I have seen travel plans happen only when they were made overnight.

— Sanhita Baruah

I knelt in front of life, folded my hands and prayed for some more time; there couldn't be any. My heart bled and so did my tearful eyes. Time, they say, flies, but I saw it slowly passing by taking each of my tardy breaths with it as it walked out of my life...

— Sanhita Baruah

I loved him the way some people are to be loved - from a distance.

— Sanhita Baruah

In the midst of the vagaries of life, they provide us a trip to the land of goodness and fairies, of imaginations and possibilities. A childhood that wasn't spent watching cartoons or reading comic strips, no wonder, seems too dull to imagine.

— Sanhita Baruah

I, sometimes, fear that probably I'll just keep changing cities, and may be someday I'll also travel the world, but never find another soul who thinks exactly the way I do.

— Sanhita Baruah

It doesn't seem like you're living a life, it's almost like you're travelling on a train with the destination unknown. You're sitting on a seat near the window looking outside, imagining how things are there outside, how is it like to live in the houses that you pass by. And when you’re busy noticing the outside, you at times do not pay heed to your surroundings inside the coach. And thus some passengers who got down at a station midway fail to capture your interest, or maybe it is because of your deviation of interest towards the outside. While at other stops new people get up, and you like their company, you share and you laugh. But sooner or later they get down. Because it's your journey, you're the traveler, and they just accompany you for some distances. And then, maybe when you reach your destination there will still be passengers in the train, passengers you've mingled with or passengers you hate, people who were there since the train had started or people who got in just before the last stoppage, and like it or not, they will get off the train with you, at your destination which also proved to be their destination.

— Sanhita Baruah

I think it's incomparably sweet when someone writes something for you. Even if it doesn't rhyme or even if it isn't very amorous. Even two lines of hatred written for you acknowledges the fact that someone spent a little of his time thinking about you.

— Sanhita Baruah

I think one can tell a lot about a person from the way he chooses to let the stub of his cigarette burn out...

— Sanhita Baruah

It is not as much about who you used to be, as it is about who you choose to be.

— Sanhita Baruah

It's been 12 years now, and I think he still can read my smiles. The way my lips stretch, making my eyes look smaller than they already are. The way my cheeks turn a little red, forming new wrinkles near my eyes. The way the dimple on my face makes a visit whenever I smile meeting someone I haven't seen in ages. It's been 12 years now, and I haven't smiled at him even once.

— Sanhita Baruah