There was something magical about this village in the mountains, something about the aura of seclusion that hid it from prying eyes. Isolated amidst the sky-kissing peaks of the Khasi hills almost like a silk cocoon, it was a secret hideout in nature. The kind of place you don’t read about in travel magazines, the kind whose coordinates go unmarked on guide maps – ones you chance upon during a bizarre road trip and can rarely return to on another day. Almost like Narnia! Mawlynnong was one of these rare places.

Mawlynnong is teeming with about a hundred thatched huts and gardens overflowing with rogue wheat. Blossoming everywhere are beautiful carnations and eggplant. There are plump roses of every color and residents with equally plump cheeks and hearts. Mawlynnong can surprise you with its self-reliance and kindness. Be it the little biscuit factory that runs on fuel made from crop waste, the church beside the only school in the village, or the shared vegetable gardens, Mawlynnong is a family in its own. Everyone is interconnected – the residents’ only source to the outside world is through tourists and the radios which occasionally catch a signal. In short, this was the only life Mawlynnong knew – a miniature democratic kingdom with its own share of rules and liberties.

About mid-afternoon, my cab driver Vinesh pulled up outside the gate to the “Garden of God.” He had a maternal uncle here who came to greet us. I smiled and inquired about where I could find Henry, a man I had heard about from Vinesh on the way. He looked at me quizzically and I figured that he couldn’t understand Hindi. I asked him if he understood English. No, he shook his head. Vinesh translated for me, and the man pointed the way with a smile. I thanked him and Vinesh, who was carrying my suitcase to the rest house, while I started toward the church where Henry was supposed to be. On the way, I met a couple of kids who were giggling and pointing at my camera. I smiled and captured their innocent laugh.

The church wasn’t a far walk. Outside it, I saw a man of about 40 strolling toward me. “Welcome to Mawlynnong, the cleanest village in Asia! I am the village guide and church padre, Henry. Aren’t you the writer fellow?” I shook his hand and smiled gratefully. “I am, Sir. It’s wonderful to meet you!” My eyes fell on a couple outside the church gate, probably the only tourists here other than me. They were arguing with each other. Henry gave me an apologetic smile and led me away from them, toward a watchtower made of bamboo. “You can see the River Dawki separating Bangladesh from India up there,” he said, pointing.

From atop Sky View Point, I wowed at the beautiful scenery – crystal clear Dawki River, shining a vivid turquoise against the pink sands and forests of rubber trees as far as eyes could see. Far away, we could see tiny dots of people on the other coast. Bangladeshi fishermen, Henry said. Next on my list were the Mimosa gardens and fruit orchards. From stone fruits to juicy oranges, Mawlynnong seems to grow everything. Their 100% organic farms are something the rest of the world should take inspiration from.

One of the greatest surprises was still waiting for me – the living root bridge. Two rubber trees had intertwined their roots so intricately across cascading white waters that it formed a naturally woven bridge. I was transfixed by this wonder. “Lovers across the border” – the phrase came to me from nowhere. I realized that my writer’s block was lifting slowly –Mawlynnong must be casting its spell on me already.

Climbing back up the flight of 500 stone stairs, I was lucky to behold the most beautiful sunset – a giant dome of fire slowly disappearing behind the green mountains – much like the metaphor of life. A cry of argument intruded on my poetic thoughts. “Our marriage is in ruins. Can’t you see that?” I heard the couple from earlier that day shouting at each other.

I left the spot and began to seek Henry, who had left minutes earlier for evening service.

After a sumptuous meal of roti, bhindi, achar, and sweetened cream at a local’s house (who refused to take any payment despite my protests) I joined the villagers and other two tourists at the field near the biscuit factory for a tribal dance. The bonfire blazing orange, children giggling and playing, the aromatic tea being passed around, men dressed in colorful cloaks, women’s hair adorned with fragrant garlands while they danced around the fire hand in hand – this was one of the best evenings of my life.

The machaan where I was to spend the night was actually a thatched hut standing on stilts with wooden floors and spiral stairs. After taking a warm bath, I pulled a chair to the balcony and sat down. Listening to the gorging waterfall and the cicadas having their own orchestra and gazing at fireflies brighter than the stars, I finally took out my laptop. Then, something occurred to me.

I put down the laptop, retrieved a notepad, and lit the oil lamp. So much inspiration, so much to write about. Gathering up my courage, I got the first sentence written on the paper. Just then, I heard a couple of whispers from the adjoining machaan. It was that couple again. They were giggling and whispering to each other. In the dim light, I could see their silhouettes wrapped around each other. I looked away.

So, I wasn’t the only one feeling this magic in the air. “Lovers across the border.” The phrase came back to me again, this time along with the sight of a beautiful bridge.