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The clouds moved away and the fog gave way to a pretty little cottage overlooking the NohKaLikai Falls of Meghalaya, India. As I took in the breath taking view I thought to myself, “This is it, Rukminy. This is going to be your home for the next 2 weeks”. I had moved into to the remote village of Rangjyrteh, to volunteer for the AISEC . While I was at it, the journalist in me was determined to find a compelling story to bring back to the world. What I wasn’t aware of, was that this trip would change the way I saw things, for the rest of my life. The people of the village accepted me with open arms, and in no time I transformed from being known as strictly professional Ms Goswami to beloved Ruku. The people of the village were like my family. Scolding me when I did something wrong, and pampering me like their own daughter. There however, was one person who piqued my interest. It was Ms Mukti. An old lady, she lived in the yellow cottage right next to mine, and I’d often noticed that she would draw her curtains at fixed times of the day like clockwork. This seemed rather unusual to me, because this wasn’t a side of Mukti Aunty I had come to know. She was the most caring local I had ever met in all my trips. Fixated on discovering her secret, I decided that I’d cook up some traditional Bengali lunch for her and try to persuade Aunty for a story. And a story I did get. She greeted me with a caring smile on her face and seemed delighted to taste traditional Bengali cuisine for the first time. Or so I thought. As I opened up the lunchbox the fragrance of Shorshe Ilish (Hilsa cooked in mustard) wafted through the air. The box gave way to the Begun Bhaja (Fried Brinjal), and Aamer Dal (Lentils cooked with raw mango). “It smells amazing! It almost feels like a lifetime has passed.” She said in impeccable Bengali. I was taken aback. How did she know Bengali? Wasn’t she a Khasi woman? My mind couldn’t process what was going on in that room. Driven by excitement and awe I asked rather bluntly, “Are you from West Bengal?” “Yes. And no.” “Wha-“ “Just promise that you will not tell anyone.” With tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, she sat down on her chair and told me a story that was larger than life, and stranger than fiction. “My real name is Mawiyah Hussain. I was once a resident of Sylhet, Bangladesh. I grew up on palatial grounds with servants to attend to my every need, and a garden full of beautiful flowers and luscious fruits. As all good things have expiration dates, my life as I knew it, came to an end when the partition was sanctioned and I was not an Indian any longer. I couldn’t imagine a future without being part of my beloved country. And so, I stayed. I crossed the borders into Meghalaya and this has been my home ever since. Of course, I had to change my identity, as a Muslim was not welcome in the country. I renamed myself Mukti, representing my freedom from the past. My hijab had hidden my face all my life. Since no one had seen Mawiyah, it was easier for me to blend in and be Mukti. I gave in to the charm of the village and started to earn a living by selling jewellery made of bamboo. Even though I had given away my Islamic identity, I couldn’t abandon Allah. So, I continued to follow all the traditions and rules. I still pray five times every day, to thank God for saving me and giving me a good life. I could never reveal my true identity for I was afraid. Afraid, that the people who had come to love me might abandon me. Afraid, that I might be alone again. So thank you for the food, and for being the patient listener, but I must ask you to leave. You see, it is time for my prayer now.”