There’s a wry joke in Mizoram about the rest of India: Everyone there is in such a terrible hurry, but somehow always manage to arrive late. When I heard it for the first time, I was on the edge of a mountain—to my right was one of Aizawl’s busiest roads with bumper-to-bumper traffic, yet it was quiet enough to hear the flapping of a bird diving into the valley on my right, buildings dotting the slopes on the other side of the mountain.During my week in Aizawl, I never heard an unnecessary honk (the necessary honk will surprise you for its purpose). The understanding traffic, the quietness of busy roads gave me a culture shock. The first time I had encountered something similar was in 2002 in Germany, where in two weeks, the only horn I heard was fired at me when I was crossing the road on a red pedestrian light. To experience that same culture shock right here in India, amidst a people so quiet, so polite they can give the Japanese a run for their decency, that’s a shock of a different kind.To truly understand Aizawl, forget everything you think you know about Indian cities. Tuck away the cacophony, the frantic urgency, the visible tension that often hangs thick in the air. And journey instead to the capital of Mizoram, the capital city of the Mizo people in the far eastern folds of the Himalayas, a city cradled by hilltops that are kissed by drowsy clouds that sensuously touch it as they pass by. It is a city that pulses with a different rhythm through its streets, feeling less like a chapter from the familiar Indian story and more like a vibrant, unexpected postcard slipped in from somewhere else entirely; somewhere remarkably like Japan, perhaps, nestled improbably within the Indian subcontinent.The Mizo people, guardians of this emerald paradise, seem to operate under a profoundly simple, yet radically different, philosophy: why make mess messier? Why turn misfortune into fury? It’s a mindset that instantly strikes visitors, like it did me, accustomed as we are to the high-decibel stress of mainland Indian metros. Europe taught me the rarity of the unnecessary honk. Returning to India, I resigned myself to its constant presence. Until Aizawl.My friend Shashwati, my host in Aizawl, shared an incident she witnessed from her balcony, demonstrating the local culture. Two scooters collided head-on. Riders tumbled, and scrapes were sustained on their bodies. Now, picture this happening in mainland India: a volcanic eruption of curses involving mothers, sisters, ancestors would have followed; a flailing, shouting spectacle threatening to escalate into blows on both sides as a crowd gathered to watch. Shashwati, a Delhiite, braced for this familiar drama. Instead, she watched in stunned silence as both men picked themselves up, dusted off, straightened their bikes, exchanged a quiet nod, and rode away. Shit happens, seemed to be their unsaid principle, but why compound it by shittier behaviour?Her shock echoed my recollection of Western observers after the Fukushima earthquake. Despite the unimaginable loss and scarcity, the world watched in awe as the Japanese in Fukushima displayed no panic, no looting, only quiet dignity, and mutual aid that shocked experienced Western aid workers. Aizawl, it struck me, embodies that same spirit in its daily rhythms. Traffic jams occur, naturally, on narrow mountain roads. But the soundtrack to the jam is not provided by impatient honks and abuses, but by a near-silent, zen-like patience. Cars wait for their turn. At unmarked intersections, drivers consistently yield, stopping well back to allow cross-traffic to flow smoothly. Multiple times, I saw people backing away when there was no need to. In Mumbai or Delhi, the instinct is often to jam oneself forward, blocking everything, and then to hold one’s ground, creating gridlock out of mere congestion. Here, the instinct is to prevent the mess.Joel, a driver who had often driven vehicles as far as UP, confirmed this ethos. “Elsewhere,” he mused, “police are often seen controlling, sometimes beating people and traffic. Here, they seem genuinely focused on helping people.” While I’ve seen delivery riders on electric bikes in Mumbai, weave dangerously through traffic in a desperate ten-minute dash, people in Aizawl are more likely to be engaged in ten-minute, utterly unhurried conversations, punctuated by gentle, respectful nods. I found myself speculating: perhaps the only significant difference between Japan and Mizoram is the depth of the bows and language? The composure, the understated manners, the inherent orderliness —it felt strikingly similar.And the honk. Yes, it’s not like Mizos on Aizawl’s streets don’t honk. They do: ‘honk honk’ two quick, gentle dabs on the button. However, this occurs when the opposing vehicle is passing parallel to theirs. This gentle double honk is to say Thank You.Then there’s the cleanliness. Oh, the cleanliness! Countless Indian cities trumpet claims of being the cleanest, often amidst visible evidence to the contrary. Yet, after two decades traversing this vast nation, I can confidently say Aizawl stands apart. Rubbish simply doesn’t exist on the streets in any noticeable quantity. This puzzled me because people here chew tuibur (a local tobacco water). And like the rest of the Northeast, chewing a paan, betelnut, lime, and tobacco mixture is common. Where, then, are the tell-tale red stains that deface walls and pavements across the country? In a week of wandering, I saw no one spit publicly. The few instances I noticed seemed to be from those outside the Northeast.It rains a lot, yet there are no plastic bottles choking drains or empty packets drifting like urban tumbleweeds. Aizawl could be the poster city for Swachh Bharat, with zero banners for the ‘Abhiyan’ that failed to teach India cleanliness. Instead, it stems from a collective discipline, a shared respect for their shared space that seems ingrained.No rubbish or plastic bottles in the spotlessly clean streets. The state’s social fabric reveals another layer of its distinct character. In a bustling market, I spotted a lone beggar sitting quietly on a step. I learned that local churches actively shoulder the responsibility of feeding and clothing the poor. This reminded me of the langar tradition in Punjab’s Gurudwaras or community feeding at some Assam temples that offer lunch to anyone who sits there. Whether driven by deep-rooted religious doctrine (“thou shalt not let thy neighbour sleep hungry”?) or simply a more pervasive community ethic, the result in Aizawl is a visible absence of desperate hunger on the streets. This, even though things here are more expensive than anywhere in India, due to the cost of ferrying them through the winding mountains.Another delightful surprise, though less shocking, after visiting Shillong years earlier, was the ubiquity of women in commerce. Stroll through Aizawl’s markets, and you’ll find women running most shops. Unlike matrilineal Meghalaya next door, Mizo society is patriarchal. Yet, women are the undeniable drivers of daily economic life—managing shops, tending farms, hustling on the streets and demonstrating a visible agency that feels refreshingly normal here. And I was told that in parts of rural Mizoram, shops do not have keepers: people buy, pay, take the change, and go!This unique bubble, however, isn’t without its tensions. Conversations with locals revealed their recurring grievance about visitors from the mainland: the lecherous way men stare at Mizo women “like pieces of meat,” replicating behaviour common in their regions, coupled with a rugrating rudeness that clashes violently with local politeness. “People here move at their own pace,” Shashwati explained, “You can’t demand instant action. You need patience and kindness, give them the same respect you expect.” Yet, this is waylaid by a painful irony: despite the sophistication and order in Mizoram, many mainlanders—including my own family and friends in Assam—still look down upon the Mizo people, dismissing them as “lesser” simply because they are tribal. That ingrained prejudice stings, especially for someone who has visited Aizawl.Aizawl markets are a delight of internationalism. Wander the stalls, and you’ll find not just Indian goods, but a fascinating array of products from Myanmar and China. The border here is uniquely porous due to the shared ethnic Mizo communities straddling it. Locals with permits can travel up to 10 km into Myanmar to visit family and return on the same day. This constant flow brings Burmese snacks, Thai oddities, exotic cigarettes, and clothes. Step into Aizawl’s only mall – Millennium, and the fashion landscape shifts dramatically. Garments on ‘sale’ here carry a price tag of ₹500-₹1000; similar clothes can be had for a bargain (₹100-₹200) in Delhi, Mumbai, or Guwahati. The high price is due to the fact that they’re essentially direct imports from East Asia. The aesthetic leans distinctly towards Chinese, Japanese, and Thai styles, making parts of the city feel like a slice of another continent.Of course, Aizawl is no utopia. Locals speak frankly of corruption as rampant as elsewhere in India, of a widening rich-poor gap, and a dire healthcare infrastructure struggling under a disproportionately high cancer burden. The reasons? Influx of drugs from Myanmar, the heavy use of tobacco, and a diet heavy on smoked meats (especially the beloved smoked pork) could be contributors, tragically offsetting the benefits of their otherwise healthy cuisine – typically low in oil, rich in boiled vegetables, and remarkably light on spices and salt; and healthy dose of enforced exercise from a physically demanding landscape. Landslides all over Mizoram pose a constant threat, and I saw JCBs permanently parked on mountain cutouts, reshaping roads and even residential plots. The very house I stayed in was built on land revealed by a landslide.The funniest part for me was when I looked up. The streets were clean, but the sky was dotted with the familiar Indian tangle of crisscrossing wires that’ll anchor you back to the subcontinent. Rusting vehicle carcasses occasionally mar the landscape. On my way back to the airport, part of the highway was blocked by a truck that had slipped off the side of a mountain, taking part of the road with it. The truck that had slipped off. Yet, instead of the impatient chaos, the road had transformed into a smoothly managed one, orchestrated not by traffic police but by the calm cooperation of ordinary citizens. Most jail inmates, I’m told, are there for drug-related offences. Powerful bikes sweep the steep inclines, thankfully free from the racing culture. And that stereotype of expressionless faces, hurled as much on the Mizo people as the Chinese, crumbles when you encounter their warm demeanour.The vibe, feel, and a bit of the look match that of Dharamshala. But Aizawl’s is accentuated by profoundly courteous locals and traffic that flows quietly even through jams and landslides. And what underpins it all? “It’s a pride thing,” a local told me. “Don’t compromise on self-respect.” You don’t need to analyse the Mizo faces to sense this quiet dignity: be it in the yielding driver, the spotless streets, the women confidently running shops, the nod after a collision.These aren’t just charming travellers’ anecdotes or hyperbole. It comes from a lot of grudging respect tinged with jealousy because Aizawl is a city that forces you to redefine “Indian” and reimagine what India can look and feel like. But it’s impossible to imagine unless you visit Mizoram. And if too many mainlanders do visit, as the upcoming railway line threatens to let them, perhaps it’ll lose its serenity, its civic virtue that inspires awe and pride and gives a lesson in dignity and community.Oh, ye of little faith, I tell myself – maybe the reverse would happen; perhaps the rest of India will pause its relentless honking and rushing long enough to hear the quiet wisdom of the Mizo hills. And maybe they’ll take it back to where they come from. And maybe, slowly, and steadily, India will finally become what we all know it can be—again, not in hyperbole or social media bluster, but in reality—a mirror of Aizawl.The Ganji Wars: Bollywood’s bicep-baring battle for underpants supremacyWhy even a free ticket won’t tempt me to watch Tom Cruise’s latest Mission Impossible
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