit ridges and distant waterfalls, and beyond — the endless horizon where clouds and earth met.
Each step felt like leaving one world behind and entering another. Where Nongriat had been shrouded in green and shadow, Laitlum promised openness — a place where the sky came down to kiss the land.
Tenzing pointed ahead as they crested a hill. “Laitlum. The end of the hills. The gate of the clouds.”
Armaan’s heart quickened. This was what the old books had hinted at — a place where the world seemed to dissolve into mist and mystery.
By midday, they reached the edge of the Laitlum canyons.
It was a sight that stole Armaan’s breath. The land dropped away in a sheer, vast gorge, its depths hidden beneath shifting seas of cloud. The cliffs, rugged and ancient, seemed to float between earth and sky. The wind carried the sweet, clean scent of high grass and wild thyme, and the soft susurrus of the clouds as they moved like living beings.
A group of villagers, dressed in homespun shawls dyed with bark and indigo, watched over goats grazing near the brink. One of them approached.
“You have come for the dance?” she asked, her smile as mysterious as the clouds below.
Armaan and Tenzing were led to a small settlement on the plateau’s edge. Simple stone houses ringed a central clearing where villagers gathered. The air was festive, despite the remoteness.
It was the eve of the “Mei-ram,” a ritual dance held once in a generation — when the clouds were said to descend fully into the canyon and the souls of ancestors joined in the celebration.
“You are lucky,” said an elder named Bamil. “Few outsiders see this. Fewer still are invited.”
Armaan felt the weight of the moment. He had come as an observer, but now he stood on the edge of becoming part of the story.
As twilight fell, the villagers gathered at the canyon’s edge. A fire was lit, and its smoke mingled with the drifting clouds.
Drums began, soft at first, then louder, beating in time with the wind’s rising breath. Women in flowing shawls of red and white began to move, their arms tracing patterns like the flight of birds, their feet light upon the earth.
Men joined them, stamping rhythms that echoed from cliff to cliff. The clouds thickened, swirling around the dancers until it seemed that they floated upon mist.
Armaan watched, spellbound, as the dance unfolded — a dialogue between earth and sky, between the living and the dead.
As the dance reached its height, the clouds rose higher, enveloping the clearing. Armaan could barely see the figures before him — just shadows in the mist, moving as if in a dream.
And then came the voices — soft, ethereal, rising with the wind. They sang of journeys long past, of loss and reunion, of land that gives and sky that shelters.
Tenzing whispered, “The ancestors have come.”
Armaan felt a deep stillness within himself, as if his own heartbeat had joined that ancient rhythm.
Suddenly, a gust of wind tore through the clearing, scattering embers, toppling a drum. The clouds surged upward in a wave, and for a moment, the dancers faltered.
The elder Bamil stepped forward, raising his staff. He called out in the old tongue — a prayer, a command, a plea.
The wind eased. The fire steadied. The dance resumed, stronger, surer.
Later, Bamil would tell Armaan, “The cloud spirits test our resolve. Only when we dance without fear do they bless us.”
As the clouds finally drifted lower into the canyon, the sky cleared. Stars spilled across the heavens in brilliant rivers of light.
The villagers shared food and stories — rice cakes sweetened with cane juice, wild greens, and broth simmered with forest herbs.
Armaan sat beside the fire, notebook forgotten. He realized that some truths could not be written, only lived.
The next morning, with the canyons bathed in gold, Armaan wrote:
“At Laitlum, the land ends — but so does the barrier between the world of men and the world of spirits. The dance of the clouds is a bridge, as alive as the root bridges of Nongriat, as sacred as the grove of Mawphlang.”
His words seemed pale against the memory, but he knew he must try.
Before they left, Bamil gave Armaan a charm — a small carving of wood shaped like a cloud, worn smooth by generations of hands.
“Carry this,” Bamil said. “May it remind you that the sky walks with you, wherever you go.”
Armaan and Tenzing set off down the winding path, leaving Laitlum behind. But in Armaan’s heart, the dance continued — a rhythm of wind and cloud, of story and silence.
Ahead lay more forgotten tribes, more hidden truths. But Laitlum had taught him this: the greatest stories are those that let us glimpse the soul of a place — and in doing so, glimpse our own.
Chapter 6:
The air grew warmer as Armaan and Tenzing descended from the highlands toward Ri Bhoi — a district famed for its endless bamboo groves and hidden communities. The hills here were gentler, clothed in soft green where the wind whispered through tall grasses.
As they walked, bamboo stands began to appear: slender columns rising in dense clusters, their leaves rustling like a thousand quiet voices.
Tenzing smiled. “Here, the bamboo is more than wood. It is bone, breath, and song.”
Armaan felt it already — a subtle music in the breeze, a rhythm that seemed to pulse beneath his steps.
Their path led to a village unnamed on Armaan’s maps. It revealed itself only when the bamboo opened to a clearing where low houses stood, their roofs woven from split bamboo, their walls lined with the same.
Men and women worked with knives and fire, shaping bamboo into tools, baskets, and — most notably — flutes. The air was alive with the soft notes of instruments being tested, tuned, played.
A boy approached, holding a simple flute. Without a word, he handed it to Armaan, then ran off, his laughter mingling with the breeze.
In the heart of the village lived the Flute Master — an elder named Laru. His fingers were gnarled from years of work, his eyes bright with mischief and wisdom.
He welcomed Armaan and Tenzing with tea brewed from bamboo shoots and wild ginger.
“You have come to listen,” Laru said. “Good. Few outsiders understand that before we can play the flute, we must hear the song inside the bamboo.”
That night, Laru played for them — a melody so pure and haunting that even the wind seemed to pause.
By firelight, Laru shared the village’s most cherished tale.
“Long ago, a spirit dwelled within these groves — a being of air and sound. It taught our ancestors to shape bamboo into flutes, so that its song could travel far. But it warned: play with respect, or the music would turn against the player.”
Armaan felt chills at Laru’s words. The flute on his lap felt heavier, alive with hidden meaning.
The next day, dark clouds gathered. The villagers prepared — tying down roofs, securing animals. Yet, even as the storm broke, with wind lashing the groves and rain drumming on the earth, flutes sounded through the downpour.
Laru explained, “When the storm comes, we play. The spirit listens. The music calms the winds.”
Armaan joined in, clumsy at first, then finding the rhythm — a harmony of breath and storm.
Dawn brought clear skies and a land washed clean. The villagers emerged, smiling, their flutes slung across their shoulders like trusted tools.
Children raced through the wet grass, their laughter bright. The groves shimmered in the sun, every leaf tipped with light.
Armaan felt as if he had been part of a rite both ancient and new.
Seated beneath a great bamboo, Armaan wrote:
“Here, music is not an art, but a dialogue between human and nature. The flute is not played — it speaks.”
He sketched the shapes of the flutes, the patterns on their surface, the faces of the players.
Before Armaan and Tenzing departed, Laru gave Armaan a flute — its mouthpiece carved with symbols of cloud and wind.
“This flute will remind you: always listen, before you play.”
As they walked away from the village, the sound of flutes followed them — soft, clear, a farewell and a blessing.
The path ahead led deeper into the northeast, toward other tribes, other mysteries. But the song of Ri Bhoi would linger in Armaan’s heart, a melody of respect, resilience, and wonder.
Chapter 7:
The journey from the bamboo groves of Ri Bhoi to the Mon Hills was long and arduous. The trail rose steeply through forests of rhododendron and wild fig, where ancient trees cast shifting shadows.
Armaan and Tenzing traveled in near silence, their footsteps muffled by moss and fallen leaves. The air grew cooler, sharper, filled with the scent of pine and the metallic tang of stone.
Tenzing pointed ahead. “The Mon people say their hills touch the sky. They say the oracle sees beyond both.”
The words sent a shiver through Armaan. His journal, heavy with notes and sketches, seemed small against what lay ahead.
At the top of a narrow pass, they reached a village perched on a ridge, its houses of wood and bark clinging to the slope as if grown from it. Smoke rose in thin threads, vanishing into the vast sky.
The villagers received them with guarded curiosity. They spoke in soft voices, their faces marked by intricate tattoos — stories inked in skin.
An elder named Seno approached. “You seek the Oracle?” he asked, his tone more statement than question.
Armaan nodded.
“Then you must wait. The sky must speak first.”
For three days, Armaan and Tenzing stayed in the village. They helped gather wood, shared meals of millet and smoked meat, and listened to stories told around evening fires.
All the while, the Oracle remained unseen.
At dawn, villagers would scan the horizon. “Not yet,” they would murmur, watching the mists that cloaked the peaks.
Armaan began to sense the rhythm of Mon life — patient, attuned to signs and omens, guided by winds and clouds.
On the fourth morning, the sky cleared. The villagers gathered in silence as the Oracle emerged from a stone house at the edge of the village.
She was old, older than Armaan had imagined — her hair white as bone, her eyes clouded but bright. Around her neck hung charms of wood, bone, and amber.
She walked with a staff carved with spirals, symbols of journey and return.
Without introduction, she beckoned Armaan and Tenzing to follow.
They climbed higher still, beyond the village, to a cave set into the cliff. The Oracle entered first, lighting a small fire that cast flickering shadows on the stone.
She placed herbs on the flames — their scent bitter and sweet, filling the air.
Then she spoke: “What do you seek, traveler?”
Armaan found himself answering not with prepared questions, but with truth: “To understand. To remember. To honor.”
The Oracle closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The cave seemed to hum with unseen forces.
She spoke of the land’s memory — of rivers that once flowed where now were stones, of forests that had listened to human voices for millennia.
She spoke of danger — of stories lost to greed, of balance tipped too far.
And she spoke of hope — of those who would listen, learn, and carry the songs forward.
Armaan wrote nothing. He simply listened, knowing some knowledge lived only in the heart.
That night, the village gathered on the ridge. The sky, clear and vast, revealed stars in endless number.
The Oracle sat among them, silent, watching the heavens.
Tenzing whispered, “In Mon, the stars are the souls of those who walked before. Tonight, they are many.”
Armaan felt humbled, a thread in a tapestry far greater than himself.
Before dawn, the Oracle gave Armaan a stone — small, smooth, marked with a spiral.
“Carry this. Remember the path winds always back to the beginning,” she said.
Then she turned away, vanishing into the mists as the sun rose.
In his journal, Armaan wrote:
“The Oracle of Mon does not predict the future. She reminds us of the past, so we may choose the future wisely.”
He sketched the cave, the ridge, the night sky.
As Armaan and Tenzing left Mon, the hills seemed gentler, the air clearer.
The Oracle’s words echoed in Armaan’s mind — a guide as he continued toward the forgotten corners of the Northeast.
The journey was far from over.
Chapter 8:
The path from the Mon Hills to Longwa was the most challenging yet. The trail crossed jagged ridges and plunged into deep gorges, where rivers roared beneath hanging bridges of vine and wood.
The land itself seemed to resist being known — clouds cloaked the way, and rains came without warning. Yet, Armaan felt drawn forward, as if the iron in the earth whispered of the blacksmiths who shaped it.
Tenzing, ever watchful, spoke little. But one evening, as they camped by a stream, he said softly, “The smiths of Longwa once forged blades that sang. Now their fire is nearly out.”
Longwa sat astride the invisible line that divided India and Myanmar. Half the village lay in one country, half in the other. Yet to the people of Longwa, the border meant nothing.
Their houses stood of timber and bamboo, roofs heavy with thatch. Smoke from forge fires curled into the sky.
As Armaan entered the village, he sensed both pride and sorrow — pride in ancient craft, sorrow in its fading.
An elder greeted them. His face bore the inked lines of a warrior, his hands the scars of a smith.
“You come seeking iron’s story?” he asked.
Armaan nodded.
The blacksmiths’ workshop was a dark, cavernous space, its walls stained with soot, its floor littered with iron scraps.
At its heart burned a forge, fed by charcoal and bellows worked by hand. The heat was fierce, the air filled with the tang of metal.
Armaan watched as a smith shaped a blade — striking the glowing iron with a rhythm that echoed like a drumbeat of the ages. Sparks flew, painting the shadows with brief stars.
“These blades once guarded our people,” the elder said. “Now, few ask for them. But we remember.”
By the forge’s glow, the smiths shared their legend.
Long ago, they said, a blade was made so perfect that it sang when drawn — a song of wind and storm. It was said to protect the village, to strike true against evil.
But when greed came — outsiders seeking the blade’s secret for profit — the smiths hid it away. Only its song remained, in memory and dream.
Armaan felt the weight of their words, the loss of a craft nearly forgotten.
Among the smiths was a youth — no older than sixteen — who worked with quiet determination. His name was Kham.
Kham had chosen to learn the craft, despite knowing there was little future in it. “The iron calls me,” he said simply.
Armaan watched him, saw the fire of dedication that echoed the stories of old.
That night, a storm swept down from the hills. Wind howled, and rain fell in sheets. Yet the forge burned on, defying the storm.
The smiths worked through the night, as if the storm itself demanded tribute.
Armaan stood with them, helping as he could — turning the bellows, fetching water, feeling part of something timeless.
At dawn, with the storm spent and the forge banked low, Armaan wrote:
“In Longwa, the fire still lives — not in the forge alone, but in the hearts of those who refuse to forget.”
He sketched the workshop, the tools, the faces lined with soot and pride.
Before Armaan left, the elder presented him with a small blade — simple, well-balanced, marked with the smith’s symbol.
“Not a weapon,” the elder said, “but a reminder — that what is made with care endures.”
As Armaan and Tenzing departed, the clang of hammer on anvil followed them — a sound of resilience, of craft, of memory kept alive.
Ahead lay other tribes, other stories. But the fire of Longwa would warm Armaan’s spirit on the long road.
Chapter 9:
From Longwa, Armaan and Tenzing journeyed east, where the hills softened into the famed Ziro Valley — a place cradled by forested ridges and hidden by morning mists.
The air smelled of pine and earth, and the fields spread in neat terraces, their waters shining in the dawn. But it was not the valley’s beauty that had drawn Armaan. It was word of a festival few outsiders ever witnessed: the Festival of the Forgotten Spirits.
“The Apatani people remember what others have let slip into shadow,” Tenzing said, as they stood gazing at the valley from a ridge.
Armaan felt the weight of those words, knowing that every step took him deeper into stories on the brink of vanishing.
As they entered the Apatani village, Armaan saw houses of bamboo and wood raised on stilts, smoke curling from hearths, and villagers preparing — gathering branches, weaving mats, painting faces with ancient patterns.
Children ran barefoot, their laughter mingling with the songs of unseen birds. Old women, faces lined like the terraces, worked at great bamboo drums, tightening their skins for the night’s rituals.
Armaan and Tenzing were welcomed not with grand words, but with the gift of warm rice beer and the quiet nod of inclusion.
Around the evening fire, Armaan heard the story of the festival.
“There are spirits,” said an elder named Tatu, “who once walked beside us — those of the forests, the rivers, the wind. But as we forget their names, they fade, lonely and restless. This festival calls them home for a night, so they may know we have not forgotten.”
Armaan felt goosebumps. He imagined the valley filled with invisible guests, drawn by the beat of drums and the flicker of flame.
When darkness fell, the village transformed.
Torches lined the paths. Men and women in masks of wood and bark danced in slow circles, their movements echoing those of ancestors.
Drums boomed, low and steady, like the heartbeat of the earth.
Armaan stood at the edge of the clearing, feeling the air thicken, as if unseen watchers had gathered. The hair on his arms rose.
Tenzing whispered, “Tonight, the valley is not ours alone.”
The dancers led a procession through the fields — a winding line of light and shadow, of song and silence.
At certain trees, they paused, laying offerings: rice, millet, flowers. At streams, they poured rice beer, inviting the spirits to drink.
Armaan followed, his journal forgotten at his side, his senses filled with the rhythm, the scent of torches, the feel of cool night air.
As the procession neared its end, rain began to fall — soft at first, then steady.
But no one ran for shelter. The villagers lifted their faces, arms raised, welcoming the rain as the final blessing of the spirits.
Armaan let the rain wash over him, feeling cleansed, connected.
The next morning, as mists returned to the valley, Armaan wrote:
“The Festival of the Forgotten Spirits is not a plea for favor. It is a promise: we will not let memory die.”
He sketched masks, drums, the procession’s path — a map of memory.
Before leaving, Tatu gave Armaan a small mask — carved of soft wood, painted with river symbols.
“Carry this,” he said. “Let it remind you that even unseen friends are friends still.”
As they departed Ziro, the valley lay quiet, as if resting after the night’s visitations.
But Armaan carried the festival within him — a sense that in honoring the forgotten, we honor ourselves.
Chapter 10:
Days after leaving Ziro, Armaan and Tenzing trekked deeper into the wilds, where maps faded into blank spaces and only the old paths of the tribes remained.
Villagers along the way spoke of a gathering unseen for generations — a festival held when the cycles of the moon, harvest, and omens aligned. A festival of unity, where the tribes of many lands came together, not for trade or war, but for remembrance.
“They say the festival finds you,” an old hunter said, eyes glinting. “Not the other way around.”
Armaan felt both excitement and unease. Was this the destination his journey had always pointed toward?
Their path wound through bamboo forests, crossed roaring streams, and climbed to a plateau ringed by stone outcrops.
It was there, at dusk, that they heard it: the faint beat of distant drums, steady as a heartbeat.
Following the sound, they found a clearing where fires burned, and people of many tribes had gathered — Ao, Konyak, Apatani, Khasi, Garo, and more.
Each bore their traditions — tattoos, beads, feathers, patterns woven into cloth — and yet, together, they formed a greater whole.
No outsider, not even Armaan, was expected. Yet none turned him away.
In the heart of the clearing stood a great circle of fire pits. Around them, the people danced, sang, and drummed in rhythms older than memory.
Each tribe brought its own song to the circle. The songs wove together, a tapestry of voices that rose to the starry sky.
Armaan felt the pull of the circle — a force not of exclusion, but of belonging.
Tenzing whispered, “Tonight, all are tribe.”
As the night deepened, the festival became not spectacle, but shared experience.
Armaan was drawn into a line of dancers, his feet moving in time with drumbeats, his voice adding to the chants.
Children painted his hands with red earth, marking him as kin. Women offered him rice cakes wrapped in leaves. Warriors shared their rice beer.
He was no longer an observer, nor even a guest. He was simply part of the festival — a thread in its living weave.
At midnight, all fell silent. The fires were banked low, and the people turned their faces to the sky.
A shaman spoke:
“We dance not only for ourselves, but for those who came before, and those who will come after. Let the stars see, let the winds carry our songs.”
In that silence, Armaan felt the presence of those unseen — ancestors, spirits, hopes not yet born.
Through the small hours, fires were rekindled, and stories flowed like river water.
Elders told of migrations, of battles, of friendships formed across mountain passes. Young people spoke of dreams — to learn, to keep the old ways alive in a changing world.
Armaan shared his own story — of why he had come, of what he had seen. His words were met with nods, with smiles, with respect.
At dawn, as the first light touched the hills, the tribes exchanged tokens: beads, feathers, carved charms, folded cloths.
To Armaan, a Konyak warrior gave a bead necklace, black and red — “for the journey that never ends.”
An Apatani woman offered a carved comb — “for remembering.”
A Khasi elder pressed a stone into his hand — “to weigh down your words, so they do not blow away.”
As the festival ended, the people melted away into the forest, returning to their own lands, their own ways.
Armaan and Tenzing stood alone in the clearing, the last embers fading. The silence felt sacred.
Armaan knew this place would not appear on maps. It existed in memory, in spirit — and now, in him.
Back at camp, Armaan opened his journal:
> “I came to document. I leave with no need for notes. The festival gave me more than stories — it gave me belonging. I am no longer merely a traveler. I am a keeper of memory.”
He closed the book, knowing some truths are carried in the heart.
Armaan and Tenzing turned toward the rising sun. Their journey was not over — it would never truly be.
For there were always more voices to hear, more songs to learn, more spirits to honor.
The Northeast had given its greatest gift: not facts to record, but wisdom to live by.
— End of the Journey —
