After the decision, our hearts were heavy.
Nepal had been the plan. The idea. The story we had already begun to believe in. Turning away from it left a quiet weight—like leaving something unfinished.
But the road doesn’t wait for emotions to settle.
Fatigue had already started creeping in.
I wasn’t driving yet. The previous day’s journey—from Bangalore to Patna—was still sitting in my body. A long travel, a 3-hour halt at Mumbai airport, and barely any rest. My mind was alert, but my body hadn’t caught up.
So Ahmad started again.
And I shifted into my role—co-driver, navigator, decision-maker.
The route ahead wasn’t simple.
There were options. One of them tempting—cutting through Nepal’s mountain roads. It would have been beautiful, raw, and probably unforgettable.
But time wasn’t on our side.
So we chose the plains again.
A longer route, but predictable. Safer. Faster.
The plan was clear—cut across the Ganges-Koshi belt, push towards Siliguri, and from there pick up the Teesta River, tracing it upward into the mountains… all the way to Sikkim.
Somewhere between these decisions, I couldn’t help but reflect on something deeper.
There has always been an unusual symmetry between Ahmad and me.
He—the son of a supercop.
Me—the son of a don.
In another story, that might have made us opposites. Maybe even enemies.
But life had other plans.
We grew up in the same colony—among its earliest residents—when everything around us was still taking shape. Same streets, same unfinished roads, same evenings filled with dust, noise, and possibility.
People around us carried perceptions, labels, and quiet assumptions about who we were supposed to become.
But we didn’t.
To us, it was simpler.
Two boys are walking the same road to school.
Two lives shaped by very different worlds—but somehow moving in parallel.
If anything, those differences didn’t divide us—they balanced us.
Where one carried discipline, the other carried instinct.
Where one had structure, the other had rebellion.
And somewhere in between, we found rhythm.
A strange kind of friendship—where power met unpredictability, and instead of conflict, it created trust.
Maybe that’s why journeys like these feel so natural.
Because on the road, none of that matters.
No backgrounds. No labels.
Just two people, a machine, and a direction.
Two different stories. One shared road.
Just as we reached Chakia, in the heart of Bihar—something unexpected happened.
Ahmad dozed off.
A rare error.
The kind you don’t usually associate with him.
Without much discussion, he pulled over and handed me the wheel.
And just like that, the responsibility shifted.
 |
| Taking over the wheel: Ahmad can be seen dozing off. |
I set the navigation to no-toll mode—a small personal rule, almost a game. No tolls, no unnecessary stops. Just pure road.
From Chakia, I drove toward Darbhanga—our next anchor point.
By the time we reached, hunger had returned.
We stopped.
Simple, satisfying Bihar food—rice, dal, sabji, and aloo bhujia. No distractions, no indulgence. Just what the body needed.
And then, without wasting time, we moved again.
Soon, we approached the Koshi Barrage.
And crossing it felt different.
The river spread wide like an untamed thought,
restless, unpredictable, ancient.
Under the fading light,
it shimmered—not calm like the Ganges,
but alive… almost defiant.
As if it carried not stories,
but warnings.
And just like that, we crossed over—leaving Bihar behind, entering West Bengal.
From there, the road opened up.
No resistance. No interruptions.
Just long stretches of highway and the steady rhythm of motion.
Somewhere along the way, Bappi Lahiri took over the soundtrack of our journey.
Old beats. Familiar energy.
Ahmad, now well-rested, kept up his commentary—random, sharp, often hilarious. It made the miles lighter. The fatigue manageable.
And I drove.
Fast.
Focused on covering distance, making up time, pushing us closer to the mountains before night could fully take over.
We reached Siliguri just before dark.
Perfect timing.
Ahmad had rested enough.
And I could see it—the shift again.
He was ready.
Eager.
Almost waiting for this moment.
He took the wheel.
And ahead of us… the mountains began.
The real drive was just starting.
From Siliguri, we moved toward the Teesta.
The plains slowly gave way to elevation. The air changed. The road narrowed. And soon, we were no longer driving towards the mountains—
We were inside them.
Our first stop was Rangpo.
A small halt. Eggs, Maggi, whatever the little eatery had to offer. Nothing fancy—but in that moment, it felt perfect.
Because beyond this point, it was just us, the road, and the night.
It was a full moon.
And what unfolded next didn’t feel real.
The hills curved endlessly ahead of us, silent and empty. No traffic. No noise. Just winding roads cutting through forests that seemed to be asleep.
The moonlight spilled like silver across everything.
On my side—the valley.
Deep. Vast. And far below, the Teesta flowed… shimmering in the moonlight, like a ribbon of liquid silver moving against us.
It was a sight you don’t describe.
You just… sit with it.
I wasn’t driving anymore.
So I had the rare luxury of leaning back, sipping on a beer, letting the moment stretch.
Ahmad was in full form.
Focused. Calm. Completely in sync with the road.
The music played softly.
And the silence between us felt complete.
It almost felt like—
we were the only two people on the planet.
One strange thing we noticed—
the locals don’t drive these valley roads at night.
We never asked why.
Some questions are better left unanswered.
Because the mystery adds to the experience.
And maybe… the respect.
Hour after hour, Ahmad drove through the night.
No rush. No fear. Just precision.
And somewhere, quietly, night began to fade.
By the time we reached Gangtok, it was almost the end of night.
The town was asleep.
No hotels open. No movement. Just stillness.
For a moment, it felt like we had arrived too early for the world.
But eventually, we found a place.
A good valley-side hotel.
No luxury—just relief.
We checked in, dropped everything, and collapsed into sleep.
No words. No reflections.
Just deep, earned rest.
Because the adventure—
was waiting for the next day.
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