As dusk tiptoed into Dharmanagar, Tripura, the tea gardens slipped into a dream. The sky, a velvet blend of purple and pressed grape, bathed the trees and endless rows of tea bushes in a hue so rich it seemed almost surreal. The sun, sinking low, glowed like a wound of light—slashed with burgundy red, bleeding warmth over the landscape.
In that soft, fading light, the tea fields whispered stories—of labor and longing, of sun-kissed mornings and dusky farewells. The scent of earth mingled with the faint aroma of tea leaves, still warm from the day’s sun. It was a moment suspended in time—a canvas painted not just with colors, but with feeling. The fields took on the color of love—not loud or boastful, but quiet, patient, enduring. In Dharmanagar, that evening, nature wrote its own poem—and every leaf bore witness.