The ground's soft with pine needles and the occasional crunch of a cone. The air smells like it's just been born.

You are in the back of your head somewhere and you want to close your eyes and go away.

In the meantime the strike is over, with a remarkably low loss of life. All is quiet, they report, all is quiet.  In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.

Contemplating at unfulfilled dreams and buried emotions, carving a smile hiding the battle within.

Written By Surajit Sengupta

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