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, but can rarely return back to on another day. Almost like Narnia!

Mawlynnong was one of these 'rare' places.

Teeming with about a hundred thatched huts and gardens overflowing with rogue wheat, beautiful carnations, eggplant and plump roses of every color, and residents with equally plump cheeks and hearts, Mawlynnong could surprise you with its self-reliance and kindness. Be it the little biscuit factory that ran its fuel supplies with crop waste, or the church beside the only school in the village and the vegetable gardens, it was a family in its own. Everyone was everyone's prop, and their only source of connection with the world outside was through tourists and the radio which occasionally caught a signal. In short, this was the only life Mawlynnong knew- a miniature democratic kingdom with its own share of rules and liberties.

About midafternoon, 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 him where I could find Henry, whom 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 explained to him what I meant in their language and relieved me. That way, the man pointed with a smile. I thanked him and Vinesh, who was carrying my suitcase to the rest house, while I started towards 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 long walk away. Outside it, I saw a man of about forty strolling towards 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, towards a watchtower made of bamboo. "You can see the River Dawki separating Bangladesh from India up there", he pointed.

From atop the Sky View Point, I wowed at the beautiful scenery- crystal clear Dawki, shining a vivid turquoise against the pink sands and herds 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. Starting from stone fruits to juicy oranges, Mawlynnong grew everything. Their one hundred percent organic farms were something we townspeople could take inspiration from.

However, one of the greatest surprises was still in wait for me- the living root bridge. Two rubber trees had intertwined their roots so intricately across the cascading white waters that it formed a root woven bridge naturally. 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 five hundred 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 a quarter of an hour ago 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 adjoining the biscuit factory for a tribal dance. The bonfire blazing orange, children giggling and playing, the aromatic tea passing around, men dressed in colorful polka 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 the laptop back and went back to my room to retrieve a notepad and 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.