The last line of the poem hung in the air, wrapping the room in a contemplative silence. An‑Yi stared into her mango lassi, where the surface trembled faintly, as if faint echoes of words remained.
“What are people really looking for when they visit India?” she murmured, almost to herself.
Across the low stone table, Chariya offered a soft, knowing chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Steam curled from his spiced chai as he turned the exquisite copper cup slowly in his hands. “I doubt most of them could tell you,” he said. “They only know that something is missing. So much of our behavior is semi‑conscious. Aren’t we only dimly aware of most of our motives?”
Bhäraté then let out a dry, cynical yawn. “At any rate, India is often packaged as a tourist commodity,” he observed dismissively. “And sometimes even ‘enlightenment’ itself is marketed as if it were an exotic trinket.”
Daiki let out a languid apathetic yawn, shaking his head slowly as if trying to clear away a puzzle that refused to fit together. “Hmm... it makes no sense,” he said. “People buy what they cannot name, then wonder why it fails to fill the hollow. It defies logic.”
Chariya’s laughter broke loose, warm and unguarded as he delighted in the contradiction. “Logic?” he said. “Who ever promised we were logical?”
The question drifted out over the table, unanswered, then An‑Yi asked, “Is anyone up for more chai?”