bhaskar saikia

This weekend, my travels took me to a solitary hamlet, high above the world where the clouds meet the land. Nestled in the embrace of the mountains, this hidden retreat felt like a world apart—wrapped in mist, where time slowed and silence spoke in whispers. Here, amidst the hush of nature, the hamlet breathed its own quiet story, waiting to be heard.

Night descends upon the lonely hamlet. The clouds brush against the land, blurring the line between earth and sky. The horizon, once streaked with crimson, has surrendered to the deepening dark. Twilight fades into nothingness, and with it, a quiet sorrow spreads through the air like an unspoken lament.

Rain begins to fall—soft at first, then relentless. Heavy beads of water drum against the empty streets, echoing through the night like a forgotten song. A lone streetlamp flickers, casting a pale glow against the advancing shadows—its defiance a silent battle against the consuming darkness. But the light is fragile, trembling beneath the weight of the storm.

In the distance, dogs bark—uncertain, restless. Their cries pierce the eerie silence, yet no one stirs. The hamlet remains still, its solitude growing heavier with each passing moment. The sanctity of the night is broken, not by human presence, but by nature’s grieving. A rhododendron weeps for its broken twigs; an alder mourns its fallen leaves. In this small world, where time slows and the sky weeps, even the trees know loss.

This is the essence of solitude—not merely the absence of voices, but the quiet ache that lingers in empty spaces. A hamlet that stands alone in the dark, bearing witness to the silent sorrows of the night.