My recent trip to McCluskieganj felt like walking through a quiet memory. Old colonial bungalows, cracked pastel walls, rusted gates, and silent railway tracks — everything carried a gentle sense of fading history.
I sketched wherever I could — under winter light filtered through sal trees, near the small railway station, and in front of abandoned houses slowly surrendering to nature. Earthy washes of burnt sienna and ultramarine helped capture the mood more than the details.
This journal isn’t just a record of buildings; it holds the stillness, the soft train whistles, and the unhurried rhythm of a place that reveals itself only when you pause and observe.
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