As I stirred awake that morning, my mind slowly registered the peculiar sensation—it felt as if I was sprawled in my tent with my head resting in Myanmar while my feet lay anchored in India. But what was this strange feeling, this twist in my senses?

A moment later, reality set in. It wasn't some enigmatic force—it was simply a bundle of chaat, the savory snack. Last night, after a lengthy search, I had taken refuge in Aang's room to escape the biting cold.

I stumbled outside, my feet bare, my appearance a testament to just having woken up. I found myself at the summit of Longwar, the ultimate outpost of North-East India, nestled within the homeland of the Kanyak Nagas. This village marked the crossroads of the 21st-century India-Myanmar border. The illustrious Konyak King, Aang the Great, had constructed his residence in such an unconventional manner—half of it resided in India, while the other half extended into Myanmar.

The grounds of Aang's house on the Myanmar side were nothing short of surreal. A breathtaking panorama of towering mountains stretched across the horizon, their summits concealed by the embrace of clouds. Amidst this breathtaking scenery, a steep and imposing mass stood, one that I presumed to be a mountain—though it was unlike any mountain I'd ever seen before. Beneath this monumental presence lay a valley, the terrain winding its way down into the unknown depths. As I stood there, casting my gaze upon the labyrinthine pathways etched onto the landscape like dark brushstrokes, the clouds above seemed to coil and writhe in a mesmerizing spiral dance.

I returned to the campsite, soaking in the last traces of the morning light while taking one final look at the breathtaking view.

Swiftly, I packed up my tent, changed into my cycling gear, and slipped on my shoes. I headed towards a hearty breakfast that was being prepared over a roaring fire. The previous night, I had asked a maid in Aang's kitchen for a simple morning meal—some veggies, fried eggs, and rice. She looked at me, amused, as if the idea was a bit unusual. I was surprised for the second time when she served me a plate of Motachal rice with a touch of kachapepe, boiled stink beans, and crispy fried eggs. The flavors were divine, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was some magic in her cooking. On my way out, she gifted me a precious keepsake—a war dress garland worn by Konyak warriors.

Starting the day's journey with a light heart, I noticed a row of small pawn shops, still closed, along the only brick-paved road in Longwa. There weren't many people around at this early hour—just a few kids playing and some Indian army men standing guard with rifles in hand. Their curious stares made me feel like the center of attention. I was determined not to dismount as I tackled a steep uphill stretch at the southwestern end of Longwa. Though it was tough, I gritted my teeth and conquered the challenging Khoa ascent. As I reached the peak, I stole one last glance at Longwa. I knew that once I descended and moved forward, I might never get to witness the magic of that hilltop village again. Clouds floated beneath me, creating an otherworldly sight.

And then, that's exactly what happened. Despite the breathtaking natural beauty surrounding me, I felt a strange emptiness in my chest and a lump in my throat. Even as I looked at the stunning valley before me, an overwhelming wave of emotions hit me. It all converged into a powerful realization—I was leaving behind a town where my heart wanted to stay forever, even though I was fiercely asserting my independence and continuing on my journey.

I returned to the campsite, soaking in the last traces of the morning light while taking one final look at the breathtaking view.

Swiftly, I packed up my tent, changed into my cycling gear, and slipped on my shoes. I headed towards a hearty breakfast that was being prepared over a roaring fire. The previous night, I had asked a maid in Aang's kitchen for a simple morning meal—some veggies, fried eggs, and rice. She looked at me, amused, as if the idea was a bit unusual. I was surprised for the second time when she served me a plate of Motachal rice with a touch of kachapepe, boiled stink beans, and crispy fried eggs. The flavors were divine, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was some magic in her cooking. On my way out, she gifted me a precious keepsake—a war dress garland worn by Konyak warriors.

Starting the day's journey with a light heart, I noticed a row of small pawn shops, still closed, along the only brick-paved road in Longwa. There weren't many people around at this early hour—just a few kids playing and some Indian army men standing guard with rifles in hand. Their curious stares made me feel like the center of attention. I was determined not to dismount as I tackled a steep uphill stretch at the southwestern end of Longwa. Though it was tough, I gritted my teeth and conquered the challenging Khoa ascent. As I reached the peak, I stole one last glance at Longwa. I knew that once I descended and moved forward, I might never get to witness the magic of that hilltop village again. Clouds floated beneath me, creating an otherworldly sight.

And then, that's exactly what happened. Despite the breathtaking natural beauty surrounding me, I felt a strange emptiness in my chest and a lump in my throat. Even as I looked at the stunning valley before me, an overwhelming wave of emotions hit me. It all converged into a powerful realization—I was leaving behind a town where my heart wanted to stay forever, even though I was fiercely asserting my independence and continuing on my journey.

In Dhaka, a sudden realization hit me—I needed to reach out to my friend. The new semester's course advising was happening, and my friend was taking care of it in my absence. I learned that there was no section available for artificial intelligence, so I opted for computer graphics instead. Well, I thought to myself, and let out a deep sigh. Where was I now, and where was I heading back to...

A sense of relief washed over me as I observed the boys fishing out a packet of pineapple-flavored biscuits to snack on. Their hair danced in the wind, and I took a moment to adjust my own clothes. In that distant valley, thousands of miles away from home, a significant portion of the clear blue sky was hidden behind the towering mountain range. Amidst the rushing sounds of water, I began to hear the unique melodies of nature.

Ahead of me lay a daunting climb, around 8 km in length. The road was far from smooth, making it undoubtedly the most challenging ascent of my journey. However, on that day, I felt an extraordinary surge of determination. I conquered that hill with the strength of a force within me. On the day I set out, I found out that a young woman from North India had cycled the same route a week earlier. She had struggled with the uphill sections and had been assisted by a patrolling patrol from Pomching, an Indian Army base. They had lifted her bicycle and transported her uphill. She had been alone, much like me. Who knew, perhaps that became my motivation that day—to surpass her achievement!

Once I reached Pomching, there was no turning back. A well-paved road lay ahead now, but the sky was once again adorned with clouds that threatened rain. And rain it did, just 6 km away from Man City. As I climbed the final ascent, the thick forest caused me to break a sweat. My shirt clung to my body, and beads of sweat attempted to trickle down my hair, over my nose, and into my mouth. I was determined not to swallow it, so each time a droplet reached the tip of my nose, I had to shake my head from side to side—it must have been a comical sight.

Oddly, I felt a sense of joy as the rain started falling. It was as if everything was being cleansed!

As I navigated through this mix of mental and physical states, along with the changing weather, I glanced at my watch. It was barely two o'clock in the afternoon. But if I pushed myself today, I could reach Sonari in Assam, around 50 kilometers to the northwest. The route included a 26 km straight downhill stretch—quite the tempting prospect in between the challenging 50 km journey.

I had only a small packet of biscuits left in my stock at that time. If I didn't change my mind, there wouldn't be any shops ahead. A 4-kilometer climb awaited me! Well, I decided—I'll save these remaining 50 kilometers with this packet of biscuits. The 26-kilometer downhill stretch is right in the middle of the Mon-Sonari road. So, there's more climbing to do. The slow and somewhat tedious yet exhilarating climb would end at Longsa Hill.

Once I finished the last uphill, my plan was to recline on the saddle. After 26 kms, I'd rise again near the Assam border. Rain began to fall gently. But oh, what rain! It felt as if tiny bullets were striking me every nanosecond! Amidst this, I locked the fork, engaged the highest gear combination, inserted earphones into both ears, put my favorite romantic song on repeat, released both hands from the brake to grip the bar end, squinted my eyes, focused on the road, and settled into my favorite saddle position. If I were given an hour to live and asked how I'd spend it, this would be that hour. I cherished every second, feeling an immense gratitude for life.

Coincidentally, the rain that started as I began my downhill ride stopped as I finished descending. What a pleasant surprise! I don't know exactly what I felt, but my heart was racing as I dismounted and headed to a samosa shop for some savory snacks and sweets. My heartbeat was still racing like a galloping horse. Everything around me appeared hazy. The shopkeeper, an Assamese who knew Bengali, engaged in conversation with me. I don't recall the details of our chat, but he was incredulous that I had come from Longwa!

It was almost evening. The Assam border was 7 km away, and Sonari was 11 km ahead. Anyone who's ever ridden downhill from a mountain to a flat terrain knows how challenging that transition can be. Fortunately, the road wasn't flat—it featured alternating uphill and downhill sections. When darkness finally descended, I halted before a striking pylon at the Nagaland-Assam border.

In an instant, the world transformed before me. After being in a Christian-dominated area for so long, I was suddenly in Hindu-dominated Assam. Houses looked different, skin tones varied, physical structures changed, and even the language shifted. The landscape and mountains disappeared from view. I couldn't even see behind me. The area was bustling with frequent shops, bustling crowds, and dense traffic. Vibrant colors adorned everyone's clothing. The stark contrast was astonishing—just a mere 10 meters made all the difference.

Standing in that market, I treated myself to some panipuri. My belly was full, but I couldn't resist enjoying the delicious treat that I encountered during my journey through Nagaland. The vendor handed me a small bowl and began assembling the puris, the tangy water spilling over. Before I could finish chewing one, another puri was ready. On the day I set out, I had eaten from this vendor and mentioned that I was heading to Longwa. He had wished me well. On my way back, as I crossed the Nagaland Gate, I searched for him eagerly. As I pulled up in front of his shop, I greeted him with "A Bhi Gaya Up!"—he had a cheerful recognition in his eyes. He gathered a group of Assamese people around and shared my adventure with them. I spent some lovely moments connecting with elderly folks, teenagers, and young individuals from Assam.

Having indulged in panipuri, I geared up for the last 10 kilometers. I reflected on the many steep climbs I had conquered throughout the day. The calculations were getting jumbled in my head. As I settled into the darkness, a sense of despondency overcame me. During bike journeys, seeing darkness before reaching the destination always upset me—its weight felt unbearable. While I had lights in my bag, I hesitated to set up the power bank. The surroundings were enveloped in tea gardens on both sides. The path was narrow, and visibility was almost nonexistent due to the fading daylight. I pressed on along the somewhat familiar route.

With 5 km left to Sonari, my gaze caught the headlights of a private car coming from the opposite direction. Without adequate visibility, I rode at 25 km per hour when the front wheel suddenly plunged into a pothole, causing me to crash face-first. I'm not prone to accidents—my riding style is quite relaxed. This was only my second fall on a bicycle, and to date, my last. The car passed by, but a pedestrian honked from behind. I'll always remember his words. He asked in regional Hindi, with genuine concern, whether I had missed the pothole because of the headlights. And he inquired where I was headed.

"My home is far away, sir, you wouldn't know about it."

"Where are you going?"

"Sonari"

He didn't display any curiosity about my destination or my home. He simply advised me to be cautious and mentioned that Sonari was nearby.

I parted ways with the man, feeling oddly calm. My mood had shifted from irritability to serenity. Tea gardens lined both sides of the road, and the road itself was quite dark. The leaves of the beetle nuts rustled in the breeze. In that very moment...

In that exact moment, I witnessed the most enchanting and otherworldly sight of my life. As I descended a hill, darkness suddenly ignited on both sides. I was taken aback, as if jolted by the scene. A burst of light pierced the darkness like lightning. Before I could fully grasp it, the stars flared up again, revealing a valley of undulating tea trees. Countless fireflies, numbering in the hundreds of thousands if not millions, twinkled in synchronized harmony. I'm certain that very few individuals worldwide have been lucky enough to witness such a spectacle firsthand. They adorned the tea garden, stretching as far as the eye could see, with their extraordinary play of light and luminescence. Who would've thought that a night could be so brilliantly illuminated without the presence of the moon in the sky? I pedaled through the darkness, moving cautiously, afraid that the slightest noise might startle these remarkable creatures. Where had all my haste vanished to? I watched in awe that evening—a magnificent masterpiece of nature.

Upon reaching Sonari, I made a beeline for Sonari Jame Masjid (mosque). The reason for visiting this mosque holds a substantial history, a tale for another time. For now, let's just say that on my way to Longwa, I had stopped at Sonari and sought refuge at this mosque after finding no available hotels. Needless to say, the imam of the mosque is an extraordinary individual.

The memory of that mosque will forever remain with me! A square room on the second floor of a two-story building, where three single beds were arranged under three ceiling fans, graciously offered to some unexpected guests for the night! I ended up sharing those beds with three other individuals throughout the night. More like a joyful slumber party!

After refreshing myself with a pleasant shower, I set out to explore Sonari. I strolled through its streets, savoring street food along the way. One of my cherished activities during trips is wandering through town in the evening. I relished a treat called Khelam Misty and Juice, along with some Momo. It was the first time I had Momo in my life, right at that eatery. The delectable taste of that dish lingered on my palate.

Upon returning to the mosque for the Isha prayer, I found the rain pouring heavily outside. What a downpour! Engaging in prayer amidst such a celestial atmosphere was a truly incredible experience. As I finished my prayers, a delightful surprise awaited me. How did all 40 worshipers of the mosque come to know that I had cycled here all the way from Bangladesh? Their warm welcome brought tears to my eyes, and words of admiration and encouragement flowed from the kind folks of Murubbi. They asked if I had eaten. I responded with a modest smile, "I had a few too many Momo in the evening!" A few bearded gentlemen chuckled! With all the eateries closed, where was I supposed to feast, especially in this bustling town? And then, a name emerged—Sushant Singh Rajput! Well, being a fervent fan of MS Dhoni, I certainly recognized that name. But what could he possibly have to do with the mosque in Sonari? I swear, the resemblance between that young man and Sushant was uncanny.

And here's the most intriguing part—his voice sounded exactly like the film hero's! His manner of speaking matched too! My eyes widened as he asked, "Would you mind accompanying me to my salon? I'd like to make a short video clip with you!" This dashing guy owned a salon right next to the mosque. He settled me in a chair, activated his front camera, positioned himself behind my head, and beamed. He asked me to say something about Assam and India. How eloquently did I ramble on? What exactly I said, only the heavens know!

Afterward, he gallantly accompanied me to explore the entire array of Sonari's restaurants, shielding us from the rain with his umbrella from the salon. Rules were set aside! In front of the mosque, as I returned, one of the teachers offered to hold the umbrella for me. That rainy night, Sushant took me to the last open restaurant in town, where he treated me to rice and fish, then escorted me to his house. I dozed off later, intending to return his umbrella to him in the morning.

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