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ALL RIGHT TEDERVED WITH THE AITHOR

Date: 20/04/2025

They leave. No text. No closure. No noise.

And it hurts more than a breakup, more than betrayal. Because it makes you question your memory, your worth, your sanity.

But maybe they didn’t vanish.
Maybe they were drowning in something they couldn’t name.
Maybe goodbye felt too formal for a mess they never meant to make.
Maybe silence was the only language they knew how to speak.

It’s not an excuse. But sometimes it’s a reason.

You deserve answers. But you also deserve peace.
And sometimes, peace comes from no longer needing an explanation.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

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Good morning.my dear readers and friends

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR

Date :19/04/2025

A city does not mourn—
it simply builds
over what it cannot name.

Your favourite chai stall
becomes a parking lot.
The graffiti you loved
is scrubbed
into something
less political.

Even the pigeons
no longer pause
at your window.

But somewhere,
an alley still smells
like your laughter—
if it rains
just right.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

You may follow me on:

📷 Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5
📧 Mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com
🌐 Website: www.rajatchandrasarmah.com
▶️ YouTube: conversewithasmile

Good morning friends and my readers

ALL RIGHT RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR

18/04/2025

Old books smell like rain.
Photographs like regret.
Closets like childhood.

We rarely talk about the smells of memory. But they’re the ones that cut deepest.

The handkerchief your father used to tuck into his shirt—
The bedsheet your grandmother washed in river water—
The room spray your sister used before her wedding—
They stay.

Even when people leave, even when walls are repainted, even when languages change—scent remembers.

So next time something smells like something, pause.

You’re not imagining it.

Memory has its own nose.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

You may follow me on:

📷 Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5
📧 Mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com
🌐 Website: www.rajatchandrasarmah.com
▶️ YouTube: conversewithasmile

All rights reserved by the author.
Date of Posting: Thursday, 17 April 2025

This morning,
the air forgot its usual rush.
Even the crows seemed unsure
of their next argument.

I sat still long enough
to hear the curtain sigh—
not out of boredom,
but the kind of surrender
only cloth and old hearts know.

There is peace
in not being needed.
There is poetry
in being left alone
and still loving the room
that forgot to call your name.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

You may follow me on:

📷 Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5
📧 Mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com
🌐 Website: www.rajatchandrasarmah.com
▶️ YouTube: conversewithasmile

Good morning my friends and my readers

ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR

Date 16/04/2025

I once wrote a letter I never sent.
Then I wrote another. And another.

Over time, a shoebox in my cupboard grew heavier—not with words, but with everything I could never say.

To my mother: “I forgive you, even though I still cry alone.”
To an old friend: “I miss who we were more than who you are.”
To a version of myself: “You did your best. That was enough.”

We think unsent letters are failures. But they’re not.
They are rehearsals of healing.
Proof that we still care, even when it’s too late to show it.

That box still sits there.
I haven’t opened it in years.
But I sleep better knowing it’s full.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

You may follow me on:

📷 Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5
📧 Mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com
🌐 Website: www.rajatchandrasarmah.com
▶️ YouTube: conversewithasmile