The road to the village wasn't on any map.
Ravi double-checked his phone. No signal. Sneha peeked out the window at the endless greenery. They'd driven off the main road an hour ago. The van now grumbled like it had opinions about the road quality.
"Ravi," Sneha said cautiously, "are you sure this is the shortcut the guy at the dhaba mentioned?"
"He said it's the scenic route. I just assumed 'scenic' didn't mean 'hostage situation by nature.'"
She rolled her eyes. "This doesn't even look like a road anymore. It's… a suggestion."
The trees thickened. A drizzle tapped the windshield. Ravi slowed the van, then stopped entirely as the wheels skidded slightly in the soft mud.
"We're going to die here," Sneha declared. "They'll find our bones next to a packet of half-eaten banana chips."
"No one dies dramatically with banana chips," Ravi muttered.
Just as Sneha was preparing her dramatic will in her head, an elderly man in a raincoat appeared out of nowhere, tapping gently on the window. His face was deeply lined but kind.
"You two are not from here," he said with a faint smile.
Sneha rolled down the window, cautiously.
"No, sir. We're kind of... lost," Ravi offered.
"Kind of," Sneha echoed, glaring at him.
The old man nodded. "You're near Khonoma. Come. The road ends here anyway."
"But the van—"
"Don't worry. Rain will stop. You can leave it here. No one touches anything in Khonoma."
With no better plan, they grabbed their light bags, locked the van, and followed him along a forest path. It twisted through bamboo groves and mist-soaked trees until the trees parted to reveal Khonoma Village, nestled quietly into the hillside — stone houses, wooden fences, smoke rising gently from chimneys, and a silence that felt sacred.
"This place," Sneha whispered, "feels like it remembers everything."
Their guide — who introduced himself as Ato, a retired schoolteacher — welcomed them into his home, where his wife handed them towels and hot tea made from wild herbs. Steam rose from their cups like blessings.
"You are lucky," Ato said. "We have a feast today."
"Oh? A festival?" Sneha perked up.
"No," he smiled. "My niece is getting married. You are guests now. Guests must eat."
Ravi and Sneha exchanged glances.
"Wait… we're crashing a wedding?" she hissed.
"We're not crashing. We're… merging cultures," Ravi whispered back.
In the courtyard of Ato's house, long banana leaves had been spread out on makeshift tables. Villagers bustled around, setting pots over fires, pounding spices, and laughing freely. Children ran barefoot, chasing chickens that clearly didn't want to be part of the celebration.
Sneha whispered, "I already love this wedding. Zero jewelry, maximum food."
Ato's niece, radiant in a Naga shawl and beaded necklace, came over, surprised to see outsiders but smiling brightly. "You are the van people?"
"That's us," Ravi replied. "Celebrity status unlocked."
The food came in waves. Smoked pork with axone (fermented soybean) so rich and spicy it made Sneha tear up. Sticky rice steamed in bamboo, dry-fried beef with ghost chili, and snails cooked with herbs Ravi politely declined but admired from a distance.
Then came sticky rice cake with sesame paste and wild honey.
Sneha took a bite and went silent.
"What?" Ravi asked, chewing.
She looked up slowly. "I think I just forgave all my exes. That's how good this is."
Villagers shared rice beer in bamboo cups. Someone handed Ravi a traditional drum. Kids dragged Sneha into a folk dance circle. It was loud, messy, joyous — and they didn't feel like outsiders anymore.
Hours later, the sky cracked with thunder.
"What now?" Sneha muttered as rain poured down in buckets. Everyone rushed under bamboo shelters. The forest path back to the van was now a mudslide waiting to happen.
"You can't go today," Ato said firmly. "Stay."
"Do people often get stuck here?" Ravi asked.
"Not often. Only the interesting ones," Ato said with a wink.
That night, in a quiet guest room with carved wooden walls, Sneha sat cross-legged on the mattress, a thick blanket around her shoulders. Ravi was by the window, staring at lightning in the distant hills.
She broke the silence. "You know what's weird?"
"Your obsession with spicy food that clearly wants to murder you?"
She made a face. "No. I mean... being here. In this tiny village. With you. It feels... full."
He nodded. "I don't feel heavy here."
They both stayed quiet for a while. The room smelled of woodsmoke and rain.
Sneha spoke again, softer this time. "I used to think traveling was about seeing things. Now I think it's about feeling less stuck."
Ravi turned to her, surprised. "You feel stuck too?"
"Of course," she said. "You think I came on this trip just for the food?"
He grinned. "Honestly, yes."
She threw a pillow at him. He ducked.
"I was stuck in routine. Stuck in safety. This summer… it's like we're peeling off layers."
Ravi smiled. "One sticky rice at a time."
They both laughed. Ato knocked gently and left a warm bottle of rice beer outside their door. There was nothing else to do but talk.
And so they did — about school, life, grief, and guilt, about old friends, silly things, and how sometimes you cry for reasons you don't even understand.
At one point, Sneha said, "If Aami were here, she'd probably be rolling her eyes at us."
Ravi nodded. "Or dancing in the rain just to show us how to live."
The next morning, the rain stopped.
The path was slippery, but manageable. Ato packed them smoked pork wrapped in banana leaf, dried fish chutney, and sticky rice for the road. His wife tucked two extra rice cakes into Sneha's bag with a smile that didn't need translation.
As they left the village, Sneha looked back.
"I don't want to forget this place."
"You won't," Ravi said. "You'll taste it every time you eat sesame and honey."
Sneha grinned. "You know, you're starting to sound like someone who feels things."
"I'm evolving. Must be the pork."
Back at the van, now surprisingly untouched, they loaded their things. Sneha handed Ravi the rice cakes.
"For later. When we're lost again."
"We'll get lost again?"
"Obviously. That's how good stories happen."
Ravi laughed. "Well, next time, let's at least get lost somewhere that doesn't try to feed me snails."
"Admit it," she said, climbing into the passenger seat. "This might've been your favorite day."
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he started the van, looked out at the misty green hills one last time, and said, "Let's find the next wrong turn."