The van rattled a bit as it curved through the hilly road leading to Unakoti, the sky above layered with the soft haze of early morning. A few drops of rain fell on the windshield, lazy and random, like the place wasn't quite ready to decide if it wanted to drizzle or not.
Sneha had her feet up on the dashboard, eating something wrapped in a banana leaf.
"What is that?" Ravi asked, glancing sideways.
"Mui Borok," she said with a full mouth. "Well, a version of it. Sticky rice with bamboo shoots. Tastes like someone rolled a forest into a ball and steamed it."
Ravi blinked. "That… sounds awful."
"It's amazing. Try it."
She held it out, and against better judgment, he took a bite. It was earthy, soft, and strangely comforting. Like eating something your grandmother might have made while yelling at you for not wearing socks.
"You're right," he mumbled. "Tastes like a forest."
"See?" she grinned. "Not everything that smells suspicious ends up a disappointment. Unlike your taste in music."
Ravi groaned. "Not this again."
They arrived at Unakoti just as the sun burned through the clouds, lighting up the massive rock carvings. The stone faces—ancient, majestic, quiet—seemed to watch them from above, as if aware of their presence.
Ravi stood in silence for a while.
Sneha didn't speak either.
Maybe it was the place. Or maybe it was the weight of memories. But something about standing under the weathered eyes of Shiva made Ravi's chest feel heavier.
After a while, Sneha said, softly, "She would've liked this, wouldn't she?"
Ravi didn't need to ask who. "Yeah," he said. "She always liked places that felt… still. Like the world paused a little."
"Like you."
He looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"You're always thinking. Always stuck inside your head. Like you're afraid to say things because once you say them, they become real."
Ravi swallowed. "It's not that."
"It is."
He didn't reply.
They walked through the stone forest, their voices quiet, letting the silence speak in between. Birds chirped somewhere far off. A group of tourists laughed nearby, but their sounds felt distant, like part of a different world.
Later that afternoon, they drove down to Agartala, winding through narrow roads dotted with tea stalls. Sneha had her eye on every roadside shack.
"There's this place I read about—sells the best pitha in Tripura. We're going."
"Of course we are," Ravi muttered, already turning the van toward the next corner.
The stall didn't look like much: a tin roof, wooden benches, a woman in her fifties steaming rice cakes with a serene kind of focus. But the smell? The smell was unforgettable—warm, nutty, with a hint of jaggery.
Sneha nearly cried biting into the soft chire pitha.
"Okay, I'm officially done. No more restaurants. Just women with no signage and three pots."
Ravi chuckled, chewing slowly. "It's good."
"Good? Ravi, this is so soft it might emotionally hug you."
He smiled again. She had that effect. She could take any moment, even a quiet bite of a rice cake, and wrap it in something warm.
As they sat under the shade of a jackfruit tree behind the stall, Sneha pulled out her sketchbook.
"You're drawing again?" Ravi asked.
"Yeah," she said, not looking up. "Helps me remember. I don't want this trip to blur later. I want to know where we were. Who we were."
She handed him the book. There were sketches of waterfalls, of the stone carvings at Unakoti, of him yawning in the van. One page had just the words:
"Diwali: We promised to go out when we grow older."
Ravi's throat tightened.
"I know I joke a lot," she said, her tone softer now. "But I remember. That night. The fireworks. You were the only one who listened."
He looked down at the page again.
"I wasn't the same after Ma passed," he said quietly. "I stopped listening to everything."
Sneha didn't rush to fill the silence.
"I kept thinking," Ravi continued, "what's the point of anything if you lose the people who mean the most?"
"You don't stop living," she said, "you carry them with you. You keep the promises. Even if it's late. Even if you're broken."
He nodded, not looking up.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "And you're not broken, Ravi. You're just… finding the pieces again."
That night, they stayed in a quiet homestay in the outskirts of Agartala. An old couple ran the place and fed them fish curry with mustard, rice, and fried banana blossoms. Ravi couldn't remember the last time he ate this much.
As they lay under separate mosquito nets in the same room, Sneha called out through the dark.
"Hey."
"Yeah?"
"You still snore?"
"Go to sleep, Sneha."
She laughed. "You're lucky I don't charge for emotional therapy and road snacks."
He smiled in the dark, letting her voice be the last thing he heard before drifting off.