The van groaned up the hill like an old man with creaky knees.
Sneha leaned forward in the passenger seat, watching pine trees sway lazily along the winding road. "Ziro looks like someone painted it in their dreams and forgot to erase the edges."
Ravi, still gripping the steering wheel like it owed him money, mumbled, "I feel like this van's about to give up on us. Like emotionally."
Sneha snorted. "That's because you fed it only chips and fizzy drinks at the last stop. Even vehicles need proper meals, Ravi."
They passed quiet paddy fields, spread like green silk across the valley, with tiny wooden houses perched beside them. The air smelled fresh — annoyingly fresh — the kind that makes you question your entire life in the city.
They parked near a homestay where an old woman welcomed them like she had been waiting all summer. She served them tea made from some local leaf neither of them could pronounce, and offered fresh boiled rice cakes, bamboo shoot curry, and boiled pork with mustard leaves.
Ravi took one bite and froze.
Sneha raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"This is better than 90% of my childhood," he said quietly.
The woman laughed. "Eat slowly. Ziro doesn't like people who rush."
Sneha leaned in, whispering dramatically, "That's code for 'we don't have Uber here.'"
After the meal, they took their cycles again — Sneha's idea, as usual — and rode through the open fields. Tourists walked around with DSLRs and overly serious faces. One guy was crouched in the mud, trying to photograph a frog like it was a rare diamond.
"You think we look like tourists too?" Sneha asked.
"We look like two lost kids who borrowed someone else's vacation," Ravi replied.
Sneha suddenly pulled her cycle over and pointed. "Is that… a music school?"
It was. The sign read "Ziro Youth Music Collective." Inside, a group of kids were strumming guitars, learning folk songs. The instructor waved them in without asking who they were.
"Come in. Everyone learns something in Ziro," he said.
Ravi awkwardly held a drum like it was an alien fruit. Sneha picked up a bamboo flute and blew into it. A shrill noise rang out.
Everyone winced.
"I think I just summoned a mountain spirit," she whispered.
They both laughed until tears threatened to fall. And in the middle of it, Ravi realized—he hadn't thought about the past for hours. No memories tugging at his mind. No guilt climbing his throat. Just a flute, a drum, and Sneha being ridiculous.
As the sun dipped behind the hills, they sat on a low wooden bench, eating sweet corn roasted over a fire with local chili salt. The smoke curled into the sky like lazy poetry.
Sneha looked up and said, softly, "You're lighter these days."
Ravi blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Your face. It used to look like a closed window. Now it's… I dunno. Slightly open? Enough for sunlight to sneak in."
He didn't reply right away. The fire cracked gently.
"I think… being here with you… and food… and stupid bicycles… I guess I'm remembering how to live."
Sneha nodded like it was no big deal, even though her eyes glistened a little.
"Good. Because I'm not carrying you back down this hill. That mango-fed body is too heavy."
He chuckled. "Still calling me mango boy, huh?"
"That's your official summer name."
They sat until the firewood died out. No music, no noise — just crickets and the quiet kind of happiness that doesn't need to be said out loud.