Meghalaya - Travel Diary

 

My name is Vaishali S, and for the very first time in my life, I decided to travel solo. I chose the breathtaking valleys of Meghalaya for this journey. My trip began on 14th May with an Air India Express flight, but little did I know that this journey would become one of the most emotional, chaotic, funny, spiritual, and unforgettable experiences of my life.

The excitement of travelling alone had already started the moment I stepped out of my house. Honestly, while leaving home, I had absolutely no idea what all was waiting ahead for me. At that moment, I was only excited about finally doing something for myself — travelling alone, exploring new places, and proving to myself that I could manage on my own too.

The moment I entered the airport, my eyes immediately fell on the bookstore. No matter how many books are already lying unread at home, airport bookstores somehow have a different emotional pull. And honestly, a little bit of show-off also feels necessary while solo travelling. Airport shopping is funny in its own way — you mostly end up buying things you never actually needed in the first place. But somehow, at airports, everything feels important and aesthetic.

After collecting my boarding pass, I went and sat inside the Mumbai lounge. Since I had already eaten before leaving home, I thought I would just grab a cold drink and relax quietly before boarding. But then my eyes landed on the bar counter, and suddenly my brain said, “Why not start this solo adventure with a beer?” So I ordered one beer and casually went for payment, only to be told that one complimentary drink was included with lounge access. I was genuinely surprised because I knew lounge food was free, but I had absolutely no idea drinks were included too. At that moment, it felt like solo travel was already giving me bonus surprises.

I grabbed some snacks, sat there watching people rushing around with their luggage, and spent some quiet time with myself. Somewhere between the airport lights, flight announcements, and random strangers walking past me, I started realizing that this journey was finally real.

After some time, I walked towards the boarding gate and waited for the announcement of my flight. The moment boarding started, I picked up my bag and slowly walked toward the aircraft with hundreds of thoughts running inside my mind. How would this journey turn out? Will I enjoy travelling alone? Will I panic? Will  I feel lonely? There was excitement, nervousness, fear, and happiness — all together.

Thankfully, I had a window seat, all thanks to my daughter who had booked the seat on time. Otherwise, I probably would have ended up crushed between two giant “bhainsa-sized” passengers for the entire flight. Sitting by the window instantly made everything feel special. Watching the airport lights disappear while the aircraft slowly rose above the clouds felt magical.

A little later, the cabin crew came around with snacks. I honestly wasn’t hungry at all, but I am the kind of person who always needs something to munch on while travelling. Usually, while eating, I completely forget that I’m overweight… but the moment I step outside, my brain suddenly becomes a fitness coach — ‘Bas kar behen, one more burger and you’ll roll home instead of walk, So I picked up boxes of almonds and cashews and sat there chewing away while staring out of the window at the endless clouds floating beside the aircraft. Somewhere between the sky, clouds, and silence, it finally hit me — I was actually traveling solo.

But flights, for some mysterious reason, always behave as if they are stuck in traffic even in the sky. By the time we landed in Delhi, the flight was delayed, and suddenly my comfortable 1 hour 10 minute layover had turned into barely 20 minutes. The moment I checked the time, my heart almost stopped. I had originally planned that during the layover I would peacefully sit in the Delhi lounge, eat something nice, maybe relax for a bit — but clearly destiny had other plans for me.

The moment I got off the flight, I literally started rushing toward my next boarding gate with my handbag swinging, half-running and half-panicking. At that moment, all I could think was, “Bas flight miss nahi honi chahiye.” My dream of relaxing in the Delhi lounge disappeared faster than free snacks at an airport. But somewhere inside, even this chaos felt exciting because every moment was slowly turning into a story worth remembering.

Although my Meghalaya trip was officially supposed to begin on 16th May, I had intentionally started two days earlier because I wanted to visit the sacred Kamakhya Temple and seek blessings before beginning this new chapter of my life.

But as soon as I landed in Guwahati, another surprise was waiting for me. I discovered that due to an airline mistake, my luggage had been left behind in Mumbai itself. Standing alone at the baggage belt while everyone else collecting  their bags and walking away was honestly one of the most helpless feelings. For a few moments, I genuinely did not know what to do. I kept thinking, “Ab main pehnungi kya?”

I was staying at Kiranshree Grand, trying to calm myself down, when suddenly I remembered that while packing, I had accidentally kept one dress inside my handbag. At that moment, that single dress felt like a blessing directly sent by Maa Kamakhya herself.

The next morning, wearing that same dress, I left for Kamakhya Devi Temple. Located on the beautiful Nilachal Hills, Kamakhya Temple is one of the most sacred and powerful Shakti Peethas in India. The temple is dedicated to Goddess Kamakhya, a form of Maa Shakti, symbolizing feminine power, creation, fertility, and motherhood. According to Hindu mythology, when Goddess Sati sacrificed herself, Lord Shiva carried her body in grief, and different parts of her body fell across Earth, forming the Shakti Peethas. It is believed that the womb and yoni of Goddess Sati fell at Kamakhya, making this temple spiritually very powerful and unique.

Unlike most temples, there is no idol inside the sanctum. Instead, devotees worship a naturally formed stone nourished continuously by an underground spring. The atmosphere inside the temple feels intense, emotional, and deeply spiritual. The sound of temple bells, chanting, incense, and the faith of thousands of devotees create an energy that is impossible to explain unless experienced personally.

Darshan at Kamakhya Temple is not easy. The temple remains crowded almost all the time, and devotees often stand in long queues for hours. Since the temple is located on a hill, reaching there itself can feel tiring. The narrow pathways, humidity, crowd pressure, and endless waiting test your patience completely. But despite all these difficulties, people wait with devotion because they believe Maa Kamakhya only calls those whom she wishes to bless.

There are easier ways too — visiting early in the morning helps avoid heavy crowds, VIP darshan tickets save time, and taking local taxis uphill makes the journey more comfortable. Most importantly, patience is necessary because the experience itself feels spiritually rewarding.

The moment I finally entered the temple and bowed before Maa Kamakhya, all my stress, fear, and anxiety disappeared. It genuinely felt as though the goddess herself was silently telling me that this journey was not just about Meghalaya — it was about discovering courage, independence, and strength within myself.

After taking blessings at the sacred Kamakhya Temple, I booked an Ola cab to return, and as usual, my luck with cab drivers continued exactly the way it always does. One driver accepted the ride and cancelled. Then another one did the same, almost as if they thought I was never going to pay them. Standing there in the unbearable Guwahati heat after temple darshan, carrying my bag and waiting for a cab, I was already tired and irritated. But finally, the third driver probably took pity on me and actually arrived at the pickup point like a savior.

The moment I sat inside the cab with the cool air hitting my face, I finally relaxed a little. While sitting there, I suddenly thought, “I have come all the way to Guwahati, so why not explore the city properly instead of going straight back?” I casually asked the driver whether he could show me around Guwahati, and to my surprise, he immediately agreed with a smile.

During the drive, we started talking, and slowly the journey became more than just a cab ride. He turned out to be a genuinely kind and warm-hearted person. He lived in Guwahati with his wife and daughter and spoke very lovingly about his family. While talking, he told me that he had actually studied engineering and once worked in a professional job, but during the COVID period, life changed completely for him. Because of the pandemic, he had to leave his job and eventually started driving a cab to support his family.

What surprised me most was that despite all the hardships, he did not sound bitter or disappointed. In fact, he seemed more peaceful and satisfied with his current life. There was a calmness in the way he spoke, as if somewhere he had accepted life exactly the way it came. While driving through the roads of Guwahati, he shared stories about the city, local places, traffic, festivals, and daily life there. And honestly, sometimes conversations with strangers during travel leave a deeper impact than planned experiences.

As we drove through the city, I realized solo travel is not only about destinations, hotels, or sightseeing. Sometimes it is about random moments — a delayed flight, a lost suitcase, a complimentary airport beer, temple blessings, shopping disasters, or an unexpected conversation with a stranger who quietly reminds you that life can completely change at any moment, yet people still continue moving forward with strength and simplicity.

Since my luggage still hadn’t arrived, I also decided to buy some clothes while exploring the city. Coincidentally, a new Trends store had just opened in Guwahati with an exciting launch offer — buy clothes worth ₹3500 and get another ₹3500 worth free. Initially, I thought I would shop smartly and save money, but once the final bill was generated, it somehow reached around ₹8100. I stood there staring at the bill for a few seconds, wondering whether I should remove a few outfits, but after everything that had already happened since the start of my journey, I simply decided to enjoy the moment instead of overthinking it. So after applying the discount, I paid the remaining balance and happily walked out carrying all the shopping bags with me.

After finishing my shopping, the driver directly took me to the famous Navagraha Temple. By then, the atmosphere had become calmer, and as soon as I entered the temple , I noticed several people deeply involved in rituals and prayers for their grah dosh. Some sat quietly beside priests while others looked worried, hopeful, or completely immersed in faith, praying for peace, success, health, or relief from problems in life.

While I was observing everything around me, one of the pandits looked at me and politely asked whether I also wanted to perform any special puja for my planets and grah dosh. For a second, a hilarious thought instantly crossed my mind — “Pandit ji, mere grah toh aapki puja par bhi bhaari pad jayenge, rehne hi dijiye.” I almost wanted to say it loudly, but then I thought it might sound too rude or disrespectful. So instead, I simply smiled softly and shook my head in “no.”

But honestly, somewhere deep inside, I also wondered whether life really changes through planets, destiny, or prayers. Because sometimes no matter how much you plan, life still surprises you in its own unpredictable ways — just like this journey already had.

After spending some peaceful time there, we left and headed toward the beautiful ISKCON Guwahati temple. The moment I entered the temple and saw the mesmerizing idols of Radha Rani and Lord Krishna, something inside me became emotional again. The calmness, devotion, bhajans playing softly in the background, and the divine beauty of Radha-Krishna together created a completely different feeling in my heart.

Standing there, looking at Radha Rani, I suddenly felt myself falling in love with Krishna ji all over again. And then, like every hopeless romantic heart secretly does, my mind quietly drifted into thoughts I never say out loud. I kept thinking, “Kaash mujhe bhi koi Krishna ki tarah bepanah pyaar karta… kaash main bhi kisi ki Radha hoti…”

It was strange — this solo journey was making me feel everything at once. Strength, freedom, loneliness, peace, excitement, spirituality, chaos, and somewhere in between, even the quiet desire to be deeply loved by someone someday.

With all these mixed emotions, spiritual thoughts, random overthinking, and a strangely peaceful heart, I stepped out of the temple and left for the next destination, carrying both silence and stories within me.

After leaving ISKCON Guwahati, my mind was still wandering somewhere between devotion and overthinking. I kept wondering why love in real life is never as deep and unconditional as Radha-Krishna’s love. Why does modern love come with confusion, ego, and “last seen at 2:15 AM” instead of eternal devotion and flute music? Lost in these dramatic thoughts, I didn’t even realize when we had reached the next destination.

Suddenly, the cab driver stopped the car in front of Baikunthapur Shiva Temple. The temple looked incredibly peaceful from outside — surrounded by greenery, away from traffic noise, and wrapped in a calm silence that instantly relaxed the mind. Unlike crowded tourist spots, this place felt simple, spiritual, and deeply soothing. The soft sound of temple bells, cool breeze flowing through the trees, and the smell of incense in the air made the atmosphere feel almost meditative.

Baikunthapur Shiva Temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva and is considered one of the peaceful spiritual spots around Guwahati. Devotees visit the temple seeking mental peace, blessings, and spiritual calmness. The temple premises are quiet and spacious, making it a perfect place to sit silently and escape from the noise of everyday life. Many locals believe the energy of the temple brings emotional balance and positivity, especially for people carrying stress or sadness in their hearts.

As I slowly climbed the temple staircase, one hilarious thought crossed my mind: “Lagta hai mere face par permanent sadness ka filter laga hua hai… tabhi bechara driver mujhe ek ke baad ek bhagwan ke paas le ja raha hai. Banda pakka soch raha hoga ki is aurat ko urgent spiritual servicing ki zarurat hai.”

At this point, I was fully convinced that the driver had unofficially taken responsibility for repairing my emotional life through divine tourism.

I sat quietly in the temple courtyard for around ten minutes, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. Honestly, the place had such calm energy that for a moment all my overthinking slowed down. But then, suddenly, spirituality turned into live-action comedy.

Out of nowhere, I saw one woman running behind a monkey at full speed. Before I could even understand what was happening, I noticed that monkey brother had a bag in his hand. From the shape of it, it clearly looked like there were sweet boxes inside — probably prasad the poor woman had brought to offer to Lord Shiva.

But monkey ji had already made his own spiritual decision.

In his mind, the sweets were no longer “bhog for Bhagwan.” They had officially become “personal lunch sponsored by devotees.”

The woman kept running behind him helplessly while monkey bhai sat confidently holding the bag like he had legally purchased it. Honestly, at that moment it looked less like a temple scene and more like a wildlife documentary directed by God himself.

Between emotional overthinking, accidental spiritual therapy by my cab driver, and monkeys stealing prasad with full confidence, I completely lost track of time. Then suddenly I checked my phone and realized it was already around 3:30 PM — and my stomach had officially started filing complaints against me for starvation.

I quickly came outside the temple and called the driver, only to discover that sir himself was peacefully having lunch somewhere and would take another five minutes to arrive. The moment he mentioned food, the animals inside my stomach started running around like they had been released after years of imprisonment.

And then… destiny appeared before me in the form of a pani puri stall.

Right outside the temple stood one lady making fresh pani puri, and the moment my eyes landed on those crispy puris, spicy water, and mashed potato filling, I felt like I had not eaten for generations. At that point, spirituality temporarily exited my body and pure hunger entered my soul.

I practically ran toward the stall like someone reuniting with lost love.

Within five minutes, two full plates of pani puri had disappeared into my stomach at record-breaking speed. I was emotionally, mentally, and spiritually ready for the third plate too. In fact, I had almost opened my mouth to say “Didi ek aur…” when suddenly I saw the driver walking toward me from the front.

At that exact moment, my inner voice said dramatically: “Bas kar Vaishali… thodi toh izzat bacha le.”

So with great sacrifice and emotional pain, I stopped myself from ordering the third plate. I paid the pani puri lady ₹40 like a responsible citizen and walked back toward the cab pretending I was fully satisfied… while internally grieving over the third plate that deserved to be mine.

I was still emotionally stuck on the sacrifice of not eating that third plate of pani puri while quietly staring outside the cab window at the beautiful streets and views of Guwahati. The combination of full stomach, temple peace, hot weather, and moving cab worked better than sleeping pills. Somewhere between overthinking and sightseeing, I unknowingly fell asleep.

I have no idea how long I slept, but when I suddenly opened my eyes, I saw something shocking.

The cab was parked in front of yet another temple.

At that exact moment, I became fully convinced that this driver had taken a personal oath to transform me into a full-time devotee before ending the trip. In my mind, I was seriously confused whether I had come to Guwahati for tourism or whether I had accidentally joined an all-India spiritual yatra package.

I looked at the driver with silent pain in my eyes as if saying,
“Bhaiya, main Meghalaya ghumne nikli thi… moksh pane nahi.”

Still, I stepped outside the cab — and honestly, the moment I looked up, my heart became completely garden garden.

Standing in front of me was the breathtaking Balaji Temple Guwahati. The temple looked so grand, peaceful, and beautiful that for a moment it genuinely felt like I had entered some heavenly place. Inspired by South Indian architecture, the temple is dedicated to Lord Balaji (Lord Venkateswara) along with shrines of Lord Ganesha and Goddess Lakshmi. The white marble structure, beautifully carved pillars, peaceful atmosphere, and calm surroundings make it one of the most serene spiritual places in Guwahati. Unlike crowded noisy temples, this place felt clean, organized, and unbelievably peaceful. Even the air there somehow felt more positive.

I slowly walked inside, took darshan properly, explored the temple premises, and then sat quietly for some time in the courtyard enjoying the calmness.

And then…

My eyes accidentally landed on the temple priest.

Now listen carefully — I am speaking with complete honesty and full respect to Balaji Bhagwan — but after John Abraham, if I have ever experienced something close to “love at first sight,” it was probably at that exact moment.

That pujari was approximately 5’9”, slim but properly built like someone who secretly does bodybuilding between aarti timings. He had a perfectly trimmed French-cut beard, sharp features, and skin so fair it genuinely looked like he had just emerged fresh out of a bucket of milk. Because of the heat and sunlight, his cheeks had turned tomato red, making him look even more unreal.

And to make matters worse for innocent female devotees like me, the man was standing there Salman Khan style — shirtless — wearing only a clean white dhoti.

Bas… uske baad mera spiritual balance hil gaya.

Honestly, if someone had placed Virat Kohli beside him at that moment, even Virat bhai would have looked slightly underconfident.

For a few seconds, my brain completely stopped processing spirituality.

I immediately looked toward Balaji Bhagwan in guilt and silently apologized in my mind:
“Bhagwan ji, please forgive me. Main aapke pujari par buri nazar nahi daal rahi… but mera bas itna kehna hai ki itna handsome aadmi mandir ke andar nahi, bahar public circulation me hona chahiye tha.”

Honestly, the man looked less like a priest and more like some Bollywood hero doing method acting for a spiritual blockbuster.

At that point, my brain started asking deeply painful life questions:
“Jab meri shaadi hui thi tab aise smart log kaha chup kar baithe the?”
“Bhagwan ji ne mujhe uss time aise sample kyu nahi dikhaye?”

Meanwhile, my self-respect and married-life memories were silently fighting inside me.

I sat there pretending to behave spiritually mature while internally my mind had completely shifted from “Om Namo Venkatesaya” to “Yeh banda itna handsome kaise ho sakta hai?”

After struggling emotionally for a few more minutes, I finally got up with a heavy heart and walked outside toward the cab, carrying both blessings and unnecessary emotional confusion with me.

The moment I sat inside the cab, I looked at the driver very seriously and said:
“Bhaiya… ab please koi mandir mat le jana.”

At that point, I was genuinely scared that one more temple visit and I would either become completely spiritual… or completely distracted.

The moment I sat inside the cab and told the driver very seriously,
“Bhaiya… ab please koi mandir mat le jana,”
I think he took my words either far too seriously… or maybe his feelings got hurt.

Because after that, without saying much, he directly drove me to Shaheed Smarak Kshetra.

At that point, I quietly looked outside the window and thought,
“Bas… ab bhaiya ne decide kar liya hai ki ya toh mujhe spiritual banana hai ya deshbhakt.”

Locally known as Shaheed Smarak Kshetra, the place is a beautifully maintained memorial dedicated to the brave martyrs of Assam and India. The area is peaceful, clean, and surrounded by greenery, with beautifully designed pathways, sculptures, and memorial structures that honor the sacrifices of soldiers and freedom fighters. The atmosphere there feels calm and respectful, almost forcing people to slow down and reflect for a moment. Unlike crowded tourist places, the memorial has a silent dignity to it. The open space, artistic stone structures, and peaceful environment make it one of the most thoughtfully designed places in Guwahati.

Honestly, the place was genuinely beautiful.

But by this point, after nonstop emotional drama, temples, monkeys, pani puri heartbreak, spiritual confusion, and accidental crushes on priests, my brain and body had both officially resigned from active duty.

I walked around the memorial quietly, looked at everything properly, clicked a few pictures, and somewhere in between realized that I was genuinely exhausted. The next day I had to leave for Meghalaya, and on top of that, in the evening I still had to collect my lost luggage from the airport. My body was functioning purely on blessings, pani puri, and survival instincts.

Finally, I looked at the driver and said,
“Bhaiya… ab mujhe hotel drop kar do warna kal Meghalaya ki jagah seedha swarg pahoch jaungi.”

He dropped me back at Kiranshree Grand, and I handed him ₹2500 for the entire sightseeing trip. Driver bhaiya happily accepted the money and drove away smiling — probably in search of his next emotionally damaged passenger whom he could again heal through temples, spirituality, and unexpected life lessons.

Honestly, by the end of the day, I was fully convinced that the man was not an Ola driver.
He was running a mobile spiritual rehabilitation service.

The moment I entered my hotel room, I collapsed on the bed with my shopping bags lying everywhere around me. I genuinely felt less like a tourist and more like a soldier returning from war. My legs had stopped cooperating, my brain had shut down, and my soul had already left for temporary recovery.

I don’t even remember when I fell asleep.

The next time I opened my eyes was only because the pani puri had finally completed its responsibility and dissolved completely inside my stomach. Suddenly hunger attacked me again with full force.

I woke up in confusion, checked the time, and realized it was already 9:30 at night.

And of course, because destiny enjoys playing games with me, the hotel restaurant had already closed.

At that moment, the only option left for this tired, emotionally unstable, pani-puri-powered traveler was room service.

After somehow surviving the emotional rollercoaster of the entire day, I finally ordered food through room service because the hotel restaurant had already closed by the time I woke up. Honestly, at that point, I was so hungry that even plain dal-rice would have felt like a seven-star buffet.

After finishing dinner peacefully, I checked the clock — and it was already 10:30 PM.

And then suddenly I remembered:
“Arre mera luggage!”

I still had to go to the airport and collect the bag that had been abandoned in Mumbai by Air India Express like an unwanted relative.

Now honestly, sometimes my brain becomes overactive in the name of saving money.

While going from the airport earlier, I had noticed that the hotel was barely five minutes away, yet the cab driver had charged me ₹170. That memory suddenly activated the “middle-class money-saving warrior” inside me.

So I proudly decided:
“Why waste money? Main bag lekar aaram se chalke hotel aa jaungi.”

At that moment, I forgot one very important thing:
The bag I was going to collect was not a school backpack.
It was a full-sized suitcase packed by a woman.

Meanwhile, while walking toward arrivals and calling airport authorities for updates, my frustration level was already touching the sky. The entire day had been chaotic because of that missing luggage. I had already survived one dress, emergency shopping, spiritual tours, emotional damage, and pani puri addiction because of this bag.

Then suddenly the airport authority guy picked up the call and casually said:
“Aapka bag aaj nahi aayega. Aap baar baar follow-up mat karo.”

बस.

At that exact moment, my soul left my body.

I froze there in complete shock.
My brain immediately started screaming internally:
“KYA MATLAB BAG NAHI AAYEGA? Main yahan fashion experiment karne aayi hu kya? Kal Meghalaya jana hai! Main aur kitne din ek hi kapde me ghumungi?”

Honestly, for two full seconds, I was mentally ready to launch a full customer-care destruction campaign.

I had already imagined myself shouting:
“Aap logo ne mera bag Mumbai me chhoda, mera BP badhaya, mera budget shopping me uda diya aur ab bol rahe ho follow-up mat karo?”

But before my anger could explode properly, the man suddenly said from the other side:
“Sorry ma’am… woh main aapse nahi, kisi aur staff se baat kar raha tha.”

The moment I heard that, it genuinely felt like my soul re-entered my body.

I stood there silently for a second like someone whose death sentence had just been cancelled.

Suddenly my BP normalized.
My anger disappeared.
My future looked bright again.

Then he calmly said:
“Ma’am, your bag is here. I’m bringing it out. Just give me five minutes.”

And honestly, those five minutes felt longer than my entire Delhi layover.

But then…

I finally saw him walking out from the arrival gate carrying my suitcase.

At that moment, the happiness I felt is impossible to explain properly. It genuinely felt like someone had returned my lost child to me. After everything that had happened since morning, seeing my luggage again felt emotional, victorious, and deeply personal.

I wanted to hug that bag right there at the airport.

Because by that point, my suitcase was no longer just luggage.
It was my survival partner.

The next morning, I finally got ready to join my actual Meghalaya travel group. Technically, for me it was a solo trip, but in reality it was still a group tour. Still, since I had already survived airports, missing luggage, spiritual rehabilitation by cab drivers, and emotional damage from handsome priests all alone, I felt like a fully experienced solo traveller by now.

After getting ready, I called room service and asked them to collect my luggage while I cleared the pending hotel bill downstairs. Till then, I decided to properly enjoy the complimentary breakfast provided by Kiranshree Grand.

Honestly, anything that comes free in life automatically tastes better.

Even when we all know deep down that nothing in life is actually free.
Somewhere, somehow, someone has already included the charges secretly.
But still, the word “complimentary” gives middle-class hearts a different type of happiness.

The same tea that normally feels average suddenly tastes like luxury if someone says:
“Ma’am this is complimentary.”

At that moment, humans stop eating food and start recovering emotional losses.

So naturally, I enjoyed that breakfast with full dedication as if I personally needed to recover the money airlines had emotionally stolen from me through luggage trauma.

After breakfast, I went back upstairs to the room, and after some time the room service guy entered to collect my luggage.

The moment he entered, he smiled politely and said very sweetly:
“Ma’am, aap bahot acchi lag rahi hai.”

Now let me clarify something.

I was not standing there looking like some Bollywood heroine ready for a photoshoot.

I was wearing loose comfortable travel clothes — one oversized top and pajama — because while traveling, my priority is comfort, not fashion week.

But the way that man complimented me, for two seconds I genuinely felt that after Aishwarya Rai Bachchan, the beauty industry was now waiting for my official entry.

In my mind I was like:
“Kya baat kar rahe ho bhaiya… itni bhi sundar nahi lag rahi main.”
But internally my confidence had already reached international level.

Then suddenly reality returned.

I immediately understood:
“Achaaa… isko tip chahiye.”

Without wasting time, I opened my purse, took out a ₹50 note, and handed it toward him.

The funniest part?

The moment he saw the ₹50 note, he gave me one tiny controlled smile — the kind of smile people give when they expected ₹100 but got emotional support instead.

And at that exact moment, I looked at him silently and thought:
“Bhaiya… itni si tarif ke ₹50 bhi bahot jyada hai.”

Still maintaining full dignity, I picked up my handbag and walked toward the lift pretending everything was completely professional… while internally laughing at how quickly my temporary Miss World confidence had vanished after the tip transaction.

After checking out from Kiranshree Grand, I finally headed straight toward the airport — this time not for missing luggage drama, but to officially join my Meghalaya travel group.

And there, right outside, waiting for all of us like a school picnic coordinator with responsibility written all over his face, stood our tour captain — Prakash Sharma — along with his tempo traveller.

Now technically, Prakash’s height would probably be somewhere around 5’6”. He was slim too, but honestly I can understand why. The poor man spends half his life traveling on roads, managing tourists, luggage, mountains, hotel calls, food stops, and random human problems. At this point, calories probably get scared and leave his body automatically.

With an unshaped beard and tired traveler energy, he actually looked decent in a very “main sab sambhal lunga” type way. Not Bollywood hero handsome… but definitely reliable enough to survive Meghalaya roads and tourist tantrums.

Slowly, one by one, everyone from the group started arriving.

And honestly, I usually don’t feel comfortable meeting new people quickly. Normally, whenever strangers gather in a group, I need time to adjust. But surprisingly, this trip felt different right from the beginning. There was something warm and comfortable about the people joining in.

The first proper conversation I had was with Savita and Sangeeta, and instantly both felt very easy to talk to. Slowly more people started joining one after another, luggage kept piling up, introductions started happening, and the whole atmosphere slowly became lively.

Right now, taking everyone’s names would honestly be a little too early because at that point even I was still trying to remember who was who without accidentally calling someone aunty, bhaiya, or madam incorrectly.

But one thing I knew for sure —
this group already felt less awkward and more like one of those trips where strangers slowly become stories you remember for a very long time.

Since user is building a travel story, here's a polished and humorous continuation you can directly use:

After settling into the tempo traveller, the first thing we all did was ask each other's names. Now, whether I actually remember anyone's name is a completely different matter. My memory and names have never been good friends. Still, looking like a civilized member of society, I also participated in the introductions and nodded seriously whenever someone introduced themselves, even though there was a high probability I would forget their name within the next ten minutes.

As our journey towards Meghalaya began, the scenery outside started becoming more beautiful with every passing kilometer. The roads, the greenery, the hills, the clouds—everything looked like a desktop wallpaper had suddenly come to life.

Every few minutes I would excitedly take out my phone to click a picture.

The problem was that by the time I unlocked my phone, opened the camera, adjusted the angle, and decided what exactly I wanted to capture, the bus had already moved ahead and the view was gone.

This happened so many times that eventually my gallery became a collection of random trees, half mountains, electric poles, and blurry road signs.

If someone looked at those photos later, they would probably think I had spent my vacation documenting Meghalaya's electricity department.

After driving for some time, our vehicle stopped at a petrol pump. Officially, the stop was for anyone who wanted to freshen up.

Unofficially, nobody cared about freshening up.

The entire group immediately got busy clicking photos as if the petrol pump itself was a major tourist attraction.

At that moment, Instagram was clearly more important than personal hygiene.

Around 2 PM, however, something more powerful than social media arrived.

Hunger.

One by one, the animals living inside our stomachs woke up and started demanding attention.

So we stopped at a hotel for lunch.

The menu was absolutely dangerous.

Every page was filled with tempting dishes. Looking at it, I felt like ordering half the menu.

But then reality entered the chat.

As people started placing their orders one by one, we discovered that most of the food existed only in the menu's imagination.

In reality, the hotel had only a handful of dishes available.

The menu was basically a fantasy novel.

Eventually, whether we liked it or not, our journey led us to dosa.

Some people managed to order a few surviving items from the menu, while the rest of us surrendered to fate.

To be fair, the hotel staff suddenly had to handle nearly twenty hungry tourists arriving together. Looking at their faces, it seemed they were trying to solve a NASA-level crisis.

Their confusion was visible in every aspect of the service.

Meanwhile, the first dosa finally arrived at our table.

One of my teammates immediately started eating.

Now, I won't lie.

At that moment, my hunger level was so high that for a split second I considered grabbing her plate and declaring it community property.

But unfortunately, society has rules.

So I sat quietly while the demon inside my stomach screamed for justice.

Finally, my much-awaited rava dosa arrived.

The moment I looked at it, I felt something was wrong.

The dosa looked less like food and more like a war survivor.

Honestly, it appeared as though it had personally participated in the Battle of Panipat.

It was torn, broken, cracked, and scattered in multiple directions.

Calling it a dosa felt optimistic.

It looked more like a pile of dosa fragments that had survived a natural disaster.

The funny part was that the moment I saw it, even the animals inside my stomach lost interest.

They looked at the plate and collectively decided to go back to sleep.

Still, out of respect for food and because there were no better options available, I somehow managed to eat half of it.

After lunch, everyone settled their bills and we resumed our journey towards Shillong.

And then came the most beautiful part of the drive.

The road from Guwahati to Shillong is something that photographs can never fully capture.

As the vehicle climbed higher into the Khasi Hills, the scenery transformed completely. Endless rolling green hills stretched into the distance. Thick pine forests lined both sides of the road. Clouds floated so low that at times it felt as if they were travelling alongside us.

The winding mountain roads curved gently through valleys covered in shades of green that seemed almost unreal. Small villages appeared occasionally between the hills, their colorful houses standing peacefully against the backdrop of mist-covered mountains.

Every turn revealed another breathtaking view.

Somewhere in the distance, clouds wrapped themselves around entire hillsides like soft white blankets. The cool breeze coming through the windows carried the fresh scent of pine trees and wet earth.

For long stretches, nobody even felt the need to speak because nature was doing all the talking.

The journey itself felt like a destination.

Around 6 PM, we finally arrived at our hotel in Shillong.

Everyone was assigned room keys and room partners.

After travelling together for hours, talking continuously, sharing food stories, and learning everyone's life history, I thought introductions were officially complete.

But our captain Prakash Sharma apparently believed otherwise.

We were informed that after one hour everyone needed to gather in the cafeteria for a "formal introduction."

At that point I was confused.

We had already introduced ourselves in the tempo traveller.

Yet somehow, according to our captain, we still needed another round of introductions.

It felt like we were attending an office orientation program disguised as a vacation.

But rules are rules.

So after freshening up, we all prepared to meet the same people once again and formally introduce ourselves to the people who already knew who we were.

Here's the next part in the same humorous travel-blog style:

When we finally gathered around the introduction table, I realized that my definition of "introduction" and the group's definition of "introduction" were two completely different subjects.

According to me, an introduction means:
"Hi, I'm Vaishali."
"Hi, I'm Sangeeta."
"Hi, I'm Savita."

Done.

Introduction over.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Very wrong.

Here, introduction meant a complete background verification process.

One by one, everyone started introducing themselves.

Name.

Profession.

City.

Family details.

Travel experience.

Reason for joining the trip.

Future plans.

And most importantly...

"Why have you come to Meghalaya?"

At this point, it felt less like a travel group and more like a corporate hiring interview.

I was sitting there wondering whether Prakash Sharma was secretly running an HR consultancy.

For a moment, I genuinely felt like saying:

"Hello everyone, my name is Vaishali Sanghavi. My strengths are shopping, overthinking, and eating pani puri. My weakness is handsome priests and complimentary hotel breakfasts. Thank you for giving me this opportunity."

One by one everyone shared their stories.

Some wanted adventure.

Some loved nature.

Some wanted a break from work.

Some wanted peace.

And I was sitting there thinking that my Meghalaya trip had already included missing luggage, airport drama, accidental temple tours, monkey theft, emotional damage, and spiritual confusion before even reaching Meghalaya.

Eventually, after everybody completed their personal TED Talk, the formal introduction session finally ended.

Now came the most important discussion of the night.

Dinner.

The only topic capable of uniting complete strangers within seconds.

Suddenly everybody became highly opinionated.

One group wanted to eat in the hotel.

Another group wanted to go outside.

Some wanted convenience.

Some wanted exploration.

Personally speaking, I was firmly in the "let's go outside" group.

I mean, I had travelled all the way from Mumbai to Meghalaya.

I had not come here to sit inside a hotel room and order room service.

If my goal was staying inside a hotel, I could have easily spent a lot less energy and simply booked a staycation at a luxury hotel back home.

At least there I would have had familiar pani puri nearby.

Fortunately, after enough discussion, voting, opinions, counter-opinions, and unofficial parliamentary debates, the majority agreed to go out for dinner.

And then came Shillong's biggest shock.

We discovered that most restaurants in Shillong close around 9 PM.

NINE PM.

Meanwhile, people like us consider 9 PM as the official starting time of the evening.

Back home, 9 PM is when people begin asking:

"So what's the plan?"

Shillong apparently says:

"The plan is to sleep."

After a lot of searching, somebody finally found a restaurant that stayed open until 10 PM.

For us, it felt like discovering a hidden treasure.

Immediately cabs were booked and the entire group left before the restaurant owners could change their minds.

When we finally arrived, the place looked surprisingly good.

The ambience was warm and cozy.

Soft lighting.

Good music.

Comfortable seating.

The staff looked organized and professional.

Everyone seemed polite, calm, and efficient.

Looking around, I felt hopeful.

But experience had already taught me one important lesson during this trip:

A place can have beautiful interiors, smiling staff, and excellent ambience.

The real truth only reveals itself after the food arrives.

Once everyone settled down, we started ordering food. Some ordered vegetarian dishes, some ordered non-vegetarian dishes, and within a few minutes our table looked like a mini food festival.

To make the experience even better, there was an incredibly sweet and polite waitress serving us. The poor girl was probably wondering whether she was serving dinner or managing a highly confused family reunion.

Now, unlike normal civilized people who stay loyal to one side of the menu, I belong to the category of people who believe good food has no religion.

So naturally, I was conducting my own food inspection mission.

One minute I was tasting a vegetarian dish.

The next minute I was investigating somebody's chicken preparation.

Then suddenly I was back to paneer.

My plate had become a secular democracy.

The only challenge was that Meghna and Anuj were sitting with us.

Both of them were pure vegetarians.

Which meant every time I reached for a dish, I had to perform a full risk assessment.

I had to carefully calculate:

"Did my spoon just touch the chicken?"

"Has this hand recently interacted with fish?"

"Am I carrying traces of mutton from a previous operation?"

Because if by mistake I touched their food with my non-veg contaminated hand, then their religion might survive but the blame would definitely land on my head.

And then for the rest of the trip I would be remembered as:

"Vaishali ji, destroyer of vegetarian purity."

So I behaved myself.

At least publicly.

After dinner, everyone sat back with the satisfied expression that only comes after a good meal.

And then someone suggested:

"Why don't we take a walk and digest the food?"

Now this suggestion immediately divided the group into two categories.

Category One:
Healthy, motivated, energetic people.

Category Two:
Normal people.

Some enthusiastically agreed.

Others looked personally offended by the suggestion.

A few members were already mentally inside their blankets.

Honestly, the way some people wanted to rush back to their rooms, it looked like they had spent the entire day fighting a war instead of sitting comfortably in a tempo traveller.

Still, after some discussion, we decided that whoever wanted to walk could walk and the rest could head back.

So a small group of us started walking through the cool Shillong evening.

The weather was beautiful.

The roads were peaceful.

The air was fresh.

The mood was perfect.

For approximately seven minutes.

After that, reality arrived.

One by one, knees started complaining.

Feet began filing protest applications.

Back muscles submitted resignation letters.

The same people who had suggested walking now looked ready to negotiate a peace treaty with the nearest chair.

Soon everybody reached the same conclusion.

Digesting food is important.

But sleeping is more important.

So we finally called it a night and headed back to the hotel.

After all, the next day was going to be our first proper Meghalaya adventure, and we wanted to start it with energy, excitement, and fully functional legs.

At least that was the plan.

What actually happened the next day was a completely different story.

Before going to sleep, we were informed that everyone had to be ready by 7:30 in the morning.

The moment I heard "7:30 AM," I immediately understood that this trip was not going to be a vacation.

It was going to be a military operation.

Back home, 7:30 AM is usually the time when I am negotiating with my alarm clock for "just five more minutes."

But on group tours, 7:30 AM means:
Wake up.
Get ready.
Pack your bag.
Eat breakfast.
Take photos.
And somehow still look cheerful.

Our captain very confidently announced the timing as if waking up early in freezing weather was the easiest thing in the world.

Meanwhile, most of us smiled and nodded politely while internally calculating how many alarms would be required to achieve this miracle.

As soon as I reached my room, I immediately set multiple alarms.

One on my phone.

One backup alarm.

And one emotional alarm based on the fear of being left behind by the group.

Because let's be honest, on group trips there is one universal rule:

The bus will wait for nobody.

You can forget your charger.

You can forget your sunglasses.

You can even forget your dignity.

But if you miss the departure time, the entire group will remember your name forever.

After setting all possible alarms, I finally collapsed on the bed.

My body was tired.

My legs were tired.

My brain was tired.

Even my shopping bags looked tired.

Within minutes, I was asleep, preparing myself for the first real day of exploring the magical beauty of Meghalaya.

That night, before sleeping, I had set multiple alarms like a responsible traveler.

What I had forgotten, however, was that I had also brought along my most dangerous alarm clock from home.

Now, normally at home, my day starts around 4:30 AM.

People often ask me why I wake up so early.

The answer is simple.

Because by the time I prepare breakfast, pack tiffins, finish household chores, organize things, and generally keep life running, it is already close to 7 AM.

Over the years, my 4:00 AM alarm has become less of an alarm and more of a family member.

The problem is that while leaving for Meghalaya, I forgot to disable it.

So every morning of the trip, this loyal servant of capitalism continued doing its duty.

And that is exactly what happened in Shillong.

At exactly 4:00 AM, my phone suddenly started screaming.

Half asleep, I immediately knew who the culprit was.

"The Home Alarm."

For a few seconds, I stared at the phone with pure hatred.

My brain was preparing a strong response.

Something along the lines of:

"Listen, we are on vacation. Your services are not required here."

I was literally about to throw the phone aside and go back to sleep when my eyes accidentally drifted toward the window.

And then...

I froze.

Outside, it looked like full daylight.

Not early morning.

Not sunrise.

Proper daylight.

For a moment, I genuinely thought my alarm had malfunctioned and started ringing three hours late.

My first thought was:

"Arre baap re! It's 7:30 already!"

I jumped out of bed so fast that even my knees were surprised.

Panic mode activated.

I rushed toward the window and looked outside.

And honestly...

The view was magical.

The entire landscape looked like a dream.

There was complete silence everywhere.

No traffic.

No horns.

No chaos.

Just nature.

Soft clouds floated so close to the hotel that it almost felt like they were peeking through the window to check whether we were awake yet.

The cold breeze gently brushed against my face like nature itself was wishing me good morning.

The hills looked fresh and green.

The sky was glowing softly.

Everything looked peaceful enough to become a meditation app wallpaper.

Naturally, my first instinct was:

"Photo."

I immediately grabbed my phone.

But before taking the picture, I happened to glance at the time.

4:05 AM.

I blinked.

Looked again.

4:05 AM.

Now I was confused.

Very confused.

How could it be 4 AM when outside looked like 7 AM?

Immediately I suspected my phone.

Because obviously the phone had to be wrong.

There was no way nature could be this active at 4 in the morning.

So I picked up my second phone.

Checked the time.

4:07 AM.

At this point, I felt personally betrayed by technology.

Both phones were saying the same thing.

That's when it finally clicked.

I was in Meghalaya.

And here the sun apparently believes in punctuality.

While people in Mumbai are still arguing with their alarms at 6:30 AM, Meghalaya has already started its day.

That is why at 4 AM it felt like someone had secretly moved the clock forward by three hours.

For a few minutes, I sat there admiring the view.

Then I had a serious conversation with myself.

"Vaishali, stop behaving like a confused pigeon."

"It is still 4 AM."

"Go back to sleep."

After a lot of convincing, I somehow managed to lie down again.

Eventually I fell asleep.

The next time I woke up, it was because of a call from Sangeeta.

Her voice carried the urgency of someone announcing a national emergency.

"Jaldi upar aa jao. Hum cafeteria mein coffee peene wale hain."

Now that was a valid reason to wake up.

Coffee is one of the few things in life capable of defeating sleep.

So I quickly freshened up and joined everyone in the cafeteria.

The morning atmosphere was beautiful.

We clicked photos, enjoyed the fresh mountain air, and slowly started feeling excited about the day ahead.

After spending some time there, I returned to my room.

My roommate had gone for a bath, and I immediately started digging through my suitcase looking for the day's clothes.

At that point, my only mission was simple:

Be ready on time.

Because on group trips there is one thing more dangerous than waking up late—

Being the reason everyone else gets late.

After breakfast, all of us were fully ready and standing outside the hotel waiting for our tempo traveller.

The scene looked less like a group of tourists and more like school children waiting for their school bus.

Some people were busy taking photos.

Some were checking the weather.

Some were discussing the day's itinerary for the tenth time.

And a few responsible souls had already occupied the best seats before the vehicle even arrived.

Meanwhile, our captain Prakash Sharma gathered everyone and announced the day's plan.

Today's destinations:

Laitlum Canyon.

Wei Sawdong Falls.

NohKaLikai Falls.

The moment he said the names, everybody became excited.

At that point, I had only one expectation from Meghalaya:

Beautiful mountains.

What I didn't know was that Meghalaya was about to personally attack my legs, lungs, and fear of heights.

The weather that morning was absolutely perfect.

Cool breeze.

Soft sunlight.

Clouds floating lazily through the hills.

The kind of weather where even bad photographs somehow look professional.

As we left Shillong and headed deeper into Meghalaya, the roads became more beautiful with every kilometer.

The roads twisted and turned through endless green hills.

Pine trees stood on both sides like security guards welcoming visitors.

Sometimes clouds would suddenly appear out of nowhere and cover entire sections of the road.

It felt as though we were driving through the sky itself.

Every few minutes someone in the bus would shout:

"Look outside!"

And everybody would immediately rush toward the windows despite having looked outside continuously for the last two hours.

The problem was that every turn somehow looked more beautiful than the previous one.

Eventually we reached our first destination.

Laitlum Canyon.

The moment I stepped out of the vehicle and walked toward the viewpoint, my brain completely stopped functioning.

The word "Laitlum" roughly translates to "End of Hills," and honestly, standing there felt exactly like standing at the edge of the world.

Huge valleys stretched endlessly into the distance.

Massive green mountains rolled one after another until they disappeared into the clouds.

The wind was so strong that it felt like nature itself was trying to push me into becoming an eagle.

The clouds moved below us.

Not beside us.

Below us.

That alone was enough to confuse my Mumbai-trained brain.

For several minutes I simply stood there staring into the valley.

No photograph could capture what the eyes were seeing.

The silence.

The vastness.

The wind.

The feeling of standing above the clouds.

Everything felt unreal.

After spending enough time there, we continued towards the place that was about to test our fitness levels.

Wei Sawdong Falls.

Now before visiting, I had seen pictures online.

And like every intelligent tourist, I assumed the place would be easy.

The universe laughed.

The moment we reached the entry point, reality revealed itself.

To reach Wei Sawdong Falls, you have to climb down a steep series of stairs, rocky paths, uneven terrain, and slippery sections.

And when I say climb down, I don't mean normal stairs.

I mean stairs that make you question every life decision that brought you there.

At some places, the path becomes narrow.

At some places, it becomes slippery.

And at some places, you simply trust God and continue walking.

One wrong step can easily result in bruises, twisted ankles, or an unexpected relationship with gravity.

The descent requires proper balance and attention.

This is definitely not a place where you should be busy making phone calls, checking messages, or updating social media.

Meanwhile, I was carefully protecting both my life and my dignity.

Every few minutes my inner voice kept saying:

"Don't fall."

"Don't slip."

"Don't become viral for the wrong reasons."

But the moment we finally reached the falls, every bit of effort became worth it.

The sight was breathtaking.

Wei Sawdong Falls is famous for its stunning three-tier structure.

Crystal-clear turquoise water cascades through multiple levels before collecting into beautiful natural pools.

The water was so clear that it looked photoshopped.

The surrounding cliffs, greenery, and flowing water made the entire place feel like a hidden paradise.

Soon everyone jumped into the water.

The cold water instantly woke up every sleeping cell in my body.

For some time we splashed around, clicked pictures, laughed, and enjoyed ourselves like children.

And then...

The entertainment program began.

While we were busy enjoying the waterfall, we noticed one lady standing near the water wearing a saree.

At first, I thought she had simply come for sightseeing.

How innocent I was.

Within moments, background music started playing from somebody's phone.

The lady adjusted her saree.

Raised her hand dramatically.

Tilted her face toward the waterfall.

And suddenly transformed into what can only be described as a low-budget version of Sridevi shooting a 90s romantic song.

I stood there completely fascinated.

Not by the waterfall.

By her confidence.

Honestly, reaching that location had already taken away half my breath.

The climb down itself had felt like an Olympic qualification round.

And here was this woman in a saree, performing full cinematic expressions for Instagram followers.

At that point I forgot about swimming.

I forgot about the waterfall.

I forgot about nature.

Instead, I became a full-time audience member.

While everyone else enjoyed the falls, I stood there watching "B-Grade Sridevi in Meghalaya" live.

The poses kept increasing.

The expressions became more dramatic.

The saree continued flying heroically in the wind.

And I kept wondering:

"Madam, are you here for nature or are you personally shooting the sequel to Chandni?"

Eventually, after enough laughter, photos, and accidental entertainment, we began the difficult climb back up.

And let me tell you something.

Going down is easy.

Coming back up is where your ancestors start appearing in your memories.

By the time I reached the top, I had gained a new respect for mountaineers, trekkers, and anyone who voluntarily chooses physical activity.

But the adventure wasn't over yet.

Because next on our list was the most famous waterfall in Meghalaya.

After surviving the adventure at Wei Sawdong Falls and somehow bringing our souls, knees, and oxygen levels back to normal, we headed toward one of Meghalaya's most famous attractions — NohKaLikai Falls.

Now, if somebody asks me to describe NohKaLikai Falls in one sentence, I would simply say:

"Nature was showing off."

The waterfall is the tallest plunge waterfall in India, dropping from a height of around 340 meters. Standing at the viewpoint, you can see a massive stream of water falling straight down into a beautiful turquoise pool far below.

And when I say "far below," I mean really far below.

The kind of height where if you accidentally drop your water bottle, by the time it reaches the bottom, you'll probably have completed half your retirement planning.

The water looked unreal.

The cliffs looked unreal.

The valley looked unreal.

Even the clouds seemed professionally placed for photography.

Now comes the sad part.

The story behind NohKaLikai Falls.

According to local folklore, the waterfall is named after a woman called Ka Likai. The story is heartbreaking. After the death of her husband, Ka Likai remarried. Her second husband became jealous of the love she gave her daughter. One day, while Ka Likai was away working, the man committed a horrific crime. When she returned home, she unknowingly ate food prepared from her daughter's remains. After discovering the truth, overwhelmed with grief, Ka Likai is said to have jumped from these cliffs. The waterfall was later named "Noh Ka Likai," meaning "The Leap of Ka Likai."

Now honestly...

After hearing the story, I was standing there looking at the beautiful waterfall and thinking:

"Meghalaya, decide what you want from me."

Five minutes ago I was laughing at Instagram reels.

Now I was standing silently questioning humanity.

Nature outside was beautiful.

Story inside was emotional damage.

Since we viewed the falls from the top viewpoint, we didn't go all the way down.

And honestly, after the stair experience at Wei Sawdong, my legs had already submitted an official complaint against me.

They were in no mood for additional adventures.

So I happily admired the waterfall from above while pretending that the decision was based on wisdom and not laziness.

After spending some time enjoying the view, we moved toward a nearby restaurant for lunch.

And because no tourist attraction is complete without unnecessary shopping, we also visited a few small stalls nearby.

Within minutes, I had started collecting souvenirs.

A few fridge magnets.

Some local masala packets.

A couple of beautiful shawls.

The usual tourist behavior.

You travel hundreds of kilometers to see nature and somehow return home carrying magnets.

Human beings are truly fascinating creatures.

While we were exploring the area, I noticed a young boy standing outside with a guitar and a small sound system.

He was singing old Bollywood songs beautifully.

And then he started singing:

"Zindagi Ek Safar Hai Suhana..."

Now, standing there in the middle of Meghalaya's hills, after climbing mountains, crossing risky paths, surviving waterfalls, and hearing tragic legends, that song suddenly felt suspicious.

I stood there thinking:

"Bhai, tu exactly kehna kya chahta hai?"

"Zindagi ek safar hai suhana..."

"Aur hum aaj yahan hain, kal Meghalaya ki kisi ghaati mein atma bankar bhatakne wale hain kya?"

The timing felt slightly concerning.

Meanwhile, people gathered around him were clearly enjoying the performance.

I noticed a box placed in front of him.

And then something interesting happened.

One person dropped ₹100.

Another dropped ₹200.

Someone casually dropped ₹500.

For almost two minutes I stood there watching.

Then I proudly took out a ₹50 note.

For a brief moment, I genuinely thought:

"Wah Vaishali, today you are being very generous."

Then I looked around again.

₹100.

₹200.

₹500.

₹500.

Suddenly my ₹50 note started looking like emotional support.

I quietly looked at my note and thought:

"Beta, confidence thoda kam rakho."

But then I remembered an important life lesson.

Every contribution matters.

So I happily dropped my ₹50 into the box and moved on before my financial confidence could be damaged further.

Just when I thought the entertainment was over, one of our team members stepped forward and decided to sing.

She chose the song "Raabta."

And honestly, her voice was genuinely beautiful.

Soft.

Melodious.

Pleasing.

The kind of voice people naturally stop to listen to.

The only twist was that every word carried a very strong South Indian accent.

Now please don't misunderstand me.

The singing was lovely.

But hearing a Bollywood romantic song delivered with full Tamil pronunciation created an entirely new musical experience.

I had heard Hindi songs.

I had heard Tamil songs.

But this was a cultural collaboration project.

And somehow it worked.

The audience loved it.

We loved it.

The singer enjoyed it.

And for a few minutes, the hills of Meghalaya got their own multilingual concert.

After lunch, shopping, music, accidental comedy, and enough photographs to fill several phone galleries, we finally boarded our vehicle again.

The sun was slowly beginning to soften.

The cool mountain breeze returned.

After leaving NohKaLikai Falls, we still had one more adventure waiting for us.

And this time it wasn't a waterfall.

It was Arwah Caves.

Now, whenever somebody says the word "cave," my Mumbai-trained brain immediately imagines a small dark tunnel where you walk for five minutes, click a photo, and come back out.

Meghalaya once again decided to prove me wrong.

The moment we reached Arwah Caves, the scenery itself was beautiful. Surrounded by green hills, forests, and limestone formations, the entire place looked straight out of a fantasy movie.

The walk towards the caves was pleasant, with cool mountain air, greenery all around, and occasional viewpoints offering breathtaking views of the valleys below.

At first everything looked simple.

Then we entered the cave.

And suddenly it felt like we had entered the set of some archaeological adventure film.

Arwah Caves are famous for their naturally formed limestone structures, underground passages, rock formations, and ancient marine fossils that are millions of years old. Scientists believe these caves were once beneath the ocean many millions of years ago, which is why fossilized sea creatures can still be seen embedded in some of the cave walls.

Standing there, I had only one thought:

"Mumbai me ghar ke tiles dekhte dekhte life nikal gayi aur yaha log pathar me crore saal purani machhliyan dekh rahe hai."

The deeper we went, the more interesting it became.

Some passages were wide.

Some were narrow.

Some required careful walking.

And some looked exactly like the type of place where horror movies begin.

Water slowly dripped from the cave ceiling.

Natural limestone formations hung from above.

Sunlight entered through small openings, creating dramatic shadows everywhere.

Every few minutes somebody would say:

"Arre idhar photo lo!"

And immediately half the group would gather there.

At some point everybody became so busy exploring that basic common sense quietly left the cave.

One person went left.

Another went right.

Someone stopped for photos.

Someone got fascinated by fossils.

Someone was busy making reels.

And before we knew it...

A few of our team members had disappeared.

Completely disappeared.

Not kidnapped.

Not abducted.

Just lost.

At first nobody panicked.

Because on every group trip there is always one person who wanders off.

Then another person vanished.

Then another.

Soon our headcount started looking suspicious.

That's when Captain Prakash's peaceful tourist face transformed into a school principal during inspection.

The poor man started running from one side of the cave to another searching for missing members.

At that point, he was no longer a tour captain.

He was a rescue operation manager.

Every few minutes somebody shouted:

"Mil gaya kya?"

"Nahi."

"Woh kidhar gaya?"

"Pata nahi."

Honestly, for some time it felt less like cave exploration and more like a treasure hunt.

Meanwhile, during all this chaos, poor Amruta met with a small accident.

While navigating one of the rocky sections, she slipped slightly and got a minor injury.

Nothing serious, thankfully, but enough to give everybody a small heart attack.

For the next few minutes everyone became extra careful.

Suddenly all the brave explorers who were climbing rocks like mountain goats started walking like senior citizens.

Eventually, after enough searching, calling out names, and mild panic, all the missing team members were recovered successfully.

At that moment, I could almost see relief returning to Prakash's face.

Because explaining to people's families that:

"Meghalaya bahot accha tha, bas do tourists cave me reh gaye..."

would have been a very difficult conversation.

After spending some more time exploring the caves, taking photos, examining fossils, and making sure nobody else disappeared into geological history, we finally headed back toward the exit.

As I stepped out of the cave and saw daylight again, I felt strangely happy.

Not because the cave wasn't beautiful.

It absolutely was.

But because all of us had entered together...

and thankfully all of us were leaving together.

Which, considering our group's talent for wandering off, was actually a significant achievement.

By the time we finished exploring everything for the day, it was already evening, and we finally reached Cherrapunji, the place that would give me one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life.

Tomorrow's plan was simple.

At least on paper.

We were going to visit the famous Double Decker Living Root Bridge.

The moment I heard the name, I became excited.

I had seen photos.

I had watched videos.

I had read travel blogs.

And in every picture, it looked magical.

What nobody had properly explained was that before enjoying the bridge, your legs, lungs, knees, confidence, patience, and mental stability would all be tested.

At that point, however, I was still excited.

Very excited.

That excitement lasted right until I experienced the trek personally.

The next morning, we started our journey toward the Double Decker Living Root Bridge.

For those who don't know, this is one of Meghalaya's most unique attractions. Unlike normal bridges made of concrete or steel, these bridges are formed naturally by guiding the roots of living rubber trees across streams for generations. Over decades, the roots become strong enough to create an actual bridge.

The Double Decker Living Root Bridge is particularly special because it has two levels of root bridges stacked one above the other, making it one of the rarest natural bridges in the world.

Sounds beautiful, right?

Now let me tell you about the route.

The journey begins with thousands of stone steps.

And when I say thousands, I mean enough steps to make you question every life decision that led you there.

The path goes continuously downhill through forests, villages, suspension bridges, streams, waterfalls, and rocky terrain.

The scenery is breathtaking.

The trek is breathtaking too.

Literally.

Because after some time, breathing itself becomes an achievement.

Initially, I started confidently.

Fresh energy.

Positive attitude.

Tourist enthusiasm.

Instagram-level confidence.

Around twenty minutes later, reality arrived.

The stairs just kept continuing.

Down.

Down.

Further down.

Down.

Down.

And then even more down.

At one point, I started wondering whether Meghalaya secretly wanted tourists to reach the center of the Earth.

Every time I thought we had reached the bottom, another staircase appeared.

At that point, the stairs felt less like infrastructure and more like personal revenge.

But the scenery around us made every step worth it.

Dense forests surrounded the path.

Tiny waterfalls flowed through the hills.

Crystal-clear streams crossed beneath wooden bridges.

Bird sounds echoed through the valleys.

The air felt fresh enough to add years to your life.

Eventually, after what felt like an Olympic qualification round, we reached the Double Decker Living Root Bridge.

And honestly...

The moment I saw it, every complaint disappeared.

It was stunning.

The roots twisted and intertwined naturally to form a bridge that looked like something out of a fantasy novel.

The structure felt alive because technically it was.

Trees had literally built a bridge.

Nature had accomplished what engineers charge crores for.

Standing there, surrounded by thick forests and flowing water, felt unreal.

But the experience didn't stop there.

The true magic happened beyond the bridge.

Nearby were beautiful natural pools formed by waterfalls.

The water was crystal clear.

So clear that you could see fish swimming beneath you.

And there I was...

Standing in a natural pool in Meghalaya, surrounded by waterfalls, watching fish swim around my feet.

At that moment, the world felt very far away.

No traffic.

No deadlines.

No responsibilities.

No phone calls.

Just water.

Nature.

And happiness.

Swimming there was an experience I genuinely cannot put fully into words.

It felt peaceful.

Refreshing.

Magical.

Like nature was personally giving us a reward for surviving the trek.

Now let me tell you what nobody posts on Instagram.

The return journey.

The return journey is where legends are born.

Because everything you climbed down...

you now have to climb back up.

Every single step.

And this is where my confidence officially resigned.

There were moments when I genuinely wanted to sit down and cry.

And honestly, a few times I almost did.

My legs were tired.

My lungs were protesting.

My body had stopped cooperating.

But what made this experience special wasn't the trek.

It was the people around me.

Every time I slowed down, somebody encouraged me.

Every time I looked exhausted, somebody motivated me.

Every time I felt like giving up, somebody waited.

Niyati encouraged me.

Meghna motivated me.

Chaitanya and Priyanka kept cheering.

Ram and Diya constantly checked whether I was okay.

Mohit stayed nearby and made sure I kept moving.

Not once did anybody make me feel like I was slowing the group down.

Not once did anybody leave me behind.

Not once did anybody make me feel alone.

Even Prakash, despite managing the entire group, would often stop whenever I stopped.

Whenever I sat down to catch my breath, he would sit there too.

Not because he was tired.

Because he wanted to make sure I never felt left behind.

And honestly, that meant a lot.

We had all started this journey as strangers.

Yet somewhere along the trail, they stopped feeling like strangers.

For the first time in my life, I felt genuinely safe traveling with people I had met only a few days earlier.

The return climb felt endless.

At times, I thought I wouldn't make it.

At times, I questioned my fitness.

At times, I questioned my travel decisions.

At times, I questioned humanity itself.

But somehow, step by step, encouragement by encouragement, we kept moving.

On the final stretch, Mohit, Meghna, and Niyati stayed close by.

They kept talking.

Kept motivating.

Kept distracting me from the pain.

And then...

After what felt like the longest climb of my life...

I finally reached the top.

For a few seconds, I just stood there.

Unable to believe it.

Unable to process it.

And then I looked at everyone.

The people who had motivated me.

Waited for me.

Supported me.

Encouraged me.

And suddenly I started crying.

Not because I was sad.

Not because I was hurt.

But because I had done something I genuinely didn't think I could do.

At that moment, it felt less like completing a trek and more like winning the Battle of Panipat.

If somebody had handed me a trophy right then, I would have accepted it without question.

Because after surviving the Double Decker Living Root Bridge trek, I honestly felt capable of conquering anything.

Or at the very least...

a flight of stairs without emotional damage.

You can add this immediately after the paragraph where you reach the top of the trek and start crying:

The moment I saw everyone standing there waiting for me, I completely lost control over my emotions.

Until that moment, I had somehow managed to hold myself together.

I had smiled.

I had laughed.

I had complained about the stairs.

I had negotiated with my legs.

I had threatened my lungs.

But the moment I reached the top and saw everyone, all the emotions that I had been carrying throughout the trek suddenly came rushing out.

And I started crying.

Not the elegant Bollywood heroine type of crying.

Proper ugly crying.

The type where you yourself don't know why you're crying but the tears have already decided to leave.

The funny thing was that the moment everyone saw me crying, nobody laughed.

Nobody said, "Arre itna bhi kya ho gaya?"

Instead, one by one, people came and hugged me.

Some patted my shoulder.

Some asked if I was okay.

Some simply stood beside me.

And honestly, I cannot explain how much that meant to me.

Life teaches us that strangers are strangers.

We are taught to be careful.

To keep our distance.

To trust slowly.

But standing there in the middle of Meghalaya, surrounded by people I had met only a few days earlier, I realized something beautiful.

Sometimes strangers become your support system when you least expect it.

A hug is such a simple thing.

It costs nothing.

It takes only a few seconds.

Yet when you're physically exhausted, mentally drained, and emotionally overwhelmed, a single hug can make you feel safer than a thousand words ever could.

At that moment, every hug felt like somebody saying:

"You did it."

"We're proud of you."

"You're not alone."

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt exactly that.

Not alone.

The trek was difficult.

The stairs were difficult.

The climb was difficult.

But the people made everything easier.

That was the moment I realized that this trip was becoming much more than just a vacation.

It was becoming a memory I would carry for the rest of my life.

After everyone recovered from my emotional breakdown and I recovered from my emotional Oscar-winning performance, we headed toward a hotel where Captain Prakash had planned an experience-sharing session.

Now, according to him, everybody had to share their favourite moment of the day.

At first, it sounded simple.

People started sharing one by one.

Some talked about the waterfalls.

Some talked about the bridge.

Some talked about nature.

Some talked about the trek.

Everyone had their own special moment.

Then my turn came.

And unfortunately for me, my emotions had apparently not finished their shift yet.

The moment I started talking about the trek, my voice cracked.

And before I knew it, I was crying again.

At that point, I was beginning to look less like a traveler and more like a daily soap actress.

But honestly, the reason was simple.

I genuinely never believed I could complete that trek.

Not even for a second.

The entire journey had pushed me beyond what I thought my body was capable of doing.

And yet somehow I had done it.

So I shared that moment with everyone.

How difficult it felt.

How many times I wanted to quit.

How everybody motivated me.

How nobody left me behind.

And how much that support meant to me.

After I finished, Mohit spoke.

And what he said is something I will probably never forget.

He said:

"Vaishali completing the trek was my favourite moment of the day."

For a few seconds, I didn't know what to say.

Out of all the beautiful waterfalls, bridges, views, and experiences Meghalaya had offered that day, he chose my achievement as his favourite moment.

Honestly, hearing that felt special.

Very special.

It felt like hearing those words from an old friend.

The kind of friend you've known for years.

Not someone you met only a few days ago.

At that moment, I looked at him and silently thought:

"Thank you, buddy."

Thank you for the encouragement.

Thank you for the support.

And thank you for making me feel that my achievement mattered.

Because sometimes respect is worth much more than praise.

By the end of the evening, everyone was smiling, sharing stories, and laughing together.

The same people who had started this journey as strangers now felt like friends.

Real friends.

Eventually, we headed back to the hotel.

Everyone went to their rooms carrying sore legs, tired bodies, and happy memories.

As I lay down on my bed that night, I wasn't thinking about the pain in my legs anymore.

I wasn't thinking about the thousands of stairs.

I wasn't even thinking about the trek.

I was thinking about the people.

And with those thoughts, I went to sleep dreaming about the adventures waiting for us the next day.

The next morning, we once again set out on a new adventure with fresh energy and excitement.

But this time something had changed.

After conquering the Double Decker Living Root Bridge trek, I had developed a completely new level of confidence.

In my mind, I was no longer an ordinary tourist.

I was now a seasoned mountain warrior.

The previous day's trek had convinced me that if I could survive thousands of stairs, Meghalaya could no longer scare me.

In fact, I had reached a stage where if somebody had suddenly appeared and said,

"Vaishali ji, Mount Everest base camp yahi se shuru hota hai, chalna hai?"

I probably would have replied,

"Kitni stairs hai bas bata do."

And the biggest reason behind this confidence was my royal army.

Yes, my very own army.

Every king and queen in history had powerful warriors standing behind them.

I had Niyati, Meghna, Mohit, Ram, Diya, Chaitanya, Priyanka, Sangeeta, Savita and the rest of the gang.

Whenever my confidence went down, somebody lifted it up.

Whenever my legs gave up, somebody motivated me.

Whenever my brain started planning retirement, somebody reminded me to keep walking.

Honestly, with an army like that, even Alexander would have felt underqualified.

After breakfast, we headed towards our first destination of the day —

Seven Sisters Falls.

And trust me, nature's seven sisters are far more beautiful than anything Bollywood has ever shown us.

The moment I reached the viewpoint, I understood why this place is one of Meghalaya's most famous attractions.

Seven separate streams of water cascade down a massive cliffside, creating the appearance of seven sisters standing side by side.

The waterfall plunges nearly 1,000 feet into a lush green valley below.

The cliffs stretched endlessly.

The clouds drifted through the valleys.

The mist danced around the waterfalls.

And the greenery looked so vibrant that it almost felt unreal.

Standing there, I had only one thought:

"Nature really had no reason to flex this hard."

The weather was perfect.

The breeze was cool.

The clouds kept appearing and disappearing.

Every few minutes the entire waterfall would vanish behind mist and then magically reappear again.

It felt less like sightseeing and more like nature playing hide-and-seek.

After spending some time there, we moved toward the famous Mawsmai Cave.

Now unlike Arwah Caves, Mawsmai Cave felt like an obstacle course designed by nature.

The cave is one of Meghalaya's most accessible limestone caves, but that doesn't mean it is easy.

Some sections were wide enough to walk comfortably.

Others were so narrow that I had to check whether my backpack and my dignity could pass through together.

At several places we had to bend, squeeze, twist, duck, and somehow navigate through the rocky passages.

At one point I was so bent over that I looked less like a traveler and more like somebody searching for a lost contact lens.

Water dripped from the ceiling.

The limestone formations looked stunning.

Natural rock structures created strange shapes everywhere.

Sunlight entered through tiny openings, making the cave look mysterious and magical.

Meanwhile, every few minutes someone in our group would shout:

"Photo!"

And instantly the entire traffic inside the cave would stop.

After Mawsmai, we continued toward one of the most beautiful places of the entire trip —

Krang Suri Waterfall.

And let me tell you something.

Photos do not do justice to this place.

Not even close.

The waterfall looked like somebody had poured liquid turquoise into the middle of a forest.

The water was unbelievably clear.

The surrounding cliffs were covered in greenery.

The sound of flowing water echoed through the valley.

Everything looked straight out of a travel magazine.

Before reaching the waterfall, we had to do a small trek.

Now normally the word "trek" would have terrified me.

But after Double Decker Bridge, this felt like a warm-up exercise.

At this point I had become so overconfident that I genuinely felt if somebody challenged me to climb Everest, I might at least consider the offer before rejecting it.

The path was relatively easy and scenic.

Within a short time, we reached the waterfall.

Nearby there was a small local eatery where we had what was probably the best lunch of the entire trip.

Simple.

Fresh.

Affordable.

Delicious.

The kind of food that reminds you expensive restaurants aren't always the winners.

After lunch came the water adventure.

Life jackets were mandatory because parts of the pool were quite deep.

Now logically speaking, a life jacket is designed to keep you afloat.

Unfortunately, logic and my brain were not cooperating that day.

The moment I entered the water, I became convinced I was about to sink.

The jacket was floating.

The water was calm.

Everyone else was enjoying themselves.

Yet my brain kept saying:

"Vaishali, today is the day."

I honestly felt the life jacket was fighting for its life trying to support me.

Meanwhile, everyone else floated effortlessly.

For nearly ten minutes I stayed in the water pretending to enjoy myself while secretly preparing emergency rescue plans.

Finally, I decided survival was more important than adventure.

So I gracefully handed my life jacket to another team member and exited the water before my imagination could create any further disasters.

While I was busy protecting my life, Mohit was busy risking his.

In an attempt to perform some stunt, he managed to injure himself slightly.

Any normal person would have immediately come out of the water.

Not Mohit.

The man looked at the injury, ignored it completely, and continued enjoying the waterfall.

Apparently, getting hurt was a minor inconvenience, but doing full "Chaiya Chaiya" level stunts inside the water was an absolute necessity.

At one point it genuinely looked like the waterfall belonged to Mohit and we were all visiting his private swimming pool.

For the next few hours everyone remained busy swimming, clicking photographs, recording reels, and collecting enough content to keep Instagram alive for several months.

Eventually it was time to leave.

From Krang Suri, we began our journey toward Dawki, where one of the most memorable nights of the trip awaited us.

By evening we reached our riverside campsite.

The setting was beautiful.

Tents lined up beside the river.

Mountains surrounded us.

The river flowed peacefully nearby.

It looked exactly like one of those travel advertisements where everybody appears calm and happy.

The advertisement, however, never mentions the mosquitoes.

Or the humidity.

Or the fact that sleeping inside a tent can sometimes feel like being wrapped inside a warm lunchbox.

Still, nobody cared.

Because the atmosphere was amazing.

Music started playing.

People started dancing.

And suddenly every member of our group transformed into a performer.

The quiet people danced.

The energetic people danced.

The people who claimed they couldn't dance danced.

The people who definitely shouldn't dance danced the most.

At one point it felt like our campsite had become Meghalaya's newest dance reality show.

Everyone laughed.

Everyone sang.

Everyone forgot about work, responsibilities, deadlines, and everyday life.

For a few hours, all that existed was music, friendship, and pure happiness.

Later that night, exhausted from dancing, sweating, laughing, and fighting mosquitoes for territorial control of the campsite, we finally settled into our tents.

The river continued flowing beside us.

The stars shined above.

The mosquitoes continued their attack.

And somehow, despite everything, it became one of the most memorable nights of the entire trip.

The next morning was a little different.

It was the last day of our Meghalaya trip.

And somehow everybody knew it.

The excitement was still there, but now it was mixed with a little sadness.

The kind of sadness that comes when you're having such a good time that you don't want it to end.

Nobody said it out loud, but I think all of us were thinking the same thing:

"Yaar, ek-do din aur mil jaate toh kya hi baat thi."

Since it was our final day, we wanted to enjoy every moment properly.

After breakfast, we packed our bags, checked out from Cherrapunji, and started our journey back toward Shillong.

But before returning, there was one attraction that absolutely couldn't be missed —

Dawki River.

For days I had been hearing stories about Dawki River.

Crystal-clear water.

Boats floating like they're flying in the air.

Mirror-like reflections.

Postcard-perfect scenery.

Instagram's favorite river.

Travel influencers practically worship this place.

After hearing so much praise, I had built a complete Bollywood-level fantasy in my head.

In my imagination, the water was so transparent that I would be able to count fish, identify their family members, and maybe even read their Aadhaar cards.

With those expectations, we finally arrived at Dawki.

And then reality arrived too.

Now don't get me wrong.

The place was beautiful.

Very beautiful.

The surrounding hills looked stunning.

The riverbanks were covered in greenery.

The boats lined up along the shore looked picturesque.

The entire setting was peaceful and scenic.

But the legendary crystal-clear river that I had seen in countless photos?

Let's just say she was on leave that day.

The water wasn't bad.

It just wasn't the magical glass-like transparency I had imagined.

For a few seconds, I stood there looking at the river and then at the photos on my phone.

Then back at the river.

Then back at the photos.

At that moment I understood that imagination and reality sometimes have a long-distance relationship.

Honestly, after hearing so many stories, I was expecting nature's version of a luxury showroom.

Instead, I felt like nature had shown me the display model and delivered something slightly different.

Standing there, I quietly thought:

"Mumbai ke kuch talab bhi aaj confidence feel kar rahe honge."

For a brief moment, my trust in travel reels suffered minor damage.

Still, the scenery was beautiful enough that disappointment didn't last long.

Soon it was time for boating.

Now since everybody else was excited, I also climbed into a boat with full tourist enthusiasm.

The boat slowly started moving through the river.

The cool breeze felt wonderful.

The mountains reflected on the water.

The border area between India and Bangladesh stretched beautifully across the landscape.

And despite my earlier complaints, I had to admit that the place was gorgeous.

The only problem was that boating can become slightly boring if you're just sitting quietly.

Thankfully, entertainment arrived unexpectedly.

A stranger uncle sitting nearby suddenly started singing old Kishore Kumar songs.

And not just one song.

The man had apparently arrived with a complete playlist.

As our boat floated through the river, Kishore Kumar's voice echoed across the water through this enthusiastic uncle.

At that point, the boating experience transformed from sightseeing into a floating musical concert.

Some people were taking photos.

Some were making reels.

Some were enjoying the scenery.

And Uncle Ji was busy conducting his own personal live performance.

Honestly, he deserved a separate ticket category.

Meanwhile, a local boatman noticed our expressions and explained the situation.

He told us that the famous crystal-clear Dawki River is usually seen between November and March.

The water becomes much clearer during those months.

We had arrived during a different season.

The moment I heard that, my brain immediately started calculating.

November to March.

Flights.

Hotels.

Leave approvals.

Expenses.

Then I looked at the river again and thought:

"Bhai, river dekhne ke liye main fir se itne hazaar rupaye kharch karke aaun?"

"Itne paise me to main internet recharge karke YouTube par 4K video dekh lungi."

The boatman smiled politely.

I smiled politely.

But internally my middle-class financial department had already rejected the proposal.

After completing our boating experience and clicking approximately seventeen thousand photographs, we finally started our return journey toward Shillong.

By evening we reached the same hotel where we had stayed earlier in the trip.

Walking back into that hotel felt strangely familiar.

Just a few days ago we had arrived there as strangers.

Now it felt like returning with friends.

The next morning everyone would leave for their respective cities.

Different flights.

Different trains.

Different lives.

Which meant this was our final night together.

And nobody wanted to waste it sitting quietly in hotel rooms.

We had one last mission left.

A proper farewell dinner.

One final evening together.

One final chance to laugh, eat, and create memories before returning to reality.

And most importantly...

We had to do something special for our captain, Prakash, who had somehow managed to keep all of us alive, together, and reasonably organized throughout the trip.

Which, considering our group's talent for wandering off, getting emotional, taking endless photographs, and turning every stop into a mini adventure, was honestly an achievement worthy of an award.

Since it was our last evening together, all of us unanimously decided that Captain Prakash deserved a small gift.

After all, the poor man had spent the entire trip managing a group of adults who behaved like excited school children on a picnic.

Keeping us on schedule itself deserved a bravery award.

So we all went shopping to buy something for him.

And naturally, even this simple task turned into comedy.

While discussing gift options, Sangeeta was standing beside me explaining something.

Now what I didn't know at that moment was that her throat was hurting and she was speaking softly because of it.

Meanwhile, I was busy trying to hear her over the market noise.

After several failed attempts to understand what she was saying, I finally looked at her and loudly declared:

"Sangeeta, hum yahan chori karne nahi aaye hain, shopping karne aaye hain."

"Thoda zor se bol sakti ho, mere kaan mein secret agent ki tarah fuss-fuss kyun kar rahi ho?"

For two seconds everyone became silent.

Then somebody informed me that her throat was actually hurting.

At that moment, I wanted the ground to open and respectfully accept me.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group found the situation far more entertaining than I did.

Thankfully, Sangeeta laughed, and my public embarrassment became part of the evening's entertainment.

After successfully selecting Prakash's gift, we headed toward the restaurant we had already decided on for our farewell dinner.

The place looked amazing.

Good ambience.

Nice music.

Perfect farewell vibe.

And then destiny decided to have one last laugh at us.

The staff informed us that ladies could get complimentary drinks.

For a brief moment, every woman in the group felt blessed by the travel gods.

Then came the condition.

Only guests wearing shoes would be allowed inside the pub section.

Suddenly everyone looked down at their feet.

Sandals.

Slippers.

Floaters.

Travel footwear.

Not a single person had prepared for this twist.

The disappointment in that moment was almost visible in the air.

The free drinks were standing on one side.

Our footwear choices were standing on the other.

And unfortunately, the footwear won.

For a few seconds, everyone silently stared at their feet like students who had studied the wrong chapter for an exam.

A golden opportunity had slipped away because of open-toe footwear.

Truly one of the greatest tragedies in Meghalaya tourism history.

After a short discussion, we decided not to overthink it.

After all, we weren't there for free drinks.

We were there for each other.

So we grabbed a table outside and decided to enjoy our final evening together.

And honestly, it turned out to be the better choice.

The weather was pleasant.

The atmosphere was relaxed.

Nobody was in a hurry.

The pressure of the itinerary was gone.

For the first time during the trip, there was nowhere to rush.

Nowhere to trek.

Nowhere to climb.

No waterfalls waiting.

No caves waiting.

No stairs waiting to destroy our confidence.

Just good company.

We clicked countless photographs.

Some serious.

Some funny.

Some completely unplanned.

Every photo carried the same hidden emotion:

"We don't want this trip to end."

Conversations flowed endlessly.

Stories from previous trips came out.

Inside jokes were repeated.

People laughed at moments that would make absolutely no sense to anyone outside the group.

And somehow those are always the best conversations.

Eventually the topic everyone had been avoiding finally arrived.

Leaving.

Returning home.

Returning to work.

Returning to responsibilities.

Returning to alarms.

Returning to reality.

Nobody wanted to talk about it.

Yet everybody knew it was coming.

Before leaving, we made the traditional promise that every travel group makes.

"Let's meet again soon."

Now whether it happens next month, next year, or five years later is something only destiny knows.

But at that moment, every single person meant it.

Because nobody wanted the journey to end.

Eventually we hugged, said our goodnights, and returned to our rooms.

For the last time.

Back in the room, I started packing my bags.

The same bags that had witnessed airport drama, missing luggage, waterfalls, shopping, emotional breakdowns, countless photographs, and enough memories to last a lifetime.

Tomorrow morning, everything would be different.

The trip would end.

And normal life would begin again.

The thought felt strange.

For the past several days, Meghalaya had become our entire world.

And now suddenly it was almost over.

The next morning arrived far too quickly.

One by one everyone got ready.

Bags were loaded.

Rooms were checked.

And soon we began our journey toward Guwahati Airport.

The mood inside the vehicle was noticeably quieter than usual.

Not sad exactly.

Just thoughtful.

Everybody was replaying their favorite memories in their minds.

Thankfully, Meghalaya wasn't done giving us beautiful moments just yet.

Before heading to the airport, we stopped at the breathtaking Umiam Lake.

Often called the "Barapani Lake," Umiam is one of the most beautiful man-made lakes in Northeast India.

The vast expanse of blue water stretched endlessly between rolling green hills.

The morning sunlight reflected beautifully on the lake surface.

The surrounding pine-covered hills added even more charm to the view.

It looked peaceful.

Calm.

Almost as if Meghalaya itself was giving us a gentle goodbye.

Of course, no scenic stop is complete without boating.

So naturally, we all climbed into boats for one final adventure.

The cool breeze brushed against our faces.

The water sparkled around us.

The hills reflected in the lake.

And everyone started clicking what we all knew would be the final photographs of the trip.

Phones came out immediately.

Poses returned instantly.

People who had spent the entire trip saying,

"Mujhe photos nahi chahiye."

were suddenly requesting multiple angles.

Because when a trip ends, every picture becomes important.

Every smile becomes a memory.

Every click becomes proof that it actually happened.

After boating, we spent some time simply enjoying the view.

Nobody was rushing anymore.

Everybody wanted to stretch the last few moments as much as possible.

Eventually we stopped for lunch.

The conversations now revolved around flights, trains, office work, family, and the return to everyday life.

Reality was slowly approaching.

After lunch, we finally boarded our vehicle once again and started the final drive toward Guwahati Airport.

As the airport came closer, the realization became stronger.

The trip that had started with excitement, nervousness, a missing suitcase, and a solo traveler wondering whether she could do it...

was finally coming to an end.

And somehow, somewhere between waterfalls, caves, mountains, strangers who became friends, emotional hugs, and unforgettable memories...

Meghalaya had left a small piece of itself behind in all of us.

Here's the merged version in the same humorous style:

Before I finish this Meghalaya story, there is one very important incident that I completely forgot to tell you.

In fact, this incident became so legendary that it earned me a permanent identity within the group.

Now, before leaving home, my sister had very responsibly informed me:

"Meghalaya mein Bhut Jolokia zaroor try karna. Bahut famous chilli hai."

For those who don't know, Bhut Jolokia is one of the world's hottest chillies and is very famous in Northeast India.

Simple information.

Easy to remember.

At least for normal people.

Unfortunately, I am not normal.

Somewhere between listening to my sister and reaching Meghalaya, my brain decided to remix the information.

You remember Johnny Lever from Baazigar and the way he would confidently say the wrong thing?

Something similar happened with me.

By the time the information reached my mouth, "Bhut Jolokia" had transformed into...

"Bhola Bhutiya."

No warning.

No logic.

No explanation.

Just complete confidence.

The first time I said it, people looked confused.

The second time, they laughed.

The third time, it officially became my identity.

After that, whenever the topic came up, I proudly continued calling it "Bhola Bhutiya" as if I had personally discovered a new species of chilli.

Eventually, the group completely gave up correcting me.

And honestly, I don't blame them.

At some point even I started believing that the chilli's real name was Bhola Bhutiya.

By the end of the trip, I had reached one conclusion:

People may or may not remember my actual name.

People may or may not remember where I am from.

People may or may not remember what I do for a living.

But they will definitely remember the woman who renamed Bhut Jolokia into Bhola Bhutiya with full confidence.

If Meghalaya Tourism ever decides to ban me from naming local food items, I will completely understand.

But wait.

The Bhola Bhutiya incident wasn't the only thing wrong with me.

I have another lifelong habit.

For some reason, every driver sitting in the front seat automatically becomes "Chotu."

Every waiter automatically becomes "Chotu."

Every helper automatically becomes "Chotu."

Their real name is completely irrelevant.

Could be Rahul.

Could be Rakesh.

Could be Prakash.

Could be Amit.

Could even be something sophisticated like Hrishikesh.

Doesn't matter.

If my brain decides you look younger than me or slightly smaller in height, congratulations.

You have been promoted to Chotu.

No interview required.

No consent required.

No paperwork required.

During the trip, I repeatedly called people Chotu with such confidence that I genuinely forgot some of their real names.

At one point, I realized something very dangerous.

I remembered Chotu's designation.

I remembered Chotu's face.

I remembered Chotu's location.

But I had absolutely no idea what Chotu's actual name was.

The funniest part is that most of them responded.

Which means either they had accepted their fate...

or they had met tourists like me before.

Sometimes I would confidently say:

"Chotu, zara paani lana."

And immediately somebody would bring water.

Not because his name was Chotu.

But because apparently everybody understood exactly who I was referring to.

This system worked surprisingly well throughout the trip.

In fact, it worked so well that I started feeling my naming convention was superior to the traditional one.

Why remember twenty different names when the entire service industry can operate under one universal title?

Of course, this theory sounds much better inside my head than in real life.

Looking back now, whenever I think about Meghalaya, I don't just remember the waterfalls, caves, rivers, mountains, and treks.

I remember all these silly moments too.

The wrong pronunciations.

The inside jokes.

The accidental comedy.

The conversations that made no sense.

Because honestly, that's what makes a trip unforgettable.

Years later, I may forget the exact distance of a trek.

I may forget the hotel names.

I may even forget some locations.

But I can guarantee one thing.

The legend of "Bhola Bhutiya" and my lifelong mission of renaming half the population as "Chotu" will survive forever.

And if by any chance any member of this Meghalaya group is reading this years later and doesn't remember my name, that's perfectly fine.

Just remember one thing —

"Haan haan, wahi Vaishali... jo Bhut Jolokia ko Bhola Bhutiya bolti thi aur poore Meghalaya mein sabko Chotu bula rahi thi."

Bas, utni pehchan hi kaafi hai