The sun came up too confidently for how little sleep either of them had. Birds outside chirped with the kind of irritating energy that only nature can get away with. Ravi's old van sat in front of his house like a stubborn relic—scratched paint, mismatched seat covers, and a personality of its own.
Sneha climbed into the passenger seat wearing sunglasses way too large for her face and chewing on a guava like it owed her rent.
"We look like criminals running away from adult responsibilities," she announced, planting her feet on the dashboard.
"We are adults," Ravi muttered, turning the key. "Barely."
"Exactly," she grinned. "That makes this a lightly illegal emotional adventure."
The engine groaned like an old man getting out of bed, but it started. Ravi checked the rearview mirror, adjusted absolutely nothing, and pulled out.
"First stop?" he asked.
Sneha didn't hesitate. She pointed forward like a general.
"Anywhere with carbs."
They found it an hour outside Guwahati: a small dhaba with red plastic chairs, walls darkened from years of smoke, and a handwritten signboard that simply read: FOOD.
It was perfect.
They sat at a shaky table while a teenage boy brought out hot alu pitika—mashed potatoes blended with mustard oil, green chilies, and coriander—along with steamed rice and a rich, tangy fish curry. Jolpan followed, then a surprise arrival of two perfect rosogollas that trembled under their own syrupy weight.
Sneha took one bite and closed her eyes.
"This is better than love."
"You've never been in love," Ravi said, mouth full.
"Exactly. That's why I still trust food."
Ravi tried a spoonful of something pickled and red. He coughed like a spark plug misfiring and reached for water in desperation.
Sneha stared at him in judgmental silence.
"That chutney is a war crime," he wheezed.
"You're soft," she replied, popping the same chutney into her mouth like a dare. "I bathe in this stuff."
They left stuffed and sun-drunk, a box of sweets sliding back and forth in the rear as they hit the road again.
Later, on a stretch of empty highway near a village market, Sneha spotted something.
"Bicycles!" she shouted, pressing her face to the glass.
"What about them?"
"They rent them."
"We have a van."
"Yeah, but bikes have spirit."
Ravi didn't even argue. Ten minutes later, they were wobbling along a country path on two mismatched cycles—his bright orange, hers neon pink. Lush fields rolled out on either side. Hills framed the sky. A few kids ran beside them, laughing, as goats bleated somewhere nearby.
Sneha, fueled by confidence and questionable balance, tried a sharp turn and nearly launched herself into a rice paddy.
She came up covered in mud and outrage.
"Graceful," Ravi called from behind.
"I've become one with the land," she said, wiping muck from her cheek.
As evening settled in, they pulled over near a lake they found on a faded signboard that simply said: Lake Here.
They laid out a mat beside the van and watched fireflies blink above the water. Ravi opened a bottle of soda. Sneha handed him the last rosogolla.
"This is the first time in forever that I've done something just because I wanted to," she said, softly.
"Feels weird?"
"No," she said. "Feels like breathing."
She leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the sky.
"You're paying for this trip, right?"
Ravi didn't even look over. "You think this van runs on your sarcasm?"
"A little bit, yeah."
They both laughed, quiet and easy. For once, there was nothing they had to be or do. Just two idiots, somewhere, nowhere, on a map that belonged only to them.
Inside the van that night, Sneha pulled out a small, crumpled map. The kind made from cheap paper and stubborn dreams.
"Let's mark everywhere we go," she said.
Ravi raised an eyebrow. "This is aggressively retro."
"Shut up. It's romantic."
"You just said food is better than love."
"Exactly. This is a map. Not a boyfriend."
She circled Guwahati in red ink and wrote under it:
Day 1 – Escaped. Ate. Didn't die.
Ravi smiled as he watched her. Maybe food was better than love. But this? This was both.