Lanka, a bustling yet small town in Assam's Hojai district, is situated amidst the fertile alluvial plains of the Brahmaputra to the north and the eastern hills a short distance to the south.

I visited Lanka for the first time on a hot day last fall. I could have avoided the dense forests of southern Assam and the dirt roads, but subconsciously, I also yearned to witness the habitat of the Assamese elephants. Along the southern bank of the Kopli River, a narrow path wound through the densest jungle I had ever encountered. The pitch-blackness of the forest was intense, and the foliage seemed impenetrable. After a brief stop at a curious market named Three Kilo, where I had a few bananas and a cup of remarkably strong red tea, I managed to navigate through a muddy path that led to a coal warehouse. A uniformed guard, armed and vigilant, stood nearby, indicating that I shouldn't venture alone on that isolated road. I had to connect with him mentally, convincing him to allow my passage. Leaving just my name, I proceeded with his advice to traverse the 17-kilometer forest without any breaks.

Riding my bicycle on that road made me feel like an explorer. The forest was so dense on either side, and the trees towered so high that they provided midday shelter from the sun. The cacophony of insects was overwhelming, like a scene from a movie—incessant whistling, shrieking, and wailing that engulfed the ears. Amidst this symphony of sound, there were occasional snaps of branches breaking and fleeting glimpses of movement. These couldn't be monkeys or elephants, could they?

I halted to activate my action camera at a spot, where I noticed three or four piles of fresh elephant dung just feet away. Yes, unmistakably elephant dung. I looked around, a mix of shock and astonishment, my heart pounding in my chest like a hammer. Despite the unease, I turned on the action camera. After all, capturing a potential elephant encounter would be an unforgettable experience, assuming I survived it. With renewed determination, I pedaled vigorously, hoping for favorable fate. And fate, perhaps cruel yet ultimately fortuitous, led me to a hilly terrain. Descending those hills proved easier, and during the uphill stretches, where my speed dropped to a mere eight kilometers per hour and fatigue set in, my thoughts were consumed by visions of elephants. Amidst the persistent insect symphony, there were intermittent sounds of branches snapping. What was their running speed? Around 40 km/h? My bike could easily reach 50 km/h downhill. I silently prayed for a steep downhill stretch.

Eventually, I encountered a substantial downhill slope. My confidence surged, and I began the descent, envisioning myself as an Olympic mountain biker. The thrill of hurtling downwards, with the specter of elephants in my mind, was palpable as I covered 45 kilometers and finally reached the banks of the Kopli River.

Immersing myself in the frigid waters of the Kapali River felt like a rebirth. I struggled against the current for about an hour. Even though Sangu and Matamuhuri rivers were ahead, this marked my initial foray into a mountain river. In my excitement, I left behind my action camera's chest mount. It was only when I had traveled another 3 kilometers that I realized my mistake. I retraced my steps in a frenzy, finding two fishermen taking a break from their fishing activities, enjoying a bath and a meal. They chuckled as they saw me, exclaiming, "Hey there! You've come back. Your thing is here!" Profusely thanking them, I resumed my journey towards Lanka.

After another hour, I emerged from the forest into the open expanse of the sky. Once out, the seemingly interminable road stretched ahead. Though famished, I struggled to locate sustenance until I chanced upon a modest food stall. This shop offered a unique experience. It's worth documenting, lest I forget.

Indian National Highway 20 diverges from other highways. It serves as a critical link between the rest of India and the southern hilly region of Assam. Trucks rumbled by incessantly, and the rugged landscape appeared to have been untouched by repairs for years. Overwhelmed by the dust and almost on the verge of collapse, I spotted a food stall to the right and entered. Two women sat within, one in her mid-twenties and the other in her thirties, radiating a vibrant energy. Despite my grim appearance, drenched in sweat and dust, and physically drained, I inquired about the available food items. My visage was no longer recognizable—dirt and perspiration had left their mark. The stall only had biscuits and bread, but I knew I needed something to sustain me. I grabbed a packet of biscuits and settled on a bench outside, consuming them hastily.

Observing my wretched state, the older woman approached and inquired in Hindi about my origins. I replied, "Shudhu Bangladesh." To my astonishment, she didn't seem taken aback by my response. Sensing my plight, the shorter woman spoke in Bengali, offering to prepare parathas and some cooked vegetables for me. Grateful, I accepted and took a seat. Retrieving a towel from my bag, I wrapped it around my neck and commenced wiping the sweat-soaked interior of my shirt. The air was still, not a whisper of wind in sight. Inviting me indoors, they revealed that the front porch served as their makeshift shop, while the actual dwelling lay beyond. Both women exchanged murmurs in Assamese while keeping a watchful eye on me. Presently, they offered a cloth to mop my brow and refresh myself.

While savoring the steaming parota in the midst of sweltering heat, I realized that my water supply had dwindled. Intending to fetch water from a nearby pitcher, I was met with a surprising response from the woman. She expressed concern about my being a foreigner and handed me a bottle of water instead. Even as I hesitated to accept, she reassured me, saying, "Don't worry about the cost. It's just water for a traveler passing by." I was taken aback by her astute observation and empathy, marveling at the perceptive nature of this seemingly ordinary village woman. Although I refrained from vocalizing my astonishment, it was clear that she discerned my thriftiness as a cyclist who prioritized others' needs over his own. Needless to say, she waived any charges for the biscuits, parathas, vegetables, water, or the brief yet meaningful moment. The principle of not taking payment for this hospitality was indeed unique. As I savored my meal, she informed her younger sister that she intended to bring a goat or a cow from a nearby field to compensate for my consumption. With this declaration, she departed, leaving her sister who chose not to converse with me, merely stating, "I cannot take payment forcibly."

I knew I would never cross paths with them again, but their memory would forever be etched in my mind.

The entire afternoon was spent traversing the road. As time went on, a stream of trucks, numbering 30 to 40 at a time, started passing by. Uphill encounters with these trucks were particularly arduous. A truck, moving slower than my pace, would rush past, engulfing me in a cloud of dust before gradually moving on. The driver's assistant would often extend a sympathetic wave, as if acknowledging my plight. This gesture was of little solace, as I continued to navigate that rugged and unsightly path, a stark contrast to the pristine trucks that left me choking on dust and heat. By noon, I halted at a shop, hoping to find some bananas—a rare sight in these parts. The shopkeeper, however, didn't sell them individually. A minimum of a dozen was required. Amused, I thought to myself, "Do they realize I can consume a dozen in just a couple of minutes?" Was this a wholesale transaction? I ended up purchasing 15 bananas. I discarded the peels one by one into the trash, drawing the attention of everyone present in the shop. A man across the counter, clad in a lungi and sipping on a Seven Up, offered me a glass. After finishing one, he promptly handed me another.

As late afternoon descended, I grew weary as the sun dipped below the horizon. Merely 15 kilometers away from Lanka, I halted at a town whose name eludes me now, though I could easily locate it on a map. A river—Copley, once known by that name—lay before me. The once bustling blue waters had receded, leaving behind a parched bed. After indulging in some panipuri from a street vendor, I inquired about access to the river. Enlisting the help of a young boy who spoke Bengali, I conveyed my intentions. The boy guided me across the river on a bicycle, pedaling through residential yards as curious eyes observed my passage. At the point where I contemplated a dip, a towering highway bridge loomed overhead. The boy who led me to the river eventually appeared on the bridge with his group. Shouting down, he asked, "Brother, you're not cycling to Bangladesh, are you?" It seemed he had a wager with his friends, and my presence had sealed his victory. Returning to the market, I spotted them enjoying ice cream. The outcome of their bet was clear.

With only ten kilometers remaining until Lanka, a fellow cyclist caught my eye. My Bangladeshi flag-adorned shirt marked me as such, prompting him to strike up a conversation. I disclosed that I hailed from Bengal, and we both happened to be headed to Lanka. Though I initially hesitated due to his leisurely pace, I realized that accompanying him could mean reaching Lanka by evening. Suppressing my pride, we set off along a tree-lined road at a leisurely 10 kilometers per hour. He was young, slightly older than me, and poverty was evident in his appearance. Appearances can indeed be deceptive! A sudden revelation left me startled. Given the opportunity to ascend society's ranks, this unassuming man could have passed as a king, donning robes befitting his stature. Unbeknownst to me, he was already a king. He had a queen and a princess residing in Kolkata. However, in this distant township, thousands of miles away, he toiled from morning till night, crafting makeshift beds from reeds. He pedaled an average of 50 to 60 kilometers each day, traversing steep hillside paths as he traversed villages, vending everyday essentials.

Sarjul Islam, a resident of Kolkata, left an indelible mark on me, not for his charming demeanor or his infectious smile, but for his narrative of a joyous life despite grappling with financial constraints. He spoke of his wife and daughter with immense pride, emphasizing that contentment isn't measured by wealth, but rather by the soulful smile one wears. Our journey brought us to Lanka. Inquiring about a budget-friendly hotel, I was offered a place at his lodging, albeit with the caveat that fans were lacking. If that was an issue, he mentioned, a hotel could easily accommodate me at a cost. Initially, he guided me to a hotel, treating me to cholabut, piaji, and tea. However, weariness had taken a toll on my appetite, and my stomach refused much intake. The shop was bustling with Bengali folks who showered me with questions, bestowing upon me a sense of celebrity status. Although many interactions have faded from memory due to my fatigue, they undoubtedly left an impression. Later that evening, Sarjul Bhai led me to his lodging. Upon witnessing his cramped quarters, it became evident that an extra person could hardly be accommodated there. Expressing gratitude, I took my third shower of the day in their bathroom. As I stepped out, an elderly gentleman, the mess owner and a prominent figure in the Tablighi Jamaat, greeted me. He began by asking me to recite the four kalimas. Before I could complete the Kalima Taiyeba, he corrected my pronunciation. Subsequently, he ushered me into his study and proceeded to lecture for an hour and a half. Topics ranged from the significance of worship in youth to the temptation of sin. He also extolled the virtues of traveling and advised me to marry soon. At that moment, I couldn't help but rue not having sought my father's advice!

Afterward, I donned fresh attire and embarked on a hotel hunt. While the amenities were satisfactory, the price was exorbitant. Despite Sarjul Bhai's earnest efforts, securing a room below 500 rupees proved futile. I resolved to seek shelter at the police station, confident that they would grant permission to pitch my tent.

Little did I know, this marked my final encounter with Sarjul Bhai. We bid each other farewell, and I made my way to the police station. Another unexpected turn of events unfolded there! As I requested permission to camp, the Officer in Charge (OC) expressed frustration, wondering why I hadn't approached him sooner. Instantly, a journalist on site produced a camera and notepad, eager for an interview. He swiftly gained the OC's approval and set about interviewing me. As for me, I found myself unprepared for such a scenario. Responding to their questions in English, I navigated through the impromptu interview.

A well-known name in Lanka, Fatima Hotel draws Muslim tourists to its door. Upon their recommendation, an inspector was instructed to transport me there on his motorbike. The destination lay merely half a kilometer from the police station. I'm uncertain about the conversation between the inspector and the hotel owner—a tall, fair, bespectacled gentleman with tousled hair. Regardless, I was welcomed warmly. Before departing, the inspector informed me that I could indulge in whatever I desired for dinner and breakfast. I wasn't to worry about payment; all expenses were being covered by OC sir. The situation was truly unique. My stay in Assam had been peppered with revelations about the plight of Bengalis, leaving me perpetually surprised. I was convinced that my bicycle had effectively amplified the weight of my green passport. A notion I could vouch for, without a doubt. Thank you, Bella.

After enduring the day's exhaustive endeavors, I sat down to a meal of rice accompanied by fish, meat, vegetables, and eggs. Following this feast, I dimmed the lights in my air-conditioned room, laid out my wet clothes to dry on one of the double beds, took my fourth shower of the day, and proceeded to call my father back home. I recounted the day's experiences, prompting a mixture of astonishment and pride from my father. Why was he traveling alone in a foreign land? Concealing the truth became harder, and the lie eventually slipped out.

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