The Kiss of Death

 

A Night of Secrets and Seduction

The Assamese expatriates in New Jersey were the crème de la crème of Assam, a close-knit community of professionals who had carved out a slice of the American dream. Tonight's soirée at Mr. Dutta's palatial mansion was a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie. The sprawling estate was bathed in a golden glow, with opulent crystal chandeliers casting a soft, enchanting light over the extravagantly decorated rooms. The polished marble floors gleamed, and the air was alive with the elegant hum of classical music, punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Women draped in exquisite sarees and gowns that shimmered like a sea of jewels moving gracefully through the crowd. Their hair was styled to perfection, and their jewelry sparkled with every movement, adding an air of glamour and sophistication. They sipped on fine wine, exchanging whispers and laughter, their eyes sparkling with secrets and stories. The men, sharp in tailored suits, clustered in animated conversation, their discussions on politics and economy as fervent as any high-stakes boardroom meeting, punctuated by the smooth swirl of Scotch in crystal tumblers.

The party spilled out onto the expansive terrace, where the night air was fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and the stars above seemed close enough to touch. It was here, under the starlit sky, that Mr. Sarmah, a recent arrival from California, stood laughing heartily amidst a group of friends. The scene was a picture of effortless elegance and joy—until it wasn't.

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted. Mr. Sarmah's laughter turned to a strangled gasp. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain, and then he collapsed, hitting the polished floor with a sickening thud. A wave of shock rippled through the guests. Women screamed, their hands flying to their mouths, while men rushed forward, their faces a mask of disbelief.

Mr. Dutta, the ever-gracious host, sprang into action. He knelt beside Mr. Sarmah, his fingers searching for a pulse as a hush fell over the crowd. Time seemed to stretch interminably. The chandeliers flickered, casting eerie shadows. The classical music, oblivious to the unfolding drama, continued its gentle serenade.

After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Dutta looked up, his face ashen, his voice a grave whisper that cut through the tension like a knife. "He's gone."

---

A Few Hours Before the Party

Mrs. Mohini Barua stood before her vanity, meticulously applying the finishing touches to her makeup. The reflection staring back at her was one of poise and perfection. Married to Rupam for the last fifteen years, they were both prominent professionals working on Wall Street. Mohini was a vision of elegance, her figure the envy of many women, and tonight she was determined to look her best. She knew Mr. Sarmah would be at the party, and she had old scores to settle.

Years ago in Assam, when she was an innocent middle-class girl, Mr. Sarmah had been her senior. One fateful night, while she was working alone in the computer lab, desperately trying to finish a programming assignment, Mr. Sarmah had attempted to molest her. She had managed to escape, running breathlessly back to her hostel. The shock of the incident left her traumatized, too timid to seek justice. In the conservative Assamese and Indian society, victims of sexual assault often found themselves blamed instead of the perpetrator. It was one person's word against another's, and Mohini had been too scared and ashamed to speak out. The incident haunted her for years, a dark shadow on her soul.

But now, things had changed. Mohini was no longer the docile and timid girl she once was. Today, she was a successful Wall Street banker, a woman of style and sophistication. Her past had forged her into a resilient and powerful force, and tonight, she intended to wield that power.

Tonight, she would transform into a femme fatale. As she slipped into a stunning black evening gown that accentuated her every curve, she felt a surge of confidence. Her eyes, lined with kohl, were dark and smoldering, a mirror to the fire burning within her. She fastened a pair of diamond earrings, their cold brilliance a stark contrast to the heat of her resolve.

Tonight, she was getting dressed for the kill. She would make Mr. Sarmah pay for what he had done all those years ago. The anticipation of the confrontation sent a thrill through her, sharpening her senses. As she slipped on her stilettos and gave herself one last approving glance in the mirror, she felt invincible.

With a final deep breath, Mohini walked out of the room, her heels clicking with determination on the polished floors. She joined her husband Rupam in their sleek black car, the engine purring as they set off for Mr. Dutta's party. As they drove through the city, the lights reflecting off the car's glossy surface, Rupam glanced at his wife and chuckled. "You look stunning, Mohini. You could literally kill the men with your looks tonight."

Mohini's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as she turned to him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Literally," she responded, her voice smooth and confident. The anticipation of the confrontation sent a thrill through her, sharpening her senses. The past had tormented her long enough. Tonight, she would face her tormentor and settle the score once and for all.

---

The Party

As the Baruas arrived at Mr. Dutta's grand mansion, the party was already in full swing. The estate was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the gentle strains of classical music. As Mohini and Rupam stepped through the ornate doors, all eyes turned towards them. Mohini, in her stunning black evening gown, immediately became the soul of the party. Although each lady looked gorgeous, it was Mohini who stole the show, her presence commanding attention and admiration.

Mohini gracefully moved through the crowd, her laughter and charm leaving a trail of admirers in her wake. She seemed to effortlessly float from one group to another, exchanging pleasantries and flashing her dazzling smile. However, when she spotted Mr. Sarmah across the room, her old anger bubbled up inside her. He was as obnoxious as he used to be, loud and boorish, oblivious to the disdain he provoked. But Mohini was determined not to show her fury. Instead, she masked her emotions with a serene smile.

Mr. Sarmah, noticing Mohini's approach, shifted uncomfortably. There was a flicker of unease in his eyes, a hint of the guilt he perhaps felt. Yet, Mohini greeted him as if she had completely forgotten the past, her demeanor warm and inviting. She subtly seduced him with her charm, engaging him in light banter, her laughter ringing like a melodious chime. Mr. Sarmah, despite his unease, was drawn in by her allure, unable to resist her.

As the evening progressed, Mohini saw her opportunity. With a coy smile and a whisper in his ear, she lured Mr. Sarmah out of the party and into the garden. The moonlight bathed the garden in a silvery glow, the air fragrant with the scent of jasmine. Leading him to a secluded spot, she turned to face him, her eyes dark and inviting. Mr. Sarmah, enthralled by her, moved closer, their faces inches apart.

In that moment, Mohini's lips met his in a lingering kiss. Unknown to him, her lipstick was laced with peanut butter oil, a carefully calculated weapon, she knew from her college days that Mr. Sarmah had a history of allergic reactions from peanut butter. She pulled back, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "I should get back to the party," she said with a playful smile, leaving him breathless and dazed.

Mohini returned to the party, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and vindication. She mingled with the guests, her demeanor as radiant as ever, while a sense of anticipation simmered beneath her calm exterior. It wasn't long before the effects of the peanut allergy began to manifest. Mr. Sarmah, who had rejoined the party, suddenly turned pale, his breathing becoming labored. He staggered, clutching at his throat as panic spread through the room.

Women screamed, their faces contorted with horror, while men rushed to his aid. Mr. Dutta, the host, was the first to reach him. He knelt beside Mr. Sarmah, his fingers searching for a pulse. The room seemed to hold its breath as Mr. Dutta's face grew pale. He looked up, his voice heavy with the finality of the moment. "He's gone."

After the party

The eventful party had come to a grim end, the laughter and music replaced by the wailing sirens of ambulances and police cars. Mr. Sarmah's sudden death cast a pall over Mr. Dutta's mansion, transforming the once-glamorous soirée into a scene of investigation and hushed conversations. Guests were questioned, and statements were taken as the night stretched into the early hours of the morning.

It was only after the police and paramedics had departed, their grim tasks completed, that Mohini and Rupam found themselves alone in their sleek black car, driving back home through the now-quiet streets of New Jersey. The city lights flickered past them, casting fleeting shadows inside the car. An eerie silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Rupam glanced sideways at his wife, who stared out of the window, her face illuminated intermittently by the passing streetlights. He could sense the turmoil within her, the storm of emotions swirling behind her calm exterior. Finally, he broke the silence.

"What's on your mind, Mohini?" he asked gently, his voice breaking through the quiet hum of the car engine.

Mohini turned to him, her eyes reflecting a mix of resolve and vulnerability. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time to unburden her soul. "Rupam," she began, her voice steady despite the gravity of her confession. "I need to tell you something about tonight. About Mr. Sarmah."

Rupam's grip tightened on the steering wheel, but he remained silent, his eyes focused on the road ahead, urging her to continue.

"Years ago, back in Assam, he tried to molest me," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she recalled the painful memory. "I was too scared and ashamed to do anything about it then. But tonight, I saw my chance to make him pay for what he did. I put peanut butter oil on my lipstick, knowing he had a severe allergy. When I kissed him, I knew it would trigger a reaction."

Rupam's eyes widened with shock, and he pulled the car over to the side of the road. Turning to face her, he saw the raw emotion etched on her face. For a moment, there was only silence as he processed her confession.

"Mohini," he said finally, his voice soft but firm. "What you did was... extreme. But I understand why you did it. He hurt you deeply, and you carried that pain for so long. You felt powerless then, but tonight you took back control."

Tears welled up in Mohini's eyes as she listened to her husband's words. "Rupam, I never wanted to involve you in this. I didn't plan on telling you, but I couldn't keep it from you any longer."

Rupam reached out, taking her hand in his. "You don't have to go through this alone, Mohini. I'm here for you. I support you, no matter what. What happened to you was unjust, and while I wish there could have been another way, I understand your need for closure."

As they resumed their drive home, a sense of relief washed over Mohini. She had feared Rupam's reaction, but his support gave her strength. She knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy, but with him by her side, she felt she could face whatever came next.

---

The following week, the police investigation concluded. The official report stated that Mr. Sarmah's death was accidental, a result of peanut butter poisoning. There was no evidence of foul play, and the case was closed.

Agiocochook: The Home of the great spirit

The Wind's Whimsy

“Damn it. There she goes—my prospect for a much-needed rest,” Prabal muttered, his voice mingling with the erratic wind of Mt. Washington, the tallest peak in the northeastern USA, standing at a modest 6,288 feet. Though dwarfed by the Himalayan standards, the mountain's reputation for capricious weather was legendary. On this fateful November evening, the mountain seemed determined to challenge Prabal's resolve.

Prabal watched as his tent, a flimsy sanctuary against the elements, was unceremoniously whisked away by an invisible hand. It was a sight that should have induced panic, but instead, a bemused resignation settled over him. This was just another twist in the tempestuous tale his life had become.

A Pilgrim's Journey

He had embarked on this pilgrimage to escape the cold war brewing at home. His marriage, once a haven, had become a battlefield of misunderstandings and silent accusations. The journey to New Hampshire had been long—a nine-hour overnight drive through landscapes that gradually shifted from the mundane to the magnificent.

As dawn broke, New Hampshire unveiled its treasures: rolling hills that shimmered with morning dew, snow-capped peaks that gleamed like ancient sentinels, streams of crystal-clear water that sang as they tumbled over colorful rocks, and forests that stood in solemn preparation for winter. This was the same area where he and his wife had once spent a blissful week, their hearts in harmony with nature's rhythms.

A particular stream captivated him with its clarity, and he decided to follow it to its source, a symbolic act of seeking clarity for his own troubled soul. GPS indicated a two-day hike to reach the source and return, a prospect that filled him with a sense of purpose. He parked his car, gathered his supplies, and set off.  

The Ascent

The hike was arduous, the path strewn with silver-grey boulders that glistened with quartz. The whispering wind and the stream’s murmur were his only companions. The climb was steep, at times nearly vertical, but he welcomed the physical exertion. It mirrored the internal struggle he was determined to overcome.

As he ascended, the vegetation transformed from alpine to tundra, the trees giving way to bush-like plants. The landscape expanded before him—rolling hills, deep gorges, glacial lakes, meadows, and forests, all remnants of an ancient ice age. It was a scene of primordial beauty that resonated with his primal need for peace.

The higher he climbed, the more treacherous the path became. Icy patches concealed under a thin layer of snow threatened his footing. At one point, he nearly lost his balance, saved only by a quick grab at a nearby rock. His muscles ached from the effort, and his breath came in ragged gasps as the air thinned.

By evening, he reached the stream's source, a small lake fed by underground reservoirs and melting snow. He began to set up his tent, but fate had other plans. A fierce gust of wind snatched the tent from his grasp, sending it spiraling into a deep gorge. Left with only his sleeping bag and a few provisions, he prepared for a long, cold night.

The Whispering Wind

Darkness fell swiftly, bringing with it a biting chill. The sky, a canvas of twinkling stars, offered little warmth. His phone showed 21 degrees Fahrenheit, a perilous temperature given the strong wind. Prabal knew he had to stay awake to avoid hypothermia.

He attempted to light a fire, but his lighter broke. Huddled in his sleeping bag, he sipped brandy sparingly, knowing he couldn't afford to get drunk and fall asleep, that would surely lead to hypothermia and his freeze to death. He gazed at the stars, thoughts drifting to his wife and children, a pang of regret mixing with the cold.

As he knelt by the stream to splash water on his face, he sensed a presence. Startled, he reached for his hunting knife.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I am Aha-ka-toon-ka—The Whispering Wind—of the Abenaki Indian Tribe. I am a medicine man, here to collect plants that thrive in the night. I saw your flashlight and thought someone might need help. You have nothing to fear from me,” the man replied.

Prabal was stunned. A person, let alone a Native American medicine man, was the last thing he expected to find on this remote mountainside. He had never even heard of an Abenaki reservation in this area.

Aha-ka-toon-ka, with his long hair, weather-beaten face, aquiline nose, and traditional attire, looked like a figure from another time. His presence exuded calm and kindness, dispelling Prabal’s fear.

“We have always been here, my son, and our spirits will always roam these mountains. In the great circle of life, no one enters and no one exits,” Aha-ka-toon-ka said.

“I see you’re struggling to light a fire. Without one, you won’t survive the night. Our Native American skills will come in handy.”

Prabal watched in awe as Aha-ka-toon-ka lit a fire using ancient tools. As he worked, he chanted an Abenaki hymn:

"Kassiwi Niona Enna Odakozik Chibaio Agaskwikok

Kizos Aalakws Nionakiya Alnobanogan Nionakiya"

The hymn, mingling with the wind's whispers and the stream's murmur, created a mystical atmosphere. “It’s almost eerie yet wonderful,” Prabal thought.

Wisdom of the Ancients

The fire’s warmth was a blessing. Prabal offered Aha-ka-toon-ka some brandy, but he refused. “My son, you don’t need intoxication to stay warm. The strength and conviction of your heart can provide all the energy you need. Conviction alone will keep your mind warm against this chilly gust or the gust tormenting your soul. Just listen to your heart and act on it.”

“How does he know? Is he reading my mind?” Prabal wondered.

“My son, consider me a reflection of your destiny and thoughts. Your thoughts shape your world. You are a slave to them. Listen to your heart to free yourself.”

Aha-ka-toon-ka’s words resonated deeply. “When in trouble, we Native Americans look to nature for answers. Look at the stars, listen to the wind’s rhythm, the stream’s flow, the eagle’s flight. Wah-kan-taw-wah created all nature’s elements in perfect harmony. The book of nature is the greatest source of wisdom. It has undergone countless revisions since creation. Read its signs to find answers to your troubles.”

Prabal found himself absorbing Aha-ka-toon-ka’s wisdom like a parched land soaking up rain. The words resonated with a truth that transcended time and culture. He felt as if a veil had been lifted, allowing him to see the interconnectedness of all things. The rhythm of the wind, the song of the stream, and the dance of the stars were all part of a larger symphony, one that he had been too preoccupied to notice.

“You see, my son, the answers are always there, woven into the fabric of nature itself. We must only learn to read them,” Aha-ka-toon-ka continued. “The stars above us tell stories of endurance and hope. The winds whisper tales of change and resilience. The waters remind us of life's flow, its cycles of birth, growth, and renewal.”

As they conversed, the sky began to shift. The inky blackness of night was interrupted by a shimmering curtain of light. The aurora borealis, with its ethereal dance of greens, pinks, and purples, spread across the heavens like a celestial tapestry.

The Aurora's Embrace

Prabal’s breath caught in his throat. The northern lights were more than just a natural phenomenon; they were a beacon of hope, a visual symphony that filled his heart with a profound sense of wonder and possibility. The colors undulated and twisted, painting the night with luminous splendor.

“Behold the aurora borealis,” Aha-ka-toon-ka said softly. “It is the Earth’s way of reminding us that even in the darkest times, there is beauty and hope. The lights dance in the sky, just as our spirits must dance through life’s trials.”

Prabal felt tears prick his eyes as he watched the magnificent display. The lights seemed to reach into his soul, washing away the grime of doubt and despair. He felt a renewal, a rebirth of spirit, as if the universe itself was assuring him that everything would be alright.

In that moment, the wisdom of the ancients, the lessons of nature, and the beauty of the aurora combined to forge a new clarity within him. He understood that his struggles were part of a larger journey, one that required patience, faith, and an open heart.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been watching the wonders in the sky, but when he turned to thank Aha-ka-toon-ka for the most wonderful words of wisdom he had ever learned – he realized that Aha-ka-toon-ka was gone.

Aha-ka-toon-ka disappeared as mysteriously just as he had appeared. From nowhere into nowhere.

By then, the dawn had broken and the sun appeared in the eastern horizon.

The Descent and Home Coming:

As Prabal embarked on his descent, a euphoric sense of enlightenment and hope swelled within him, like a symphony of liberation. The encounter with Aha-ka-toon-ka, that enigmatic apparition, lingered in his mind - a hallucination, a figment of his imagination, or a glimpse of the unknown? 

The unforgiving vastness of the wilderness, where temperatures plummeted to 21 degrees Fahrenheit and winds howled like a chorus of banshees, yet he survived without hypothermia,  had yielded its secrets to him. The impossible had become possible, as if the gods themselves had conspired to revive the ancient wisdom of the Abenaki tribe, thought to be extinct. The medicine man's words still resonated within him: "We native Americans read the book of nature for solutions when turmoil besets us."As he drove, the silence was punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine, a gentle accompaniment to his racing thoughts.

 

Reaching home after 9 hours of driving, he beheld his wife, her beauty frozen in contemplation, her gaze lost in the mirror's silvered glass. Was she seeking answers in the labyrinthine corridors of her own soul?

Prabal approached her with the stealth of a summer breeze, his arms enfolding her in a warmth that had long been absent. She reciprocated, her body yielding to his embrace like a leaf surrendering to the autumn wind. They stood thus, suspended in the silence, their hearts beating in tandem, the rhythm of their love rekindled like a flame that had never truly flickered out. Or perhaps, it was all just a product of his fevered imagination, a chimera born of solitude and the whispers of the devil in his mind. Yet, Agiocochook, the Home of the Great Spirit, had stirred something deep within him, reviving the symphony of their love, a harmony that would forever resonate through the chambers of his soul.

The Whispers of Barapani

 

Ranjan’s story

As Ranjan felt the cool wind brush against his chin while cruising on the winding roads of the Guwahati-Shillong highway, he couldn't help but wonder if the breeze could conceal the sweat and nervousness raging inside him. The verdant hills of Meghalaya stretched out around him, cloaked in mist, their lush greenery a stark contrast to the turmoil within his heart. He was on his way to Barapani to meet Sangeeta, the woman who had held his heart since their college days. The Royal Enfield beneath him wasn’t his own; he had borrowed it from a friend, hoping to maintain the illusion of success. He wanted Sangeeta to believe he was still serving in the army.

Since his dishonorable discharge from the Indian Army, Ranjan seldom bothered with haircuts or shaves. But for this occasion, he had groomed himself to resemble the proud Sergeant Major he once was, before his court-martial for refusing to carry out a Colonel's order to conduct a fake encounter in an insurgency-ridden area.

The memories of his past swirled around him as he rode, the rhythmic thrum of the motorbike a steady companion. He recalled his college days with Sangeeta in the mid-nineties, a time of both love and strife in a politically turbulent Assam. Their romance had blossomed amidst the chaos, a beacon of hope in a world of mistrust between the Bodos and the Assamese. Sangeeta's parents, however, disapproved of their relationship and forced her into an arranged marriage with an Assamese bureaucrat. Heartbroken, Ranjan joined the Assam Regiment, where he distinguished himself as a courageous soldier until his conscience led to his court-martial and dishonorable discharge. He could not bring himself to "eliminate a few civilians labeled as insurgents" just to increase the "kill count" as ordered by his Colonel.

Ranjan never married. After his discharge, he faced financial difficulties and adopted a disheveled appearance. Despite his own struggles, he kept track of Sangeeta, learning that her life had also been hard. Her husband, an alcoholic, routinely abused her and was eventually removed from service on corruption charges. Sangeeta had to take on multiple odd jobs to support her family.

The road twisted and turned through the hills, revealing glimpses of the serene Barapani Lake below, its waters shimmering under the afternoon sun. Although Ranjan had little to offer, he carried a bundle of notes carefully concealed in his duffle bag, hoping to lend a helping hand to Sangeeta. The thought of seeing her again filled him with a mix of excitement and anxiety, each mile bringing him closer to a long-awaited reunion.

Today, he looked very much like the proud soldier he once was, adorned with numerous service medals. He didn't want to burden Sangeeta with his woes, knowing she had enough of her own.

As the restaurant overlooking Barapani Lake approached, Ranjan could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. The scenic beauty of the lake, surrounded by rolling hills and kissed by a gentle breeze, was a fitting backdrop for the emotions surging within him. The thought of seeing Sangeeta again, of perhaps rekindling their lost romance, made his heart race with a mixture of hope and fear.

---

Sangeeta’s story

Sangeeta stood in front of her mirror, carefully draping a beautiful mekhela chador around her, its delicate embroidery a testament to her Assamese heritage. She applied makeup with practiced precision, accentuating her striking features. Despite the strain etched into her face from years of struggle, she still radiated a remarkable beauty. Her heart fluttered with nervous anticipation; today, she would meet Ranjan, the man who had never left her thoughts.

She had borrowed a car from a friend for the occasion, complete with a driver, to maintain the illusion of a successful bureaucrat’s wife. Her own car was old and unreliable, and the thought of Ranjan seeing through her ruse made her stomach churn. She wanted to appear strong and prosperous, not weighed down by her own troubles. Today, she would conceal her woes behind a facade of elegance and poise.

As the car wound its way through the mist-covered hills of Meghalaya, Sangeeta gazed out at the breathtaking scenery. The verdant landscape, shrouded in a soft haze, seemed almost magical, a stark contrast to the turmoil of her life. The mist swirled around the peaks, lending an air of mystery and romance to the journey. She clutched her purse tightly, within which a bundle of notes lay hidden. She hoped to offer this small help to Ranjan, unaware that he, too, had come prepared to support her.

As the car approached the restaurant overlooking Barapani Lake, Sangeeta took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart. The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, its serene waters a mirror to the sky. The picturesque setting, with its rolling hills and gentle breeze, felt like a scene from a dream. She wanted everything to be perfect, to show Ranjan that she had weathered life's storms with grace and dignity.

Stepping out of the car, she smoothed her mekhela chador and composed herself. Today, she was determined to be the confident, beautiful woman Ranjan had fallen in love with all those years ago. She didn’t want to burden him with her own sorrows, knowing he had endured so much himself. As she walked towards the restaurant, her heart pounded with anticipation, each step bringing her closer to a long-awaited reunion. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, the misty hills providing a romantic backdrop to the emotions swirling within her.

---

The Reunion

Inside the restaurant, their eyes met, and for a moment, the years of separation melted away. They walked towards each other, their steps hesitant but filled with hope. When they finally stood face to face, there were no words, just a shared understanding of the struggles and heartache they had endured.

They sat down and began to talk, their conversation naturally drifting back to their college days. They laughed as they reminisced about their favorite tea stall near the campus, where they spent countless hours over cups of steaming chai, debating politics and dreaming of a future together. They recalled the cultural festivals where they danced to the rhythm of Bihu songs, and the serene evenings by the Brahmaputra River, where they would watch the sunset and share their dreams.

Their romance had been a respite from the surrounding chaos, filled with tender moments and secret rendezvous. They remembered the stolen kisses behind the old library, the whispered promises under the banyan tree, and the handwritten letters slipped into each other's bags, carrying words of love and longing.

But when the conversation shifted to the present, the atmosphere subtly changed. Sangeeta spoke of her husband’s supposed success, glossing over the reality of his disgrace and her own struggles. Ranjan, in turn, talked about his thriving business ventures, hiding the truth of his financial woes and the dishonorable discharge from the army. Each knew the other was lying, but neither wanted to shatter the fragile illusion, understanding that the truth might wound the other's pride.

As they chatted, Ranjan subtly diverted Sangeeta’s attention to a scenic view outside the window. Seizing the moment, he slipped the bundle of notes he had brought into her purse, careful not to draw attention to the act. It was a small gesture, but one he hoped would ease her burdens just a little.

When the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden glow over the lake, Sangeeta looked at Ranjan with a wistful smile. “Do you remember how we used to ride your bike back in college?” she asked. “Would you take me for a ride, just like old times?”

Ranjan’s heart swelled with nostalgia. “Of course,” he replied, standing up and extending his hand to her. They walked out to the borrowed Royal Enfield, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant calls of birds returning to their nests.

As they rode through the misty hills of Meghalaya, the wind in their hair and the hum of the motorbike beneath them, Sangeeta felt a sense of freedom she hadn’t experienced in years. She held onto Ranjan tightly, the warmth of his back a comforting presence. Under the cover of the ride, she deftly slipped the bundle of notes she had brought into the duffle bag slung over Ranjan’s shoulder, ensuring he wouldn’t notice until later.

When they returned to the restaurant, the twilight sky painted in shades of pink and purple, they both felt an unspoken bond had been renewed. They knew they couldn’t change the past or their current circumstances, but they had given each other something invaluable: hope and a reminder of better days.

As they said their goodbyes, there was a sense of peace between them. They had lied to protect each other’s dignity, but in their actions, they had shown the depth of their care. With a final embrace, they parted ways, each carrying a piece of the other’s strength and a renewed spirit to face the challenges ahead.

---

The Ballad

In the quiet of the twilight, 

Two hearts found solace anew, 

Beneath the misty Meghalayan hills, 

Where love's old whispers grew.

Though paths may part and dreams may fade, 

In this serene, enchanting land, 

Their souls entwined, forever bound, 

By the touch of a loving hand.