It’s our final day on the road.

We woke in Trashiyangtse to the sound of rain thrumming against the windows, the sky heavy with grey, the air cold enough to numb fingertips. Tarique’s back on the bike for a final ride, but two fresh cases of ‘internal unrest’ mean the backup vehicle has hit maximum capacity.

The mountains, as if mourning our departure, wrapped themselves in thick fog and tears—softly at first, then with all their might. Everything about the morning felt reluctant. Us. The weather. Even the bikes, Royal Enfield 411cc’s, lined up like drenched beasts waiting for one last push.

Getting out of the hotel itself was its own little adventure—the path was a muddy slip of a road, slick from the night’s rain, and many of the bikes slid involuntarily onto the main road. And then we were off—one last ride in Bhutan, riding southwards for 184 kilometres toward Samdrup Jongkhar, the gateway to India.

It poured. Not rained—poured. For eight relentless hours, the skies opened up and didn’t once close. Water seeped into every layer of clothing. It clung to our gloves, dripped from our helmets, squelched in our boots. When we stopped for a coffee break, the floor of the tiny roadside café was soon glistening with puddles from our dripping gear. We laughed, awkwardly apologised, and warmed our hands around steaming mugs. But we were cold. Miserably cold.

The road, already slippery and narrow, threw us every trick in the book—rockfalls, landslides, water-logged corners, and slushy blind curves. At one point, I reached instinctively for my phone to take more photos, but it was soaked. I let it go. Some journeys are meant to be remembered, not recorded.

By the time we rolled into the Bhutanese immigration office seven hours later, I was shivering to the bone and so were the others. Five more soggy kilometres brought us to the final frontier—a small border town where we stopped for a hot lunch. The restaurant was kind enough to lend us towels. We changed into drier clothes (or as dry as we could find buried deep in our packs), and warmed up slowly, wrapping our hands around bowls of rice and curry like they were lifelines.

And then came the hard part—saying goodbye.

Tshering. Himal. Santos. Phurba. They weren’t just our crew—they had become family. Through mountain passes and prayer flags, engine trouble and endless laughter, they had looked after us with a quiet, unwavering grace. We hugged them tight, and shared some heartfelt moments, eyes misting, hearts heavy. 

But our journey did not end there. We boarded a bus arranged from India for the final leg of the day. Crossing into Assam should have been a simple process. It wasn’t.

The Darranga Immigration Check Post (ICP) at the border isn’t used to foreign tourists. Mostly locals and Indian nationals pass through. So when our soggy, weary group of Sri Lankan adventurers showed up, immigration had no idea what to do with us. We sat at the spanking new outpost for four more hours as officials shuffled papers and scratched heads. Meanwhile, it was still raining.

And then—Graeme’s fame, long tucked away like an old postcard, came to the rescue. The moment someone was informd that Graeme had once stood on the same pitch as Tendulkar and Gavaskar, things moved quickly. Smiles, selfies, stamps. And then, finally, we were on our way to Guwahati, 100 kilometres of rain-slicked tarmac ahead.

It was close to midnight when we checked into Bougainvilla Resort in Guwahati, India. We were soaked. Exhausted. But finally dry. Finally indoors.

Bhutan had let us go with a blessing of rain—as if to cleanse us before we stepped back into the everyday. And as I curled under a warm blanket that night, every bump in the road, every sodden moment, felt like a memory I wouldn’t trade for anything.

This ride through Bhutan changed me in ways I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about the roads or the scenery—though both were unforgettable—it was the quiet, steady rhythm of riding together, day after day, that built something deeper. Unlike Ladakh, where the landscape often demanded survival and stamina, Bhutan gave me space to connect. The climbs felt gentler, the pace more reflective, the land somehow kinder. We shared meals, laughter, pit stops in the mist, and yes, even the pesky cold at the beginning of the ride. And through it all, a quiet camaraderie began to take root. The eleven of us weren’t just riding side by side—we were looking out for one another in all the small, ordinary ways that end up meaning the most. Somewhere between mountain passes and monastic chants, friendships became stronger. And now, as the ride comes to a close, I know I’m leaving with more than memories—I’m carrying the quiet strength of something rare and real that we shared, together.

Total Distance – 184 kms. Total Time – 7 hrs  Total Rain Time – 17 hrs

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