As their van twisted up the roads of Mizoram, Sneha held onto the dashboard with one hand and a pack of murukku in the other.
"Ravi, are you sure this road leads somewhere and not to heaven directly?" she asked, half yelling over the engine's grumble.
"According to the map, we're on track. According to my soul, we've been lost since Assam," Ravi replied.
They finally reached Aizawl, Mizoram's capital, which looked like a painting scattered on a mountain. Buildings clung to hills like daring climbers, and everyone walked with purpose — even the wind.
Their homestay auntie greeted them at the door with the gentlest "Chibai!" and a warm smile. She handed them slippers and gestured to a signboard: "Please remove shoes before entering. House is not battlefield."
Sneha whispered, "I already love this place."
Later that evening, they wandered through the Luangmual Handicrafts Centre, where Sneha got deeply invested in traditional shawls.
"You think I'd look cool in this?" she asked, wrapping a maroon one around herself.
"You'd look like a fashionable burrito," Ravi replied.
They both burst into laughter, loud enough for nearby tourists to look over.
Dinner was the kind of quiet that makes you sit straighter. They were served Bai (a mild stew made with veggies and fermented bamboo shoot), smoked pork with sesame, and sticky rice steamed in bamboo tubes. Every bite tasted like patience and tradition.
Ravi ate slower than usual.
Sneha noticed. "What's wrong? Too many vegetables for your rich-boy mouth?"
Ravi shook his head. "No. It's just... this food feels like it's made by someone who forgives you before you even eat."
The line came out more serious than he expected. Sneha didn't laugh.
She reached for another pork piece and said gently, "You think you still need forgiveness?"
Ravi looked at the bowl in front of him. "Sometimes, yeah. From her. From myself. I don't even know."
There was a pause. A soft one.
"Well, you've come a long way from that guy in the dark room," she said. "Now you're out here, eating fermented bamboo and surviving roads that look like spaghetti."
He smiled weakly. "I still think about her. Aami."
"I know."
Ravi looked up. "How?"
"You say her name in your sleep," she said without looking at him. "But now, it sounds less like pain. More like… remembering."
Later that night, they walked through a quiet street market, trying local sweets made of sticky jaggery and sesame seeds. Sneha tried a Mizo pickled chili and immediately turned red.
"Oh my god—my soul is on fire," she wheezed.
Ravi handed her water, laughing. "This is what you get for acting like a spice god."
Sneha coughed. "Worth it. It tasted like pain and purpose."
They sat on a low wall, watching the city lights twinkle below them like spilled stars. Silence stretched between them, but it was the kind that didn't need fixing.
"You think we'll forget all this one day?" she asked suddenly.
"No," Ravi said. "Not a single bite."
Sneha grinned. "You mean moment?"
"No. Bite. That pork was unforgettable."
She shoved his shoulder, and they both laughed again.