Maya Sen
Part 1 — The Departure
The morning I left, the city was still half-asleep, a pale wash of yellow light stretching over cracked pavements and shuttered tea stalls. My backpack, slung awkwardly over one shoulder, seemed heavier with every step I took, not because of the clothes and notebooks packed inside but because of the invisible weight of hesitation. I had never truly left home before—yes, there had been short trips to the mountains or the sea, always with family or friends, but never like this, never with no return ticket, never with the open road stretching like a question mark into the distance.
The rickshaw ride to the railway station was filled with the usual sights—hawkers arranging their baskets of guavas and bananas, schoolchildren dragging themselves in uniforms too stiff for their tiny bodies, dogs still curled on warm patches of asphalt—but it all looked different that morning. The familiar had a fragile glow, as though it were slipping away even as I watched. Perhaps that is the trick of travel: it changes not the places you arrive at, but the way you see the places you leave behind.
At the station, the air was thick with coal dust and the metallic clang of trains shifting on tracks. Families clustered around luggage piles, mothers scolding, fathers bargaining with porters. I stood alone with my single bag, unsure whether the loneliness was frightening or liberating. For months I had dreamt of this moment: the chance to step outside my known world, to chase after places I had only read about in books, to see if the earth could hold more wonder than my imagination allowed. But now that I was here, the first step felt like betrayal. My mother’s eyes when I told her I was leaving—half-proud, half-afraid—hovered in my mind like a ghost.
The train roared in, and with it came a rush of decision. You don’t climb onto a train halfway. You either step in or you don’t. So I did.
Inside, the compartment smelled of dust, iron, and a hint of stale food. My berth was by the window, and as I slid into the seat, I pressed my forehead against the glass. The city began to blur: graffiti on walls, narrow lanes, the outlines of people waving hurried goodbyes. Soon fields stretched wide, green and gold, patched with ponds shining like fragments of sky. I thought of how many travelers before me had sat exactly like this, watching their worlds slip away through a rattling window, and felt a strange solidarity with their ghosts.
Hours passed in rhythm with the wheels. The compartment filled with small stories—an old man unwrapping rotis from a tin box, a young couple whispering about their future, a child peering at me with solemn eyes before breaking into a grin. Everyone was in transit, everyone between destinations. There is a democracy in travel: for a moment, you belong nowhere, and so you belong equally to everywhere.
By dusk, the fields gave way to hills. The train curved around ridges, revealing slopes covered in tea bushes, their neat rows like green waves frozen mid-motion. The air sharpened, cooler than the sticky breath of the plains. I felt my pulse quicken—not from the beauty alone, but from the realization that this was the beginning of many such thresholds. Each turn of the wheel was a promise: of towns whose names I could not pronounce yet, of rivers carrying secrets, of conversations with strangers who might become companions.
When night fell, I lay on the hard berth, the ceiling fan rattling above, and wrote in my notebook: “Day One: I am afraid, but fear is also a kind of excitement. The world feels wider already.”
The next morning, I arrived in the hill town of Darjeeling. The station was small, mist curling around its edges like a secret keeping itself. Porters in woolen caps shouted offers, and taxis honked impatiently. But beyond the chaos rose the mountains—tall, calm, eternal. The first breath I drew there was startling, thin yet pure, as if the air itself had been strained through centuries of silence.
Darjeeling was a name I had heard since childhood, associated with tea packets on grocery shelves, with faded postcards of toy trains winding through hills. But standing there, suitcase wheels clattering over cobblestones, I realized no postcard could prepare me for the immediacy of the cold wind against my cheeks, the smell of pine needles crushed underfoot, the sudden clearing of mist to reveal a slope that dropped away like an unfinished sentence.
I checked into a small guesthouse on a narrow street, run by an elderly couple who greeted me with warmth that felt like a soft quilt. The room was simple—a wooden bed, a desk, a single window that looked out at the mountains. But it was enough. For the first time, I understood that luxury is not the softness of pillows but the freedom to wake up somewhere new.
That evening, I wandered through Chowrasta, the town square where locals and tourists mingled under strings of fairy lights. Vendors sold steaming momos, their breath rising in white puffs against the cold. I bought a plate and sat on a low wall, savoring each bite, the spicy filling warming me from within. Around me, laughter mingled with the sound of hooves as ponies trotted past, carrying children with wide-eyed wonder. And above it all, the mountains loomed—silent guardians, reminding me that human stories are small but not insignificant.
Later, I climbed to Observatory Hill, where prayer flags fluttered like fragments of rainbow against the darkening sky. The wind carried the low hum of chants from a nearby monastery, and for a moment, I felt suspended between worlds—the known and the unknown, the place I had left and the many places I was yet to see.
As I walked back to the guesthouse, lanterns lighting my path, I realized something had shifted inside me. Departure was no longer about leaving behind; it was about stepping into. Each step was less about distance and more about becoming.
In my journal that night, I wrote: “Day Two: The world is not waiting for me. But if I listen closely, I can hear it welcoming me anyway.”
And with that, I fell asleep to the sound of rain beginning against the roof, a lullaby from the hills that had just begun to teach me their language.
Part 2 — The Road to Sikkim
The morning in Darjeeling opened with a pale blush of dawn. The mist that had hidden the mountains yesterday lifted in slow veils, and suddenly the horizon erupted into brilliance: Kanchenjunga, rising sharp and silver, its peaks catching fire from the first rays of the sun. I stood at the balcony of the guesthouse with a steaming cup of tea between my palms, and for the first time since I had left home, I felt unambiguously grateful. Fear and hesitation had not disappeared, but they were outshone by this spectacle of light. To think that mountains like these had been standing long before human memory, indifferent to our arrivals and departures, made my own journey feel both small and luminous.
After breakfast, I packed again. My plan was to continue northward, toward Sikkim. The guesthouse couple insisted I take a photograph with them, so I stood awkwardly in the courtyard while the husband clicked a picture on his old phone. “For memory,” they said. It struck me that travel is not only about the memories you collect but also the memories you leave behind with strangers.
The shared jeep to Gangtok was already waiting at the taxi stand. It was painted green and yellow, with scratches that hinted at countless trips through the hills. Seven of us squeezed in: two college students with backpacks like mine, a woman carrying a basket of vegetables, a man in a suit clutching his phone, and an elderly monk whose saffron robes spilled over his knees. I found myself wedged by the window again, and I did not mind. The road that stretched ahead was not just a path of asphalt but a ribbon binding together lives I would otherwise never have crossed.
The jeep began its slow climb. The road wound like a serpent, sometimes hugging cliffs so tightly that I could see the drop only inches away. Below, the Teesta River glimmered, restless and green, carving through the valley with relentless force. The driver swerved with practiced ease, honking around blind bends. Every turn revealed new landscapes—terraced fields where women bent to harvest paddy, forests thick with rhododendrons, waterfalls cascading straight onto the road so that the windshield wipers had to sweep them away like stray thoughts.
At one halt, the monk in our jeep leaned toward me and said softly, “This river—she remembers everything.” His English was accented but clear. “She carries stones, soil, and sometimes, sorrow. That is why she never sleeps.” I nodded, though I did not fully understand. Perhaps rivers, like travelers, are eternal storytellers, never pausing, always moving.
We stopped at a roadside shack for tea. The students ordered plates of steaming Maggi noodles, and soon the air was filled with the smell of masala and the laughter of hungry youth. The woman with the basket offered me a guava, sliced neatly with salt and chili sprinkled on top. I bit into it, sharp and sweet, and felt how generosity often comes unannounced, carried not in grand gestures but in simple fruits shared on a roadside.
The hours stretched, but I never tired of watching the landscape shift. The fields gave way to denser forests, the sky lowering as clouds pressed closer. The jeep rattled and groaned, but it kept moving. By late afternoon, we entered Sikkim’s border, where a small checkpoint stood painted in bright colors. The guard waved us through with little fuss, and suddenly the air itself felt different—cleaner, colder, charged with the scent of pine.
Gangtok greeted me with a blend of bustle and calm. The town sprawled along hillsides, its houses painted in hues of blue and red, stacked one over another like mismatched toy blocks. Prayer flags stretched across streets, their colors faded by sun and rain, but still whispering prayers into the wind. I checked into a small hostel recommended by the students, perched above MG Marg, the main street. From my window, I could see the town lights twinkling like scattered jewels against the dark hills.
That evening, I wandered along MG Marg, which was a pedestrian street lined with shops and cafés. Families strolled leisurely, couples held hands, monks in crimson robes walked silently, their sandals slapping the pavement. The entire place had a gentleness, as if the town itself insisted on slowing your heartbeat. I ducked into a café decorated with wooden masks and ordered thukpa, a steaming bowl of noodle soup. The warmth spread through me as I listened to a guitar player singing in Nepali at the corner. Though I did not understand the words, the melody carried the intimacy of belonging.
The next morning, I joined a small group of travelers heading to Tsomgo Lake, a glacial lake high up near the Indo-China border. The ride was steep, the jeep straining as the altitude increased. Snow began to appear along the edges of the road, thin at first, then thickening into white blankets that dazzled the eyes. The air grew thinner, sharper, and I found myself taking deeper breaths as though to remind my lungs of their own strength.
When we finally reached, the lake lay before us like a mirror to the sky—still, icy, reflecting clouds that seemed close enough to touch. Yaks decorated with bells and colorful saddles stood waiting to carry tourists, their patient eyes calm as monks. I did not ride one; instead, I walked slowly along the edge of the lake, the crunch of snow under my boots echoing in the silence.
There was something humbling about standing there, 12,000 feet above sea level, knowing that I was just a small figure against a canvas painted by time itself. The mountains towered, the sky curved endlessly, and the lake shimmered with ancient stillness. For the first time in days, my mind went quiet—not with fear, not with wonder, but with acceptance. Perhaps this was why people traveled: not only to see new places but to step into silences larger than themselves.
As we drove back, I watched the sun dip low, staining the snow pink and gold. I wrote in my notebook: “Day Four: The higher I go, the smaller I become. And in that smallness, there is peace.”
Back in Gangtok that night, I sat on the hostel rooftop with the students. They shared stories of their college lives, of assignments and crushes, of dreams of moving to bigger cities. I listened, laughing when they laughed, though my own dreams now felt unmoored. Travel does this: it strips away the certainty of who you thought you were, leaving you open to who you might yet become.
When I finally crawled into bed, exhaustion pulled me into sleep quickly. But before closing my eyes, I whispered a quiet promise to myself: that I would keep walking, keep writing, keep listening to the voices of rivers and mountains, until my own voice found the rhythm of the road.
Part 3 — Into the North
The road north from Gangtok was narrow, carved into the side of mountains that seemed to breathe mist. Our jeep rattled and lurched, its engine groaning like an old man climbing stairs. Beyond the glass window, the Teesta River tumbled beside us, white froth against black rocks. Above, clouds crouched low, so near I felt I could reach out and gather them in my palms.
We were seven travelers again, strangers thrown together by circumstance: two women from Kolkata eager for adventure, a small family heading to their ancestral village, a quiet man with a camera always at his eye, and me, clutching my notebook as if it were a lifeline. The driver, with a wool cap pulled low, whistled tunes I didn’t recognize. Each whistle curved and fell with the road, a soundtrack to our jolting progress.
The higher we went, the more the world changed. Villages became sparser—clusters of tin-roofed houses painted turquoise and red, children waving with mittened hands, prayer flags strung across wooden gates. Goats grazed on impossible slopes, their hooves clinging to rock as if born from the mountain itself. The air thinned, crisp and unforgiving, demanding each breath be deliberate.
By noon, we reached Lachung, a small village hemmed in by peaks. The jeep dropped us at a guesthouse where the walls were covered in photographs of past travelers: smiling faces, snow-covered landscapes, moments frozen in cheap prints. My room was simple—wooden bed, wool blankets, a window that opened to a rushing stream. The sound of water filled the silence, constant, soothing, endless.
That afternoon, I wandered through the village. Women carried firewood in baskets strapped to their backs, men repaired fences, children played marbles in the dust. Life here was not easy, yet it held a rhythm that felt older than the roads we had traveled. At a small shop, I bought a cup of butter tea. Its salty, oily taste startled me, but warmth spread through my body, and I understood why it was beloved in these cold heights.
The following morning, before sunrise, our group set off toward Yumthang Valley, known as the Valley of Flowers. The road was rough, strewn with stones and mud, and more than once the jeep seemed about to give up. But perseverance is a mountain virtue, and the vehicle pushed on.
As dawn bled slowly into the sky, the valley opened before us. At first it was muted—shades of grey, patches of frost. But then, as the sun climbed, color erupted: slopes carpeted with rhododendrons in red, pink, purple. The valley lived up to its name, blooming even in the cold embrace of altitude. I stepped out, boots crunching on frozen ground, and felt my heart quicken.
Walking through Yumthang was like stepping into a painting the earth had made for itself. Wildflowers nodded under the thin wind, and yaks grazed peacefully, their shaggy coats dusted with snow. I bent to touch a cluster of tiny blue blossoms, fragile yet fierce, surviving where air itself was scarce. How arrogant I had been, thinking resilience was only a human trait. Here, even petals defied the odds.
The Kolkata women walked beside me, one humming a Tagore song under her breath. The notes rose and fell, a reminder that art always finds a home, even in valleys ringed by silence. The man with the camera knelt often, framing shots of frost and bloom. I didn’t take many photographs. My notebook felt more faithful than a lens—able to capture not just what I saw, but what it did to me.
We lingered at a hot spring tucked between rocks. Steam rose into the cold air, curling like incense. Locals dipped their feet, laughing softly. I followed, slipping off my shoes and letting the warmth seep into frozen toes. There is something about hot water in a cold place—it feels like the earth is holding you close, reminding you that even in harshness, there is kindness.
Later, we climbed higher toward Zero Point, where the road ends and only snow stretches forward. The jeep struggled, skidding on icy patches, but finally, we arrived. The world there was stripped bare—just white upon white, a silence so thick it swallowed even thought. The wind was sharp, slicing into my cheeks, but I laughed out loud, unable to contain the thrill.
Standing at Zero Point, I felt as if I were standing at the edge of myself. Behind me lay everything I had known—cities, routines, fears. Ahead was nothing but snow and sky. And yet, instead of emptiness, I felt abundance. Perhaps this was the lesson of mountains: that the end of a road can be the beginning of wonder.
We stayed only a short while—altitude sickness lurked in the thin air—but those minutes imprinted themselves on me like ink. I wrote later: “Day Six: In the language of mountains, silence is not absence. It is presence, vast and uncompromising.”
That evening in Lachung, the guesthouse owner served us steaming bowls of thenthuk, hand-pulled noodle soup, thick and fragrant. We ate around a woodstove, the fire crackling, our breaths visible. Conversation flowed easily. The family spoke of their ancestors who had lived in these valleys for centuries. The Kolkata women teased each other about city comforts they missed—air-conditioning, street food, late-night movies. The man with the camera, usually quiet, confessed he had been chasing mountains for years, yet each one humbled him anew.
I realized then that travel knits together strangers with invisible threads. We had begun as passengers in a jeep, wary of each other, but now we were companions, bound by roads, rivers, and the thin air of shared experience.
Before sleeping, I stepped outside. The night sky was ferocious with stars, flung like diamonds across black velvet. I had never seen so many, so bright, so close. The stream gurgled below, a lullaby written by stone and water. I felt very small, and very alive.
In my journal I wrote: “Day Seven: The stars do not need me to witness them. But tonight, I needed them. Perhaps that is what travel is—not the world waiting for you, but you learning to wait for the world.”
When I closed the notebook, I knew the journey was only beginning. North had opened its gates, and I was ready to walk further in.
Part 4 — The Kalimpong Detour
Leaving Lachung was harder than I expected. The valley had pressed itself into my skin—its rushing streams, its snow-dusted slopes, the shared laughter of strangers huddled around stoves. But travel is not about clinging; it is about carrying. So, one morning, I packed my bag again, thanked the guesthouse owners who had fed me like family, and boarded another jeep heading south.
The road unwound like a memory, familiar in patches but still startling in its beauty. As we descended, the air thickened; mist turned to drizzle, drizzle to warm sunlight. By the time we reached Gangtok again, the mountains had already begun to feel like a dream slipping away. I stayed one night in the hostel, long enough to wash my clothes and repack. The next morning, I boarded a shared taxi to Kalimpong.
Kalimpong is less famous than Darjeeling or Gangtok, but the name had whispered itself to me in travelogues and conversations. Writers spoke of quiet monasteries, flower nurseries, and views that stretched across the Teesta valley like a painting. I wanted to see if whispers carried truth.
The drive was long but stunning. The road curved alongside the Teesta, now calmer, green as a jade bracelet. At Teesta Bazaar, we crossed a bridge painted in peeling blue, and from there the climb began again, this time gentler. Small villages passed by, their wooden houses bright with marigolds and chrysanthemums. Everywhere, life seemed slower, as if time itself paused more often here to watch the clouds drift.
Kalimpong appeared suddenly, perched on a ridge. The town was neither bustling like Gangtok nor tourist-heavy like Darjeeling. Instead, it spread quietly, a little shy, its charm subtle rather than dramatic. I checked into a modest homestay run by a retired schoolteacher and his wife. Their home smelled of pinewood and cardamom, and they welcomed me with tea so fragrant it felt like a blessing.
That evening, I walked to Morgan House, an old British colonial bungalow now turned into a guesthouse. Its ivy-covered walls and quiet lawns carried the weight of history. I imagined British officers once sipping gin on the veranda, unaware that decades later, a traveler with messy hair and a notebook would wander in to admire the same fading view. The sky turned orange, then indigo, and the lights of the valley flickered below like scattered candles.
The next morning, I visited Durpin Monastery. Climbing its steps, I felt a hush settle over me. Inside, murals stretched across the walls—vivid depictions of Buddhist lore, their colors still fierce despite age. Monks moved silently, some carrying prayer books, others sweeping the floors with brooms that whispered against stone. When the chanting began, deep and resonant, it felt like the walls themselves were breathing. I sat in a corner, letting the sound wash over me, and realized that sometimes travel is not about moving outward but inward.
Later, I walked to the Pine View Nursery, famous for its cacti collection. Hundreds of them stood in rows—tall, short, flowering, spiny—silent guardians of resilience. A boy guiding tourists told me proudly, “These cacti are older than me, some older than my grandfather.” I touched the thick ridges of one and thought of the flowers I had seen in Yumthang, fragile yet defiant. Here was another lesson: resilience wears many faces, from delicate petals to thorned spines.
In the afternoon, I climbed Deolo Hill, the highest point in Kalimpong. The road wound through forests until it opened into a grassy slope. From the top, the view was staggering: the Teesta River snaking far below, Darjeeling’s hills rising in the distance, Sikkim’s peaks guarding the horizon. Paragliders soared above, their colorful sails like fragments of prayer flags drifting across the sky. I did not paraglide, but I sat on the grass, feeling the wind tug at my hair, and imagined what it would be like to float above the valleys, untethered.
As evening fell, I wandered into the town market. Stalls overflowed with orchids, gladiolus, and gladioli bulbs for sale. Women sold pickles in jars—chili, bamboo shoot, squash—and their laughter rang louder than the bargaining of customers. I bought a small jar of chili pickle, its red flecks glowing like embers, and tucked it into my bag as a piece of Kalimpong to carry forward.
Back at the homestay, the teacher’s wife served me thali: rice, dal, spinach, fried fish. As I ate, the teacher told me stories of Kalimpong during his youth—how traders from Tibet once brought wool and salt along these very roads, how the town had been a meeting point of cultures long before borders hardened. His voice carried nostalgia, but not sadness. It was the nostalgia of someone who knows that memory itself is a form of survival.
That night, I wrote in my notebook:
“Day Nine: Some towns do not demand your attention; they reveal themselves slowly, like a story told by firelight. Kalimpong is such a town. To love it, you must linger.”
The following day, I made a small pilgrimage to Dr. Graham’s Homes, a historic school founded in the early 20th century. Its stone buildings stood solemnly, surrounded by gardens where children’s laughter rang out. I walked the paths slowly, imagining the generations of students who had grown up here, carrying pieces of Kalimpong into the world beyond. A plaque on one wall read: “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” The words resonated deeply. Perhaps travel, too, was not about filling my notebook with sights but about lighting small fires of understanding inside me.
On my last evening in Kalimpong, I climbed once more to Deolo Hill. The sky was clear, and Kanchenjunga appeared again, distant but brilliant. I sat quietly, watching as the sun dipped and shadows stretched. A child ran past, chasing a kite that struggled against the wind. For a moment, everything—the mountains, the river, the flowers, the laughter—came together in a harmony that felt both fragile and eternal.
As darkness settled, I knew it was time to move on. Kalimpong had been a detour, but it had given me something invaluable: a reminder that not all journeys are about spectacle. Some are about stillness, about learning to see beauty in the quiet corners where the world does not shout.
In my journal, I wrote: “Day Ten: The road calls again. Tomorrow I move westward, toward the borderlands, where India brushes shoulders with Bhutan. But tonight, I rest in Kalimpong, grateful for a town that taught me the virtue of lingering.”
And with that, I closed my notebook, tucked myself under wool blankets, and listened to the crickets sing the valley to sleep.
Part 5 — Forests of the Dooars
The jeep ride out of Kalimpong felt like closing a book halfway—reluctant, but inevitable. The town slipped away behind me, its quiet lanes and flower nurseries dissolving into memory. The road dropped steadily, the air growing warmer with every curve. I could feel the altitude shedding itself from my lungs; the crisp bite of mountain oxygen gave way to heavier, humid breaths. By afternoon, we entered the Dooars.
The Dooars are foothills, where mountains bow into plains and rivers spill their stories into forests. Here, the land flattens, but it does not simplify. Instead, it deepens into green—endless green, thick with secrets. My first sight was a stretch of tea gardens, their bushes trimmed into geometric perfection, women bent double in bright saris, plucking leaves into baskets slung over their backs. The scene looked like a painting, timeless and rhythmic, yet I knew each leaf carried the exhaustion of hands that worked without pause.
I checked into a lodge on the edge of Gorumara National Park, a low structure of wood and stone surrounded by sal trees. The air was thick with cicadas, their shrill chorus rising and falling like waves. My room overlooked a meadow where peacocks strutted with careless arrogance. At nightfall, the forest darkened into a silence broken only by the occasional bark of a deer or the faraway cough of a leopard. The city’s noises felt impossibly distant, almost invented.
The next morning, I joined a group safari into the forest. Our jeep rattled down muddy tracks, dew still glistening on tall grasses that swayed like restless dancers. A forest guard sat with us, his rifle slung casually, his eyes sharp. He spoke little, but when he pointed, everyone followed his gesture as though it were a command from the trees themselves.
We saw elephants first—an entire herd crossing the path. The matriarch led, her ears fanned wide, her trunk swaying with deliberate grace. Calves followed close, stumbling but eager, their small trunks curling experimentally. The sight silenced us. There was no grandeur staged here, no spectacle for cameras; only the quiet assertion of life moving where it wished.
Further in, we stopped at a watchtower overlooking a salt lick. Wild bison, massive and muscular, grazed with heavy heads bent low. A peacock screamed somewhere in the canopy, its cry echoing eerily. The guard whispered, “If you are lucky, you will see the rhino.” We waited, breaths shallow. And then, lumbering from the undergrowth, a one-horned rhinoceros emerged—prehistoric, armored, magnificent. Its horn gleamed pale against the green. For a moment, time folded back, and I could believe I was witnessing a creature out of myth.
The forest was full of small wonders too: butterflies with wings like shards of stained glass, a python curled around a branch, langurs leaping from tree to tree with astonishing elegance. Each moment was a reminder that the world was not built for us alone.
That evening, back at the lodge, a group of local musicians performed with madal drums and bamboo flutes. The rhythms were earthy, pulsing like the heartbeat of the forest. Children danced barefoot, their movements wild and free. I joined in hesitantly, and soon found myself laughing, spinning under the stars. The night was alive, stitched together by sound and joy.
The next day, I took a local bus toward Jaldapara, another forest closer to the Bhutan border. The bus was crowded—farmers with sacks of rice, schoolchildren in uniforms, women carrying baskets of vegetables. I wedged myself near the window, clutching my bag. The road was rough, but the chatter around me softened its bumps. A woman asked me where I was from, and when I told her Kolkata, she smiled knowingly, as if that explained my restless need to wander.
Jaldapara was wilder, its grasslands stretching wide, broken by dense patches of forest. I stayed at a government lodge, functional but charming in its honesty. At dawn, I rode on elephant-back into the reserve. The world looked different from that height—grasses brushing against my legs, mist rising like smoke, the silence immense. The mahout guided the elephant gently, murmuring words of comfort. The animal moved with dignity, each step an earthquake muffled into quiet.
We came across a herd of spotted deer, their ears flicking nervously. A wild boar darted out of the undergrowth, vanishing into grass taller than me. Once, the mahout pointed to pugmarks on the ground—tiger, he said. My heart leapt, though the animal itself remained unseen. Perhaps it was better that way. Some presences are more powerful in absence, felt rather than watched.
By mid-morning, the mist lifted, revealing the snowy outline of Bhutan’s hills in the distance. I felt an ache then, a pull. Borders are human inventions, yet landscapes ignore them. The grass, the rivers, the winds—all flowed freely, indifferent to fences and flags. I wondered what it would mean to walk across, to follow the wind into another country. But for now, the journey held me here, in the threshold lands where one culture faded into another like overlapping songs.
In the village outside the reserve, I wandered through a weekly haat. Stalls sold spices, baskets, woolen shawls, and cheap jewelry. A man demonstrated bamboo crafts, shaping flutes that whistled like birds. I bought one, though I could not play. Perhaps some day I would learn. The market smelled of mustard oil, fried pakoras, and damp earth. Children tugged at my sleeves, asking for coins, then ran away giggling when I shook my head. The chaos was as alive as the forest silence, two sides of the same truth.
That evening, I sat on the veranda of the lodge, watching the sun sink behind the sal trees. The sky turned the color of embers, and for a moment, everything was bathed in gold. I wrote in my journal:
“Day Twelve: Forests remind us we are guests, not owners. To walk here is to borrow time, to breathe carefully so as not to disturb the rhythm of leaves. Perhaps that is why I feel both humbled and whole.”
As darkness fell, I could hear the distant trumpet of an elephant, the cough of a leopard, the endless chorus of crickets. The forest did not sleep. It simply shifted into another register, another song. I closed my notebook, leaned back, and let the night wrap itself around me.
Part 6 — The Brahmaputra
The journey from Jaldapara into Assam began before sunrise. The jeep ride was long, the roads broken in places, but anticipation carried me forward. I had always wanted to see the Brahmaputra—not just a river but a force, a myth, a living artery of the land. Maps showed it as a wide blue ribbon, but maps could never capture its restlessness, its moods.
By midday, I reached Guwahati, Assam’s largest city. It sprawled on both banks of the river, crowded and chaotic, but when I first glimpsed the Brahmaputra, all noise dimmed. The river was immense—so wide it looked like a sea, its surface shifting shades of brown and grey, restless even in stillness. Standing on the banks, I felt like I was in the presence of something ancient, older than mountains, carrying the memory of glaciers and the whisper of oceans.
I checked into a riverside guesthouse run by a middle-aged couple. The verandah overlooked the water, and every evening the sky melted into gold above it. The couple’s young son told me proudly, “No other river is like ours. She is mother, but also storm.” His words were not exaggeration—the Brahmaputra has been known to flood with ferocity, swallowing villages, reshaping lives. Yet people lived here, clung here, because love for a river is stronger than fear.
That evening, I boarded a ferry to Umananda, a small island temple in the middle of the river. The boat rocked gently as it cut through waves that slapped against its wooden sides. On the island, monkeys scampered over stone steps, snatching food from visitors. The temple itself was small, whitewashed, its bells chiming in the breeze. But the view—water stretching endlessly, the city on either side, mountains faint in the distance—was the true prayer. I sat on the steps, watching the sun dip, and felt that the river had no beginning and no end.
The next day, I traveled further east to Kaziranga National Park, famous for its rhinos but equally known for its raw, untamed beauty. The road ran parallel to the river at times, and I caught glimpses of fishermen casting nets, their silhouettes sharp against glittering water. Sometimes the river disappeared, hidden by tall grasses and villages, only to return suddenly, wider than before.
Kaziranga was vast, a mosaic of grasslands, marshes, and forests. I joined a dawn jeep safari. The morning air was thick with mist, and the grass towered above me, higher than rooftops, whispering in the wind. Soon, a great shape emerged from the haze—a rhinoceros, larger than I imagined, its horn curved, its body armored in folds of grey. It grazed calmly, unbothered by our presence, its ears flicking at flies. I held my breath, not out of fear but reverence.
Further in, we saw wild elephants, a mother shielding her calf with her body. Herds of swamp deer lifted their heads, eyes shining in the pale light. Birds filled the skies—storks, pelicans, eagles—each flight a brushstroke in the canvas of dawn. The Brahmaputra’s floods nourish this land, but they also destroy. Life here is built on resilience, a constant negotiation with water.
In the evening, I took a walk along the outer villages. Houses stood on stilts, ready for floods. Children played barefoot on mud paths, their laughter bright as bells. A woman invited me in for tea, served in a brass cup that glowed in lamplight. She spoke of how the river both gives and takes: fish, fertile soil, but also loss. Her eyes did not hold bitterness, only acceptance. “She is like family,” she said. “You cannot love only the gentle side.”
Later, I sat by the riverbank, notebook open. The river moved slowly now, but I could feel its strength beneath the surface, like a coiled muscle. I wrote:
“Day Fourteen: Rivers are teachers of impermanence. They remind us that nothing stays, that everything flows. To resist is to drown. To move with it is to live.”
On my third day in Assam, I traveled to Majuli, the world’s largest river island. The ferry ride was long, and the boat carried people, motorcycles, goats, even sacks of rice. The island appeared gradually, low and green, dotted with huts. Life here is precarious—erosion eats at its edges every year—but the people remain, anchored by faith and tradition.
Majuli is home to satras, Vaishnavite monasteries where art and devotion blend seamlessly. I visited one, where young boys practiced mask-making for traditional dance dramas. Their hands moved with precision, shaping clay and cloth into fierce faces of gods and demons. The satra was quiet, yet alive with creativity. A monk explained that art here was not performance alone—it was worship, a way to keep the divine alive in everyday life.
As evening fell, I sat on the embankment, watching the river swell. Children splashed in shallow pools, fishermen hauled nets heavy with silver fish, and the horizon glowed orange. Somewhere, a drumbeat began, faint but insistent, like the heart of the island itself.
That night, in a bamboo hut, I struggled to sleep. The river’s sound was constant—sometimes gentle, sometimes like thunder. It reminded me that I was small, temporary. But instead of fear, I felt strangely at peace. Travel had been teaching me this over and over: the world does not exist for me, yet it welcomes me if I listen.
When dawn broke, mist rising over the water, I knew it was time to move again. Assam had given me the river, had shown me life lived on its edges, precarious yet beautiful. Ahead lay the Northeast’s wilder lands, where borders blurred and stories deepened.
Before leaving, I wrote one last note on the island:
“Day Fifteen: The Brahmaputra is not a river. She is a truth. To see her is to be reminded that permanence is a dream and change is the only current strong enough to carry us home.”
With that, I closed the notebook, slung my bag over my shoulder, and boarded the ferry once more. The river carried me back toward the mainland, but I knew I would always carry her forward—inside me, a restless tide.
✅ That’s Part 6 (~1000 words).
Would you like me to continue with Part 7 (where Maya journeys further northeast into Nagaland and experiences tribal villages and their festivals), or do you prefer I pause and give you an outline of the remaining 10 parts so you see the full arc?
Part 7 — Hills of Nagaland
The ferry left me on the mainland at Jorhat, and from there the road began to climb again, twisting toward the Naga Hills. Assam faded behind me with its river songs, and Nagaland rose ahead, steep and forested, its ridges wrapped in mist. This was different terrain—neither the snowy stillness of Sikkim nor the lush plains of the Dooars, but something older, more guarded. The air itself seemed to carry whispers of stories not easily told to outsiders.
After a long ride through roads that narrowed and curved endlessly, I reached Kohima, the capital. The town clung to hillsides, houses stacked like steps, roofs painted in bright tin colors. Below, valleys opened wide, and beyond them, mountains layered into blue shadows. The air was crisp, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth.
I checked into a small homestay run by a young couple. They welcomed me with rice beer and smoked pork curry, flavors that startled my tongue but warmed my body. Their living room walls were decorated with bamboo crafts and old photographs of ancestors in traditional warrior dress—headgear with boar tusks, necklaces of beads, spears taller than a man. “Our history is in our homes,” the husband said, tapping the photograph gently.
The next morning, I visited the Kohima War Cemetery, a place of stillness among the busy hills. Rows of white gravestones stretched across manicured lawns, each bearing the name of a soldier who died in World War II when the Battle of Kohima raged here. Birds sang in the trees above, and flowers bloomed beside silent names. Standing there, I felt the weight of history—not in textbooks, but in the quiet presence of lives cut short. Travel, I realized, was also about remembrance.
Later, I wandered through the local market. Stalls overflowed with smoked meats, dried fish, chilies as red as fire, and vegetables I could not name. Women in shawls bargained loudly, laughter mixing with the smell of roasted corn. I bought a small packet of Naga chilies—the infamous king chili, one of the spiciest in the world. The vendor grinned as he warned me: “Careful, sister. This chili can make you cry.”
In the evening, I climbed to a viewpoint above town. The hills stretched endlessly, their folds deepening into shadow as the sun sank. Children played football on a patch of flat ground, their shouts echoing against the slopes. I sat on a rock, watching them, and wrote in my notebook:
“Day Sixteen: Mountains here are not only landscapes but guardians. They watch, they keep, they remember.”
The following day, I traveled to Kisama Heritage Village, where the Hornbill Festival is held every December. Though the festival season was months away, the village still displayed traditional Naga morungs—communal huts decorated with carvings of tigers, elephants, and human figures. Each hut belonged to a different tribe, showcasing their distinct identity. Walking through, I was struck by the diversity folded within Nagaland’s hills. Each carving, each artifact was a reminder that culture here was not a monolith but a chorus of voices.
My guide, a young woman from the Angami tribe, spoke softly as we walked. “Once, our ancestors were warriors,” she said, pointing at a horned headdress displayed in one hut. “Now we fight differently—to preserve our traditions, our songs, our language.” She told me how modern life was changing Nagaland quickly, but festivals, crafts, and oral histories still held people close to their roots. Her pride was quiet but unwavering.
From Kohima, I took another road toward Mokokchung, heartland of the Ao tribe. The journey was long, through valleys dense with bamboo forests and rivers flashing silver in the sun. At Mokokchung, I stayed with a host family. The grandmother, dressed in a traditional shawl with red and black patterns, welcomed me with warmth that needed no shared language. That night, we sat around a fire, eating smoked meat with sticky rice. They sang folk songs, their voices low and steady, carrying tales of harvest and war, of love and loss. I listened, not understanding the words but feeling the emotions woven through every note.
The next morning, I joined the family in their fields. Terraced rice paddies stretched down the slopes, glistening with water. They handed me a small tool, and I tried clumsily to weed alongside them. The work was backbreaking, yet they laughed easily, their hands sure. “This is our life,” the grandmother said, pointing at the fields. “This is our story.”
That evening, the family took me to a small community gathering. Around a bonfire, people danced in circles, stamping their feet to the rhythm of log drums. The flames lit their faces, and shadows leapt across the ground. I joined hesitantly, my steps awkward, but soon laughter carried me into the rhythm. For a moment, I was not an outsider but part of a larger circle, spinning under the stars.
Back in my room, I wrote by the dim light of an oil lamp:
“Day Eighteen: Stories here are not written. They are sung, carved, danced. They live in firelight and footsteps. Perhaps that is why they endure.”
On my last day in Nagaland, I visited a hilltop church in Mokokchung. Its white spire rose above the town, visible for miles. Inside, sunlight streamed through colored glass, painting the floor in reds and blues. The pews were empty, but the silence carried weight, as if generations of prayers still lingered in the air. From the churchyard, the hills stretched out endlessly, rolling into clouds. I felt small, but not insignificant—just another traveler carrying away fragments of stories older than myself.
As I prepared to leave, the grandmother pressed a shawl into my hands. “So you remember,” she said simply. The fabric was rough but warm, patterned with red and black lines. I folded it carefully, my throat tight with gratitude.
That night, before sleep, I opened my notebook once more:
“Day Nineteen: Nagaland is not a place you simply visit. It is a place that lets you in slowly, if you listen, if you sit by the fire, if you share rice and laughter. I will carry its warmth, its songs, its shawls of memory.”
When morning came, I boarded a jeep heading east. The road promised new lands—Manipur, Mizoram, perhaps further. But part of me knew Nagaland would travel with me, stitched into the fabric of my journey.
Part 8 — Reflections on Loktak
The jeep rattled eastward from Mokokchung, carrying me toward Manipur. The road was long, the journey broken by landslides, tea stalls, and sudden rain that fell like a curtain. Yet I felt a tug of anticipation. Manipur had always sounded to me like a place of poetry—its name itself a song, its stories laced with resilience.
By dusk, I reached Imphal. The city stretched across a valley ringed by hills, its streets alive with motorcycles, rickshaws, and the shouts of vendors selling fruits, shawls, and bamboo baskets. I checked into a modest guesthouse near Kangla Fort, where the host greeted me with the quiet warmth of someone who has seen many travelers come and go. My room overlooked a busy lane, where streetlights flickered on like fireflies, and the sound of drums carried faintly from somewhere in the distance.
The next morning, I visited Kangla Fort, once the seat of Manipur’s kings. The fort grounds were wide, dotted with temples, ponds, and old brick ruins. White statues of mythical dragons—Kangla Sha—stood tall at the entrance, their fierce faces guarding centuries of history. As I walked through shaded paths, I felt the weight of time layered in the earth, in walls that had seen kingdoms rise and fall. Birds flitted through banyan branches, as if reminding me that history is never truly still; it breathes, it adapts, it waits for us to listen.
From the fort, I moved to Ima Keithel, the famed women’s market. Hundreds of stalls filled the space, every vendor a woman, her hands swift, her eyes sharp. They sold everything—spices, fish, handwoven phaneks, baskets, jewelry. The air buzzed with bargaining, laughter, and the scent of fried snacks. I bought a handwoven scarf, its threads dyed in indigo and red, and the vendor smiled as she wrapped it carefully. “Wear it when you travel,” she said, “so you carry Manipur with you.” I tucked it into my bag, grateful for the weight of her words.
But it was Loktak Lake that called me most. On my third day, I boarded a bus toward Moirang, where the lake stretched like a dream across the valley. The bus groaned up hills, then down into flatlands, until at last water shimmered ahead—vast, glistening, endless.
Loktak is no ordinary lake. Its surface is dotted with phumdis—floating islands of vegetation that drift, rootless yet alive. From the shore, they looked like green patches adrift on silver. Fishermen moved in slender boats, their oars dipping silently, their nets trailing like silver threads. Women washed clothes on the banks, beating them rhythmically against stones, while children splashed in shallows, laughter echoing.
I hired a boatman to take me across. His name was Rajen, his face weathered from years on the lake. As he rowed, he told me stories—how the lake fed entire villages, how the phumdis shifted with seasons, how fish and birds depended on its moods. “She is mother,” he said, echoing words I had heard by the Brahmaputra, “but also demanding.”
We glided toward the phumdis. Up close, they were firm enough to walk on—floating meadows where grass grew tall and huts stood precariously. Some families lived here, their homes tethered to nothing but faith. Children waved at us from doorways, their laughter as buoyant as the islands themselves. I stepped onto one, tentative, and felt the earth shift beneath me. It was like standing on water disguised as land. The sensation was both disorienting and exhilarating.
Further across the lake, Rajen pointed to Keibul Lamjao National Park—the world’s only floating national park. It was home to the sangai, the endangered dancing deer of Manipur. I could not see them from the boat, but the thought of deer moving gracefully on floating grasslands filled me with awe. It was a reminder that survival takes strange, beautiful forms.
We drifted for hours, silence stretching between stories. Birds wheeled overhead—herons, kingfishers, cormorants—each dive a sudden flash of life. The water reflected sky and cloud, until I could not tell where one ended and the other began. For the first time in weeks, I felt utterly unmoored. The mountains of Sikkim, the forests of Assam, the shawls of Nagaland—all felt both far away and folded within me.
As the sun sank, the lake blazed gold. Fishermen paddled home, silhouettes against fire. Smoke rose from huts, carrying the smell of cooking fish. The water rippled gently, as though the lake itself was breathing. I sat silently, my notebook open but untouched. Sometimes words fail, and silence becomes the truest entry.
That night, I stayed in a homestay near the lake. The family cooked us fish curry, rice, and fermented bamboo shoot, flavors sharp and unfamiliar but comforting in their honesty. After dinner, we sat outside, the stars spread across the sky, the lake shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The grandmother hummed a song, her voice low, carrying the cadence of stories older than memory. I did not know the words, but I felt their pull—the tug of belonging, the ache of impermanence.
Before bed, I finally wrote in my notebook:
“Day Twenty-One: Loktak is a mirror—not of faces, but of truths. To float is to accept uncertainty, to find steadiness in movement. Perhaps life itself is a phumdi, rootless yet alive.”
The next morning, mist hung low over the water, softening edges into dream. As I boarded the bus back to Imphal, the lake receded slowly, as if reluctant to let me go. My scarf from the women’s market lay folded in my bag, my notebook heavier with silence than with words. Travel was no longer about moving alone—it was about being moved, reshaped by places that refused to stay still.
Back in Imphal, I walked once more through the streets, slower this time. I passed a group of young boys playing football, their shouts echoing, and a woman balancing a basket on her head, her steps steady as drumbeats. The city seemed less like a destination and more like a pause, a breath before the next step.
That night, from the rooftop of my guesthouse, I looked out at the valley under moonlight. The hills stood still, but the stories inside them moved like water. I closed my eyes and let the night press itself into me. Tomorrow I would move again—toward Mizoram, toward yet another horizon—but tonight, I belonged here, in the embrace of a land that had taught me the beauty of floating.
Part 9 — The Singing Hills of Mizoram
The bus from Imphal to Aizawl wound endlessly through hills that seemed to rise and fall like waves of an ancient sea. The road was narrow, often washed by rain, but the scenery was unrelenting—forests tumbling down slopes, villages perched on ridgelines, clouds curling close enough to touch. It was a journey that demanded patience, but the hills themselves rewarded it with their silent music.
By the time we reached Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, the sky had deepened into twilight. The town spread along steep slopes, houses stacked one upon another, their tin roofs glinting faintly in the fading light. The streets were alive with scooters, children in school uniforms returning home, and women selling vegetables by lamplight. Yet even in the bustle, there was a quiet order, a rhythm distinct from the chaos of other cities I had passed through.
I found a guesthouse overlooking the valley. My room had a balcony where I could see the hills rolling endlessly into the horizon, their outlines blurring into mist. That night, the air was filled with faint strains of singing drifting from a nearby church. The harmonies were soft yet powerful, weaving through the silence like threads of light. I leaned against the railing, listening, and realized why Mizoram is often called the land of singing hills. Music here was not performance; it was breath, a way of being.
The next morning, I wandered into the city. Aizawl is steep—its streets rise sharply, steps and narrow lanes threading between houses. I stopped at Solomon’s Temple, a massive white structure that stood gleaming against blue sky. Its architecture was grand, but it was the quiet devotion of those who came to pray that struck me most. Families sat together in silence, and when the choir began to sing, the sound seemed to lift the roof into the sky.
From there, I walked into Bara Bazar, the central market. Stalls spilled with smoked meats, chillies, bamboo shoots, shawls woven in bold stripes of red, black, and white. The air was thick with the smell of fermented soybeans and fried fritters. Women in traditional puan wraps haggled briskly, their voices confident. I bought a handwoven puan, the fabric rough but strong, its colors burning with pride.
That afternoon, I visited the Mizoram State Museum. It was small but full of artifacts—baskets, weapons, musical instruments, photographs of tribes. Each item seemed less like a display and more like a piece of memory, carefully guarded. One exhibit showed log drums, massive carved trunks once used in villages to call people together. I closed my eyes and imagined the hills echoing with their thunder, the sound carrying through forests and valleys, summoning communities not with fear but with belonging.
In the evening, I climbed a hilltop to see Aizawl from above. As the sun set, the city lit up, houses glowing like scattered lanterns across the dark slopes. From somewhere below, music drifted upward—guitars, voices blending in harmony. It felt as though the entire town sang together, each voice carrying the weight of both faith and survival.
The following day, I traveled to Reiek, a village about an hour from Aizawl. The road snaked through thick forests until we reached a ridge crowned by cliffs. Reiek Tlang, the peak, rose above us, challenging yet inviting. I joined a small group of local youths climbing the trail. The path was steep, lined with orchids and bamboo, but their laughter made the climb lighter.
At the top, the view stole my breath. Hills stretched endlessly, folding into one another, their green softened by haze. Villages appeared like tiny dots, and rivers flashed silver in valleys far below. The wind roared across the cliff, wild and insistent, as if carrying voices from distant lands. Standing there, I felt suspended—between sky and earth, between being rooted and being free.
We sat together on rocks, sharing snacks of smoked meat and sticky rice. One of the youths played a guitar he had carried up, and soon they began to sing. The song was in Mizo, words I could not understand, but the melody flowed through me, filling the spaces where language faltered. For a while, the peak itself seemed to hum.
That night, I stayed in a homestay in the village. The family welcomed me with rice beer and laughter. After dinner, they gathered in their courtyard, and music began again—this time with drums, clapping, and songs that told stories of harvest, of warriors, of love. Children joined, their voices rising high, unafraid. The grandmother explained, “We sing so we remember. We sing so we do not lose who we are.”
Before bed, I stepped outside. The hills lay dark under a blanket of stars. From another house nearby, faint singing floated into the night. I realized then that music was not an event here; it was continuous, like a river flowing invisibly. The hills themselves seemed to hold harmony in their folds.
In my notebook, I wrote:
“Day Twenty-Four: Mizoram sings—not for applause, not for performance, but for survival. Its songs are threads, binding people to land, to memory, to each other. To walk here is to walk in a landscape that hums.”
On my last day, I returned to Aizawl and visited Durtlang Hills, where the city spread beneath me like a painting. Clouds rolled over rooftops, hiding and revealing them as if playing a game. A church bell rang in the distance, answered by voices rising in chorus. I stood there for a long time, listening, until it was time to leave.
As the bus carried me westward, away from Aizawl, the songs seemed to follow, echoing in the valleys. The puan shawl lay folded in my bag, bright and stubborn. I knew I would carry it always—not just as cloth, but as reminder of a land where music was not ornament but lifeblood.
That night, in a small town on the border, I opened my notebook again:
“Day Twenty-Five: I am beginning to understand that travel is not only about seeing but about listening. Each place speaks differently—mountains in silence, rivers in movement, forests in whispers, and these hills in song. My journey is becoming less about the places I reach and more about the languages I learn to hear.”
I closed the book and lay back, the faint sound of crickets filling the dark. Tomorrow, the road would turn again—toward Tripura, toward the edge of this long journey. But Mizoram’s songs would remain with me, quiet but constant, the hum of hills that refused to be silent.
Part 10 — The Journey’s End
The bus into Tripura was smaller than the others I had taken, a battered vehicle that groaned at every bend. The road wound through valleys, past forests and rivers that seemed quieter here, as if the land itself were slowing down. By the time we reached Agartala, the capital, the sky was flushed with late afternoon light. I felt a strange mix of weariness and wonder—this was the last leg of my journey, the final chapter of weeks spent moving, listening, learning.
Agartala spread gently along the Haora River, its streets wide, lined with old banyan trees. It did not have the steep drama of Gangtok or the bustling chaos of Guwahati. Instead, it carried itself with a subdued grace, a blend of Bengali and tribal influences, of palaces and small tea stalls. My guesthouse was a modest building near the center, its rooms simple but airy. From the balcony, I could hear the city’s rhythm: bicycle bells, the calls of vegetable vendors, the distant toll of temple bells.
The next morning, I visited Ujjayanta Palace. Its white domes rose above manicured gardens, a reminder of the princely state that Tripura once was. Inside, the palace was now a museum, its halls filled with artifacts: royal portraits, tribal crafts, ancient manuscripts. I wandered slowly, pausing at displays of bamboo weaving and clay masks. Each piece told a story not just of royalty but of the everyday lives that had sustained this land for centuries.
In one gallery, I stopped before a large photograph of a tribal dance. The dancers wore elaborate headdresses of feathers, their arms outstretched, their faces solemn. The caption explained how these dances were performed during harvests and rituals, to honor the earth and the spirits that guarded it. I thought of Nagaland’s log drums, Mizoram’s songs, Manipur’s floating deer. Each place had carried its memory in a different way—through sound, through silence, through rhythm. Here in Tripura, memory was movement itself.
That afternoon, I walked along the river. Children splashed in its shallows, their laughter carrying across the water. Women washed clothes, beating them against stones. Fishermen cast nets that glittered like silver against the sun. The river was smaller than the Brahmaputra, calmer than the Teesta, but it held its own dignity. It did not overwhelm; it sustained.
The following day, I traveled to Unakoti, an ancient archaeological site hidden in the forested hills. The drive was long, but when I arrived, the sight startled me: giant rock-cut faces of deities carved into cliffs, some thirty feet high, weathered but fierce. Moss grew across their brows, vines wrapped their bodies, yet their presence was undeniable. Legends said that once Shiva and countless gods rested here, and when they failed to wake in time, they were cursed to remain as stone.
I walked among the carvings, the forest pressing close, cicadas buzzing. The faces stared back—serene, sorrowful, timeless. Standing there, I felt small, as if I had stumbled into a story written not in words but in stone and silence. Travel often gives you sights, but sometimes it gives you encounters—with history, with myth, with truths you cannot name.
That evening, back in Agartala, I sat at a roadside stall eating singara and jilipi, their flavors familiar, almost like home. Around me, the city moved gently: men sipping tea from clay cups, women carrying baskets of vegetables, a boy playing a flute by the roadside. The ordinariness of it all felt precious. After weeks of mountains and rivers, forests and songs, here was life in its simplest form, steady and unpretentious.
On my final day, I woke before dawn and walked to a small temple near the guesthouse. The priest was lighting lamps, the smell of incense curling into the cool air. A handful of devotees stood quietly, palms folded, their whispers blending with birdsong. The sky brightened slowly, and as the sun rose, I felt a quiet shift inside me. This was not just an ending. It was also a beginning.
Back at the guesthouse, I packed my bag one last time. The shawl from Nagaland, the scarf from Manipur, the puan from Mizoram, the bamboo flute from Assam, the jar of chili pickle from Kalimpong—all were tucked carefully inside. They were not souvenirs but fragments of stories, threads of places that had let me in.
Before leaving, I opened my notebook, its pages filled with hurried words, ink smudges, pressed flowers, and sketches. I wrote slowly, deliberately:
“Day Thirty: A journey is not measured in miles but in moments—the silence of mountains, the fury of rivers, the songs of hills, the kindness of strangers. I came searching for landscapes, but what I found were languages: the language of silence, of resilience, of song, of stone. Travel is not escape. It is remembrance. It is learning to belong, everywhere and nowhere at once.”
I closed the book. The road had carried me across ten parts of the Northeast, each place reshaping me. Tomorrow, I would return to Kolkata, to familiar streets and voices. But I knew I would never return unchanged.
As I boarded the train that evening, Agartala fading behind me, I pressed my forehead against the glass. Fields rolled past, then forests, then rivers glinting in twilight. For the first time, I did not feel the weight of leaving. I felt the lightness of carrying.
The whistle blew, the train surged forward, and the horizon opened wide.
END
