Humble paths and rich stories of Assam

It’s 1:30 in the afternoon. Outside, a gentle rain hums against the windowpane, softening the day’s light and washing the heat out of the air. I’ve been meaning to start a blog for a long time, but the setup always got in the way—too many tabs, too many decisions. But today, something feels different. I don’t want to miss the chance to document this moment, so I’ve settled for the humble notes app, where all good thoughts seem to begin anyway.

I woke up after a rare, uninterrupted sleep—no mosquitoes this time, thanks to the net. If you’ve ever spent a summer in Guwahati, you’d understand the gravity of that. The mosquitoes here are built different. I got ready, ate a light breakfast, and rifled through some old clothes for no particular reason, just trying to feel the rhythm of a Sunday.

It wasn’t until I looked out the window that the day really took off. The city outside looked drenched in color—leaves rinsed clean of dust, roads dark and glistening, the air rich with the earthy scent of wet soil. That was it. I straight away wanted to go out and capture it all—through lenses of different focal lengths. I quickly got dressed, threw on a pair of shorts, grabbed my gear: the versatile 18-55mm, the beloved nifty fifty. I hesitated over the 55-250mm zoom lens, then left it behind. (I always end up regretting that.)

Just across the road is a small village I’ve passed many times, but today it called to me. I headed that way. The moment I stepped in, I got the usual stares—the kind that come with carrying a camera in places where not many people do. I’ve grown used to it. I wandered around clicking photos of homes and alleyways, still too shy to lift my camera toward strangers.

The rain had left its mark on the pagdandi, turning it into a slippery path that wasn’t kind to my sports shoes. Water had already seeped inside, squishing with every step. But I didn’t mind. Like they say—beautiful roads often lead to beautiful destinations.

And this one did.

Soon, the narrow trail gave way to open fields, cows grazing lazily, and a vast landscape blanketed in soft grey light. I stuck with the 18-55mm, trying to soak in the full context of everything—the quiet, the stillness, the simple beauty. On the way, I passed a few locals clearing out the muddy ground, creating makeshift drains to channel the water.

One man stood out—dressed like a farmer, in a pagdi, dhoti, and shirt. As I walked past, he looked at me and, to my surprise, asked in English, “Are you a foreigner?”

I laughed, a little thrown off. “No, no.”

“Oh, so you’re a local,” he said. I nodded, not wanting to unpack the whole backstory of how I ended up here.

“You’re quite tall,” he added with a grin. “I thought you might be Russian or German.”

“Nahi nahi, koi baat nahi,” I said with a smile, walking on. I understood. It wasn’t just my height that seemed foreign—it was the camera, the backpack, the wandering gaze. But there was no malice in it. If anything, it was charming.

Eventually, I reached the end of the village and decided to switch to the 50mm. The light had shifted, and I wanted tighter, more intimate shots. On the way back, I ran into the same man again. He asked me what I did, and we slipped into a warm conversation. He told me about his son, who works at IBM in Pune. He didn’t remember the name of the college, but he pointed proudly toward a distant hill where the campus sat. He himself works in the Mausam Vibhaag, the weather department. After a night shift, there he was, knee-deep in mud, clearing the roads like it was just another part of the day.

That moment stayed with me—two strangers connecting briefly in the middle of a quiet Sunday, the kind of interaction that feels small but leaves a mark.

By the time I got back home, soaked and a little tired, I felt oddly fulfilled. The weather was perfect—cloudy, vibrant, alive. The fields, the cows, the slippery roads, the smell of the earth, the cold wind brushing past—all of it conspired to make the day feel cinematic.

And for a moment, everything was just right.