The sky was silver when they reached Loktak Lake.
Clouds hung low like laundry left out too long, and the water below glistened in pieces — half sunlight, half memory. Their van rolled to a quiet stop near a small homestay. A sleepy dog lifted its head and decided they weren't interesting enough to bark at.
Sneha stepped out first, stretching her arms to the sky. "Manipur air feels... I don't know. Clean?"
Ravi stepped out more slowly, blinking at the lake. "It feels quiet. Like even my thoughts are taking a break."
The journey had changed them, even if neither of them said it out loud. From Arunachal to Mizoram, cycling in the rain, arguing over momo sauces, getting lost in small villages, finding their way back with food and jokes — everything led to this stillness.
The homestay host came out, an elderly Meitei woman with kind eyes and sharper instincts. She didn't ask questions. Just smiled at the tiredness in Ravi's face and the dust on Sneha's shoes.
"You both hungry?" she asked, as if that was the only thing that really mattered.
Sneha beamed. "Always."
They dropped their bags in the small wooden room facing the lake and followed the smell of something cooking. The dining area was just a thatched shed with a long table and benches, overlooking the water.
They ate in silence at first. Ngari curry, sticky rice, boiled greens, and a fiery chutney that Sneha underestimated until her eyes watered.
"You okay?" Ravi asked, grinning.
"I'm fine," she coughed, wiping tears. "I'm just... emotional about the greens."
Ravi chuckled softly. Even that small sound felt different now — not as hollow.
The host came by and poured warm black tea into their cups. "You two from far?"
"Far enough," Ravi said, his voice low.
She nodded, as if she understood more than he'd said, and walked away.
They stayed two days at Loktak.
On the first evening, they rented a small wooden boat and floated through the phumdis — those surreal floating islands that moved gently across the lake. It was like sailing through someone else's dream.
Sneha let her hand trail in the water. "You remember what you said back then? About going out only when we grow older?"
Ravi didn't answer right away. He was watching the horizon, where the water touched the sky like a sealed envelope.
"Yeah," he said eventually. "Back then... it was just a way to pretend things would get better."
"And now?"
"Now it's real. We're here. I kept the promise."
She smiled, small but proud. "You really did."
He turned to her. "You helped me."
Sneha waved him off. "I mostly just dragged you from food stall to food stall."
He smirked. "Exactly what I needed."
That night, he sat by the lake long after Sneha had gone to sleep. His fingers played absently with the fabric of his sleeve. He could still hear his mother's voice — not clearly, not in full sentences. But in feelings. In the way she always told him, "When you promise something, Ravi, it means something. You don't break it just because you're hurting."
He whispered to the dark, "I kept it, Ma."
There was no answer, just the sound of rippling water and the soft hum of night insects.
But for the first time, silence didn't scare him.
The next day, they cycled around the village paths near the lake. They bought roasted lotus seeds from an old man with two teeth and a huge laugh. Sneha took a photo with a grandmother who made fermented bamboo shoot pickles. They tried eromba, a mashed dish of vegetables and fish, spicy and comforting.
They didn't talk about where they were headed next.
Maybe they both knew it didn't matter. The journey had done what it needed to do.
That afternoon, they sat on the porch of the homestay, watching the slow shift of clouds.
Sneha leaned back. "It's weird. I thought once we reached the last stop, something big would happen. Like a big realization. Some dramatic speech."
Ravi raised an eyebrow. "Want me to do a monologue?"
She laughed. "Nah. I think... maybe this is enough. Just sitting here. With you. Quiet."
He nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
Then he added, "Also I'm not great at speeches. I'd probably cry halfway through and sneeze into my own shirt."
Sneha burst out laughing, nearly falling off her chair.
They watched the lake for a long time after that.
On the morning of their departure, the host packed them homemade rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves.
"Sweet," she said, pressing the bundle into Ravi's hands. "To remember."
Ravi nodded, looking at the lake one last time.
As they got into the van, Sneha looked at him sideways. "So... what now? Back home?"
Ravi didn't answer immediately.
He reached into the dashboard and pulled out the faded photo of them as kids — Diwali night, sparks flying, Sneha laughing, Ravi's mom in the background smiling with tired eyes.
He folded it gently and put it in his pocket.
Then he said, "Back home. But not like before."
Sneha smiled, warm and quiet.
"Let's go then," she said. "The road won't wait forever."
The engine started. The van rolled forward. Loktak faded into the rearview — still and shining, holding their memories like a gentle whisper.
THE END
Thank You For Reading
By Jinx Basu