Sabyasachi Roy
Th Magic of Photography
Sabyasachi Roy
Sabyasachi Roy is an academic writer, poet, artist, and photographer. His poetry has appeared in Viridine Literary, The Broken Spine, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Potomac, and more. He contributes craft essays to Authors Publish and has a cover image in Sanctuary Asia. His oil paintings have been published in The Hooghly Review.
Jali screen, Fatehpur
The wall breathes lace. Stone cut into stars, into patterns too precise to be human—yet human hands bled on chisels for this. Two figures, half-shadowed, half-dreaming, peer through the mesh at a world blurred by history. I stood behind them, wondering how much of my own life is just latticework—looking out, never stepping out. The light came broken, a million pinholes, stabbing dust. It felt like prayer and prison at once. Photographing it was a kind of confession: I wanted both—the beauty of the pattern, and the ache of separation. Maybe that’s all art really is.
Footprint in Sand (Cherai)
Sand won’t shut up, keeps chewing waves, spitting them out foamy and dumb, but still clings to one footprint like it’s some treasure, half gone already, crusted salt, like memory playing judge—this scrap stays, toss the rest, whatever. tide dragging its fat body closer, slow and smug, like it owns the damn shore, almost smirking, almost saying watch this. and that print—looked mine, maybe not, maybe nobody, ghost ankle ghost heel ghost someone ghost leaving. camera in my hand, same disease, snap snap snap like it’ll matter, trying to catch the second before it slips under. pointless, totally pointless. wave comes, stranger walks, repeat forever. and still me, idiot, clicking away, like if I hammer enough shutters time will finally freeze and look at me.
Mandermoni
Rope. Worn. Yellow, like old sunlight left to rot. Salt maybe, or time, has chewed the fibers. You can smell the sea if you stare long enough—somewhere in that twist, someone’s hand, calloused, pulling. Everything’s knotted, even memory. Threads pretending to be whole. Red scars running through like secrets, or warnings. It’s not just rope—it’s what keeps something from drifting away. Or maybe what stops it from leaving. The fray is honest. No polish. Just tension, grip, and surrender. You don’t untangle this. You live inside it. You pull once more, and it holds, though you know it shouldn’t.
Puri, Mandermoni
Anchors on sand. Waiting. Not for ships—those are gone—but for purpose. Rust like dried blood on metal ribs. The ropes snake off somewhere, pretending they still matter. Tide’s pulled back, left them half-buried, embarrassed. You can almost hear them breathe, slow, heavy, salt-clogged. Everything that once held steady is now slack, mute. The beach smells tired. The anchors—too proud to rot, too broken to move. Maybe this is what staying looks like. Iron faith, useless now. And still, under the silt, they dream of water. Of the pull. Of weight. Of being needed, once.
Varanasi
The boat cuts through silence. One man. Dozens of wings. The air’s stitched with noise, but the picture doesn’t move. Black water holds its breath. The oar dips, again and again, like habit. The birds—reckless, sharp, too alive—mock gravity. Somewhere a city sulks behind mist, buildings like ghosts pretending not to watch. It’s all grayscale but you can feel the sunlight burning anyway. This isn’t flight or labor—it’s in-between. That thin ache where motion becomes memory. The man rows, the birds scatter, and for a second, in the waters of Varanasi, the world forgets which one of them is trying to leave.
Varanasi
Varanasi. The steps taste of smoke and silence. Five men, skulls bare, walk down the stone spine of the ghats. Each carries something small—water, flowers, maybe memory. The Jal waits, still, pretending not to know. Sunlight burns on their backs like an old god watching. No wailing, no drama—just the rhythm of feet, descending. Ash clings to air. The dead are never far here; they float in talk, in dust, in breath. You can’t tell where the prayer ends and muscle begins. Everything stripped—grief, skin, shadow. Just men, walking toward water, learning the oldest act again: letting go.
