Every once in a while, during my late-night travel research sessions (the ones my wife calls “internet blackholes”), I discover a place that feels too magical to be real.
Kongthong — popularly known as The Whistling Village of India — was one of those discoveries.
A village where people don’t call each other by name but by melodic whistles? A place where mothers compose their child’s identity instead of naming it? A community where communication literally flows with the wind? I was hooked instantly.
“Where is this place?” my wife asked, half-curious, half-suspicious, because she knows my ‘interesting’ ideas sometimes involve steep treks and other questionable choices.
“Meghalaya,” I said.
"Meghalaya again?" my wife asked.
My almost-teen son, without looking up, asked, “Will there be food?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in.”
Democracy at its finest. And just like that, Kongthong made it onto our travel calendar.
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