"Tell me again why we're walking down 3,000 stairs in the rain," Sneha said, dragging her feet, umbrella flapping in the wind.
"Because you said, and I quote, 'Let's do something adventurous,'" Ravi replied, holding onto a bamboo stick for dear life.
"I meant something normal. Like paragliding or ziplining. Not this stairway to knee pain."
They were in Cherrapunji, Meghalaya. It was raining. Obviously. Sneha's hair was sticking to her face. Ravi's shoes had given up five minutes ago. Both of them were half-regretting their decision to visit the famous living root bridges in the middle of monsoon season.
"Isn't it supposed to be summer?" Sneha muttered.
"This is Meghalaya's version of summer. Rain, mist, more rain," Ravi said. "It's like walking inside a cloud that's crying non-stop."
The Bridge
When they finally reached the double-decker root bridge, Sneha stopped talking.
The place was quiet, except for the soft gurgle of the stream below. The bridges didn't look man-made. They looked like nature had decided to knit a path out of tree roots just to show off.
"It's kind of unreal," Sneha said quietly.
Ravi nodded. "Looks like something from a dream."
They stood on the bottom bridge. Under their feet, the twisted roots were damp but strong. The water ran below them, clean and fast. All around — green. Moss, ferns, vines.
Sneha leaned over the side and said, "Someone actually trained these roots. For years. Imagine waiting twenty years just to cross a bridge."
"People who plant roots they'll never use… they're thinking long-term."
"Yeah," she said. "It's weirdly… emotional. Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing," Ravi said.
Sneha looked at him sideways. "You're always laughing."
"Not always."
There was a small pause. Then Sneha broke it.
"You look like a soggy pineapple."
"Thank you. You look like a drenched cat."
They both smiled.
By the time they started climbing back up, their legs were shaking. The steps were steep, wet, and felt endless.
"I swear these stairs are multiplying behind us," Ravi said, gasping.
"I'm going to leave my kneecaps here and file a missing part report," Sneha replied.
Halfway up, they had to sit. Rain was falling again. A village dog sat beside them like a silent tour guide.
"I miss food," Ravi said.
"Same. I'd trade my dignity for pakoras right now."
At the top of the trail, they found a tiny shack with a tin roof and smoke curling out the back. A woman stood behind a big pot of pork curry. Steam filled the air. The smell made Sneha weak in the knees.
They sat on plastic chairs. The plates were steel, the food came hot and fast — jadoh (pork rice), tungrymbai (fermented soybeans), pukhlein (sweet fried rice flour bread), and hot black tea.
"Oh my god," Sneha whispered, chewing. "I think this food just healed my soul."
"I want to marry this pork," Ravi mumbled, wiping his mouth. "Tell my father I've moved on from mangoes."
Sneha raised an eyebrow. "Aami would be jealous."
Ravi smirked but didn't say anything.
They sat there for a long time, eating, laughing, shivering a little. Sneha wiped curry off her chin and said, "Okay. This state's got flavor. And near-death hiking."
Back at the Guesthouse
Their room was basic. Wooden walls, a dim bulb, and two beds with thick blankets. Rain tapped on the tin roof like someone drumming softly.
Ravi stood by the window, drinking more tea. Sneha was drying her socks on a chair.
"You know…" Ravi started.
"Uh-oh," Sneha said. "Here comes a serious thought."
"No. Just… it's weird."
"What is?"
"How... okay I feel."
Sneha didn't reply immediately. Then she said, "I get that."
"Like, I expected to feel weird being out here. After everything. But it's just… us. Again. Different place, same old us."
"I noticed," Sneha said. "You laugh more now. Still quiet sometimes. But… it's not the same quiet."
Ravi nodded.
"Do you ever feel guilty for feeling better?" he asked.
Sneha sat up. "Sometimes. But maybe we're not supposed to carry grief forever. Maybe we're just supposed to carry it with less weight."
"You sound wise."
"I read one self-help quote on Instagram yesterday. Don't get used to it."
They both laughed again.
Later That Night
It thundered outside. Power flickered. Ravi was under a thick blanket, phone charging by a candle.
"Hey Sneha."
"Yeah?"
"You still think about that promise?"
"What promise?"
"You know…"
She looked over from her bed. "The Diwali one?"
He nodded.
"Of course I do," she said. "You're the only idiot who actually kept it."
Ravi smiled to himself.
"I'm glad we're doing this," she added. "Even if the weather's trying to kill us."
"Yeah," Ravi said. "Me too."
Outside, the thunder rolled again. Inside, the two friends fell asleep, the kind that comes from tired legs, full stomachs, and the quiet feeling of being understood.