Sayel Chakrabarti, a bard of broken dreams, wanders the alleys of longing, his voice a wounded sigh against the moonlit hush. At nineteen, he sings like a storm aching for the shore, his verses drenched in the perfume of lost yesterdays. A rebel draped in melodies, he walks barefoot on the embers of unspoken love, his poetry smoldering like forgotten letters in the rain. He loves like a madman, writes like a prophet, and sings as if his throat were carved from sorrow itself. In his eyes, the ruin of love. In his words, the rebellion of fire.