Chapter 6: Siliguri and the Nostalgia

There’s a unique kind of magic woven into Siliguri, a place where memory, landscape, and culture meld into a heady mix that’s almost tangible. The city itself feels like an embrace—a blend of warm memories and cool, mist-laden mornings. As I rode into Siliguri, it was like entering a parallel world where every sight and sound tugged at my consciousness, bringing forth images of days gone by. The air had a peculiar crispness, the kind that carries whispers from the past, reminding me of the roads I’d taken before, the faces I’d seen, and the moments thSat lingered in silence.

The streets were alive with familiar voices and colors, their vibrancy dampened slightly by the rain-soaked morning but never entirely muted. As I weaved through the lanes, memories came flooding back, each one clearer and more defined with every kilometer. Siliguri wasn’t just a destination; it was a mirror to my past, reflecting fragments of my younger days, of friendships, love, and rides that seemed like they’d last forever.

In a place like this, it was impossible not to think of her. She was part of Siliguri's allure for me, woven into its streets and corners. Though it had been ages since we’d spoken, her essence lingered here, intangible yet potent. She used to ride with me, clutching my shoulders, her laughter carried away by the wind. Her perfume would mix with the cool mountain air, creating a scent I could almost reach out and capture even now. The way she’d tuck her head against the gusts, laughing, unbothered by the world rushing past us… those moments were ours alone, etched into the very bones of this place.

For a brief, foolish second, I half-expected her to appear from around the corner, to glance at me as if we were back in the movie reel of our lives. But life doesn’t play out like those perfect film scripts. There are no rehearsals, no orchestrated moments where everything aligns, no waiting Imtiaz Ali director behind the scenes, ready to make our story cinematic. Life, in all its rawness, offers no such luxury.

Instead, reality reminded me of the tasks ahead. The bike had taken a beating over the past few days, and I was in desperate need of a service. My gear was drenched from the rain, my GoPro's audio wasn’t working so I needed to buy a converter. The journey ahead was still long, and I wasn’t about to risk riding out with my machine in less-than-perfect condition. After, I reached out to Sanjay, the man who had been crafting my look and, in a way, crafting the version of myself I needed for this journey. Sanjay wasn’t just a barber; he was an artist, a confidant, and a therapist all rolled into one.

Once he was done, I headed over to the bike service station. It was an unassuming little shop, the kind of place you’d pass without a second glance, but to me, it was a sanctuary. The mechanic there had known a Yamaha almost as long as I had, his hands moving over it with the kind of ease that only familiarity can breed. I watched as he tuned, adjusted, and brought it back to life, every click of a wrench and hum of a motor reassuring me that I was ready for the road again.

Still, as much as I wanted to move forward, Siliguri had a pull on me. I couldn’t leave without revisiting the places that had been so much a part of me. Champasari, Darjeeling More, City Center, and the bustling Asian Highway—all these places were chapters in the story of my life. Each stop brought with it a vivid rush of memories. I spent hours roaming these streets, reliving moments that had been buried under layers of time.

The air was thick with the scent of vanilla—a familiar fragrance I could never quite trace but always found comforting. It was everywhere, lingering in coffee shops, wafting through the narrow streets, and mingling with the fog that rolled down from the hills. It was like Siliguri itself was wrapped in the aroma, a scent that wrapped around my memories of her, making it impossible to forget.

I stopped by Planet Mall, an old haunt, its walls echoing with the laughter and late nights of a younger version of me. The music was loud, the bass thumping through the floor, and I let it wash over me, drowning out thoughts of the road ahead. Music had always been therapy for me, a way to connect with something beyond words. I spent two days in this space of nostalgia and sensory overload, catching up with old friends, sharing stories, and for a moment, I felt like I belonged here again.

But the journey couldn’t last forever. After two days of indulging in the warmth of familiar faces and places, the call of the road grew louder. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the clouds still hung heavy in the sky. I knew what lay ahead was going to be challenging—riding through the cold, navigating the slick roads, adapting to the unpredictable weather. I’d felt the burn of the sun on my skin, endured days where the heat seemed to seep into my bones. Now, the cold, relentless rain had its own trials.

I strapped on my raincoat, double-checked my gear, and took a deep breath. The Yamaha roared to life beneath me, a comforting purr that made me feel invincible, even as I braced myself for what was to come. Riding through rain is different from any other kind of journey—it demands a heightened awareness, an alertness to the slightest shift in the road. The rain stings as it hits you, each drop like a reminder of the road’s ruthlessness. The cold seeps in slowly, despite the layers, making every mile feel like a test of endurance.

As I left Siliguri behind, a part of me lingered, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of her one last time. The memory of her, tucked against the wind, laughing as we navigated those winding roads, was hard to shake. But she wasn’t there. All I had was the road ahead, and that was enough. Siliguri, with all its memories and magic, would remain a chapter, a place I could visit in my mind when I needed it.

The road stretched out before me, misty and endless, and as I twisted the throttle, I felt the thrill of the unknown beckoning. The rain was picking up again, the sky growing darker with every mile. I knew this was only the beginning of the storm, that more challenges lay ahead. But for now, I was ready.

What lay beyond the horizon? Would the road lead me into calmer skies, or was another storm lying in wait, ready to test every ounce of strength and focus I had left? -The Ride back home to Guwahati awaits in Chapter 7