© All rights reserved by the author
04 August 2025

The sun slips gently behind the skyline, as if closing the curtain on a well-played act. Evening doesn’t ask questions—it simply arrives, soft-footed and kind. You don’t need to fix anything now. The lists can wait. Let your breath deepen, your shoulders drop. Maybe there’s a quiet cup of tea waiting, or the low hum of a fan, or just your own thoughts finally stretching out in silence.

This is the hour of unclenching. No grand achievements required. Just being is enough. Feel the peace in the smallness of the moment: a dimming sky, a cooling breeze, a bird returning to roost.

And in this fading light, may you remember—you were never meant to race the clock, only to meet each day as gently as this.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati, Assam, India
Instagram @rajatchandrasarmah5

© All rights reserved by the author
03 August 2025

There’s something sacred about the first sip of tea when the world slows down. Not the hurried morning gulp, but the one that comes later—when the chores are done, the light is soft, and the noise has stepped outside for a while. You hold the cup, feel its warmth seep into your hands, and suddenly, the day feels kinder.

In that moment, you’re not racing time. You’re just here—breathing, watching, being. Maybe the wind rustles the curtains. Maybe a bird calls and no one answers. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you allowed yourself this pause.

We often chase peace in big places, grand gestures. But sometimes, it hides in plain sight—in a quiet cup, a gentle breath, a few undemanding minutes.

Make room for it. Again and again.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati, Assam, India
Instagram @rajatchandrasarmah6

@ all rights reserved by the author
02 August 2025

Some evenings don’t need plans — they simply unfold. Like the soft curl of steam from a quiet cup of tea, or the way the curtain dances with the breeze. Today feels like that. No urgency, no noise, just the gentle presence of time moving slower than usual.

I sat by the window with nothing but the sound of distant traffic and a curious crow. The sun didn’t set — it melted. Even the sky looked relaxed, wearing a faded orange shawl.

We spend so much time chasing ‘what’s next’ that we forget how comforting ‘just now’ can be. Maybe peace isn’t something we find — maybe it finds us, when we finally sit still.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati, Assam, India
instagram @rajatchandrasarmah5

@All rights reserved by the author
31July 2025

Hope grows quietly – like moss, like grass between cracked stones. It does not demand attention, it just persists. Even in neglect, it finds a way. Today, give yourself permission to pause. Not all growth is dramatic. Not all progress is loud. Sit for a moment with your thoughts. Feel the quiet life that still stirs in you, even on difficult mornings. You don’t need answers today. Just gentleness. Just the will to water whatever inside you still reaches for light. Your smallest act of kindness to yourself can become a seed. Let it take root. Hope isn’t always a shout – sometimes, it’s a whisper. Sometimes, it’s the voice that says, “I’m still here.”

Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati, Assam, India
Instagram: @rajatchandtmrasarmah5
Website: rajatchandrasarmah.com

@ all rights reserved by the author
31 July 2025

There’s a moment in the evening — just after the birds have finished their last arguments and before the streetlights fully commit — when the sky seems to sit down and rest. The colours blur, like an old painting washed in gentle tears. It’s not sadness. It’s softness. A quiet sigh at the end of a loud day.

You don’t need music then. Or coffee. Or anyone to ask how your day was. You just need that little pause when nothing demands your attention. The phone is silent. The ceiling fan hums like a lullaby. Even your thoughts slow down, as if they’ve been walking too long and finally found a bench.

Let it be enough today — not to conquer, not to create, not to figure anything out. Just to be. Even for ten minutes.

Because sometimes, peace doesn’t come in answers. It comes in stillness.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati, Assam, India
instagram @rajatchandrasarmah5

For the first time , my poem is published by a very reputed international publication New Verses New . Iam so happy and grateful to team New Verse New and almighty .

Sunday, July 20, 2025              

WHEN THE WATER COMES

by Rajat Chandra Sarmah

This is not news to us.

It rains.

Then it rains more.

The river climbs the banks like a thief at night.

We don’t ask, Why is this happening?

We ask, How high this time?

We know the drill—

Carry the old woman upstairs,

tie the goats to the roof beam,

Put the school books in plastic.

My cousin’s house floated away last month.

Just slid into the Brahmaputra,

quiet as a boat pushing off.

The calendar was still on the wall—

June.

Floods are disasters for us.

But calendars for them.

They know when to show up.

Photo op. Speech.

Same promises, reshuffled.

Bangladesh, Bihar, Assam—

The same story,

different screens.

Sometimes I sit by the window

and wonder—

Is the river tired of carrying us?

Our plastics, our lost shoes,

our drowned gods?

The water comes again.

It will come next year too.

I don’t know anymore

If I should swim

Or just stand still.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah is a poet and writer, and a Fellow of LEAD International. a global network focused on leadership and sustainability. After a 36-year career in India’s power sector, he now focuses on poetry and literary writing. His work explores environmental crises, cultural inheritance, and personal memory.