bhaskar saikia

Yesterday evening, I returned to my hill station after an overnight stay in another city for work. The city had its own rhythm—quietly wrapped in fog and dust, the sun rarely making an appearance. But arriving back in the hills by evening felt like a blessing.

As I stepped into the familiarity of home, nature seemed to receive me with calm affection. Evening settled over the winding paths, the sky carrying a tired softness of its own. The drive through the winding roads and woods, with leaves whispering and birds calling from afar, eased the day into stillness.

The air was cool and carried the scent of earth and dry leaves. With every minute, my thoughts slowed, aligning themselves with the unhurried rhythm of the forest. Time felt less measured here, more felt than counted.

There is something deeply restorative about such moments—the gentle presence of nature and its reminder that life moves forward at its own pace.

Evenings like these teach quiet lessons: to slow down, to observe, to simply be. They remind me that peace often arrives softly—in pauses, in familiar paths, and in the comfort of returning home.