The Girl By The Window

Another day unfolds here in Assam, tender and unhurried, and I welcome it just as it comes. I don’t follow a fixed schedule—the charm of my days lies in their quiet unpredictability. Each morning begins with the familiar 9 a.m. bus to Golaghat, but it’s never just a commute. It’s a slow-moving window into life itself. That 45-minute ride becomes a canvas of fleeting moments: the sway of green fields, strangers lost in thought, snippets of conversation that feel like passing poems. I sit by the window, watching it all—with soft eyes and a quiet heart.

Once I step off the bus, a peaceful walk awaits me. Ten or fifteen minutes through a world that feels secret and alive. The earth beneath my feet, the scent of the season in the air, flowers blooming quietly on the roadside like whispered verses. Fallen leaves and delicate petals catch my eye—I stop, sometimes kneel, to gather a few. They find a home between the pages of my diaries and books, pressed into memory, kept like love letters from the earth. Often, I pause to take photographs—not for perfection, but to hold onto what made my heart pause.

I never return at the same time, and I cherish that freedom. I’ve never liked living by the clock.I always carry a notebook and a novel, tucked away like tiny companions. Lately, I’ve been wrapped in the verses of Hiren Bhattacharjya—my favorite poet. His words feel like home. I underline the lines that echo my feelings, fold pages that hold something unspoken. It’s a quiet ritual, but it adds depth to even the simplest of days.

Every day feels like a soft journey—filled with unnoticed beauty, small wonders, and silent connections. I don’t chase the hours. I simply live them, moment by moment, heart first.