I could be a molecule of thought Uncanny, secret, Dimension less.
I could be all elements --immense, eternal -- A cosmos holding galaxies of passion.
I may be a note of music Hanging in the air, faint, feeble, But repeating like an echo,
Or a speck of silence in a wind-funnel, Gyrating into a tornado, Sonorously lingering to infinity.
I’m overwhelmingly tender. I hold worlds in a gentle embrace. I’m also a razor blade, Can slash love with a single stroke And leave it to bleed to death.
I am war. I am peace. Dispassionate and diligent, I’m a nuance undulating through Sangfroid and turbulence.
I’m a bubble forming, dissolving, Forming again, breaking again, Floating relentlessly to join waters On alien shores And linking minds.
I’m a length of thread from a kite that is Stubborn in its desire to fly, Connecting to the Earth While scanning the strip of its sky.
I wander free, unfettered by Diverse minds and tongues, Wearing my happy pan-world face,
Spanning dams and deserts, Oceans and mountains, Freezing and erupting in alternate moments, I travel borderless.
Snehaprava Das is an academic, translator and writer. She has multiple translations, three collections of stories and five anthologies of poetry to her credit. She has been published in Indian Literature, Oxford University Press, Speaking Tiger, Penguin and Black Eagle Books.
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I levitate around my home. My toes barely graze the cold stone floor. Moving one box here, displacing another there, but still not getting any real work done. For I am a sorceress, a descendant from a rare and powerful subspecies of human who knows fearsome magic. Yet still, I cannot part with my piles of odd socks and large frocks. I clasp my slender, bejewelled hands together. That’s it, today I will declutter the castle for only twenty minutes – as that’s what the pros recommend.
There is a friction keeping me from knowing how to start, as too many souls have come and gone from this castle over the centuries. My father passed away grumpily in his bed in the north wing four decades ago. In his chambers, he left behind a husk of a gaming computer, piles of tangled tendril-like cables, a dusty vinyl record turntable and hefty piles of skating and street art magazines. He was bizarrely fascinated with the subculture he observed in mere mortals, one which he called ‘hip and cool’, despite being a gaunt three-hundred-and-forty-two-year-old wizard. He spent his last decades of life locked away in that room playing video games. I only ever witnessed an unearthly rainbow glow and pew-pew sounds from under his door day and night.
Then don’t get me started on my mother. She left behind her lifetime of artsy hobbies. From mosaic tile clippers, to a vinyl design t-shirt press, she had been the crafting queen. I don’t mind the crafting supplies, but other items of hers are more of a dilemma for me to know whether to keep. As a prolific vampiress, she had a tendency to never part with even a single skull belonging to her victims. They’re nostalgic, she used to parrot at me over the dining table. I opened the closet in her room and more than a dozen skulls fell on top of me. Mother, I am not up for dealing with your nostalgia right now!
Yet the worst of it all was my brother. It all happened one morning in the dead of winter, a blizzard was raging outside.
He said: ‘I can’t stand this place anymore!’
I remember his pained green eyes as he pushed open the large iron doors. With nothing but a bag on his side and tattered coat on his back, he left. That was half a century ago. It really worsened my father’s depression, and he never really got over it. I haven’t talked to my brother since then. I had assumed his old room had probably been taken over by clusters of breeding spiders by now. Yet, the one time a draught creaked the door open, I was horrified to see how empty it was — not a single book or a scrap of a poster left on any wall. Just bits of hardened Blu-Tak. Now whenever I pass by his room, I cannot remember the good times me and my spellcasting sibling had. I can only remember the hurt in his eyes when he left, so many moons ago. That memory is the one thing I cannot get rid of.
Decluttering is a challenging task, even for a wise and formidable sorceress such as myself, who can conjure up thunder and lightning with a mere twitch of my finger. It is inherently existential – well – it is for me at least. It makes you think about what legacy you’ll be leaving behind. Despite knowing I will probably live longer than both my mother and father, (both never, never exercised and the latter had a video game addiction, mind you) I feel such dread seize my heart just by looking at the piles. My lifelong research, reduced down to flaky and pitifully unsubstantial yellowy parchment.
I do not have any progeny, at least not yet, so will I leave behind a sorceress’s lifetime of sorry spellbooks that no living soul can decipher? How I wish there was any spell in one of these antediluvian old grimoires, anything to help me shift through these emotions and clutter! The only spell I can conjure up is to magically teleport everything to a storage shed in another continent, but my conscience gets the better of me.
The only living soul in this cold old mansion is me — and well, my greyhound, whose name is Speckles. I dust off my hands, I may not have made much progress today, but there is something I must do. I go into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I then plop down in the loungeroom. Speckles snuggles his delicate pointed snout into my lap, I smile at him, I pick up a loose piece of parchment, dip my pen in ink and begin to write:
Hello dearest brother, how have you been?
Time will sort things out. The skulls in the closet can wait.
Illustration by Vela Noble
Vela Noble is multidisciplinary artist and writer based in Adelaide, Australia. She finished a BA majoring in Creative Writing at Adelaide University. You can see her work at velanoble.com.
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Life By the River by Liu Kang (1911-2004)Kampung Life by Lim Tze Peng (1921-2025)Depiction of Kampung or village life in Singapore more than fifty years ago. From Public Domain
THE BENCH
The melodious magpie on the bamboo twig -- the passing breeze welcomed the chirping. Sitting on a dilapidated wooden bench, under the thick canopy of the mango tree, village folks rested in the shade, calming the tremors of troubled hearts. The hardship evident in the sighs, still hopeful of tomorrow’s dreams, drying the sweat of weariness. Honest earnings chased away worries. A pinch on the thigh, a cry of pain. Laughter and jokes were shared merrily, teasing the maiden sitting by the door, smiling sheepishly, welcoming attention. Recollecting a slice of an old tale, fun and camaraderie were reminisced, firm and amicable bonds were fostered. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. Now alone in a room, gazing at the handphone screen, chatting aimlessly in social media— do we remember and long for the dilapidated bench, crafting old tales, forging firm and amicable bonds? Do we remember and pine for the maiden sitting by the door?
CUSTOMS
Customs are not like banana fritters coated with rice flour, dipped in hot oil, served instantly, crispy and delicious, eaten warm, accompanied by sips from a cup of black coffee. Customs are like rain that falls on the whims of the weather. It’s always there, although infrequent, temperamental and purposeful, sometimes an inconvenience— plans thwarted— but always invigorating and instils a sense of acceptance. If received with gratitude, directed with perseverance, and tempered with wisdom. Life is beautiful with droplets of grace. Life is fertile with the pouring of bounties. Life is prosperous with love bestowed. Customs make the earth supple. Customs make the village noble. Customs make a people well-mannered. Once in a while, relish a crispy banana fritter and sip warm black coffee while it rains cats and dogs. Momentary disruption of plans, the alleys and roads flooded— moments of reflection, moments of appreciation for the day, is inherent in droplets of grace, inherent in the pouring of bounties, inherent in love bestowed. Shifting of time and signs the soil is tilled with purpose. The village gathers and collectively agrees, the people ready to realise aspirations of good character and respected stature.
SMOKE
Like smoke billowing amidst rubbish, he burns his self-worth, dances in the flames, when the fire is meant to warm breakfast and meals to school. Now like smoke, his children are floating, begging for favours at tips of cigarettes and cars’ exhaust pipes, crushed by confusion in the stifling air. Who would be hungry if the smoke does not billow in the kitchen, and for generations, our humanity returns uncooked to God?
CURSE OF A WARRIOR
Hail the snake and its venom! Call it a callous and rebellious act! Shame be endured, head decapitated! Surrender not, carry the corpse! Foolish is the mind, desperate are the moves. Let death fulfil the curses. Let death be executed by the Angel. Destroy my body, take my soul. The wooden club hit the coffin. Pierce my tongue and neck. Stab my chest, guts dis-embowelled. Blood spurts, life departs. The warrior kisses the earth. Blood turns into pus. Pus turns into ambers of Hell. Let me die so you die. Let us die so everyone dies. I give you my sin, my hurt, my sadness. You’ll bathe in blood.
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
Imagine a woman bound by shackles – not of iron, but of her own people, her country, her religion, and above all, by men. This is not just a metaphor; it is the reality that moulded Taslima Nasrin’s life and journey as a writer. Her first English poetry collection, Burning Roses in My Garden (translated and edited by Jesse Waters), gathers 103 poems that bear the scars of exile and the defiance of survival.
Nasrin, hounded by fatwas and banned for her unflinching criticism of patriarchy and religious dogma in Bangladesh, writes from the margins yet refuses to be silenced. The anthology commences with early meditations on passion and desire, seen in poems like ‘A Bouquet of Scarlet Envy’ and ‘On Love’, toward darker elegies like ‘The Cycle of Loneliness’, ‘Walking through This Life and into Death’, and ‘Am I Not to Have a Country of My Own?’ that grapple with loneliness, mortality, and the burden of political banishment. These poems become the very tools with which she breaks the restraints, not to escape them, but to forge them into weapons of truth.
The collection opens with poems like ‘On Love’, which delve into romantic love and intimacy as the poet tenderly explores physical connection through sensory detail. In the piece ‘The Last Kiss’, the poet reminisces about a lover’s touch that transcends geographical boundaries. “That kiss that brought an entire world within her grasp, /…a rush of youth, /His kiss was becoming more than him,” compares her memories to permanent imprints. These early poems in the collection reveal a different register – more vulnerable, more willing to dwell in private emotions rather than public testimony. It creates a counterpoint to the later poems of exile and loss, suggesting what was left behind when she was forced to choose between fragile love and unwavering candour.
Through images of loss and displacement, which work both as wound and testimony, the poet confronts her banishment with stark honesty: “To me, my country is now a crematorium. /A lonely dog stands and whines all night, a few/Pyre-makers lie here and there, drunk to the bone.” In her traversal of exile, she transforms personal anguish into universal questions of belonging and continues to write from a place of loss. Her voice carries the weight of those who cannot speak, turning poetry into both elegy and resistance.
Feminist consciousness also flows through Nasrin’s verses with unflinching directness. In ‘Another Life’, she exposes the grinding reality of women’s domestic servitude through devastating metaphor: “Women spend half of their lives picking stones from rice. /Stones pile up in their hearts.” The image suggests not only physical drudgery but emotional calcification – the heart itself becoming a repository of unspoken grievances. Her feminist vision extends beyond individual suffering to collective oppression, revealing how patriarchal structures trap women in cycles of invisible labour.
The poet’s political views turn philosophical, confronting mortality while examining the cost of speaking truth to power through the lens of displacement and exile. This progression from the collection’s early love poems to these darker meditations reflect not only her growing maturing but also usher in a socio-political awakening – the recognition that private desire cannot exist separately from public consequence.
Nasrin doesn’t shy away from contemporary political realities; instead, she shows how religious fundamentalism and state censorship became suffocating forces that compress individual expression. She highlights the way authoritarian systems silence dissent through both legal mechanisms and social ostracism. In ‘Am I Not to Have a Country of My Own?’, she directly questions the price of dissent and the meaning of citizenship when one’s own nation rejects its truth-tellers. In contrast, particular tender pieces like ‘Miserable Ma’ highlight the endurance of personal relationships despite geographical separation within the collection’s otherwise relentless critique.
This collection’s strength lies in its refusal to separate the personal from the global. An American poet and professor, Waters preserves Nasrin’s directness in her translation while maintaining the emotional intensity that makes her work so compelling. These poems serve as both autobiography and historical document, charting one woman’s journey from intimate expression to public testimony. Her masterful use of juxtaposition, placing tender domestic moments against brutal political realities, creates a poetic tension that amplifies both spheres of experience.
Ultimately, Burning Roses in My Garden becomes a new mythology of endurance, not the tidy myth that comforts, but a foul-weather myth that survives storms. In the current climate, Nasrin’s poetry resonates with startling immediacy – mass rallies, hardline backlashes, midnight vigils, and student protests – the streets themselves find their voice through her verses. As if to remind us what her poetry truly stands for, the last poem of the collection bears the words: “I don’t write poetry, I write life on paper. /I don’t write poems; the wind that hits my body/When I stand on the top of a hill? I pen it down.” In closing lines like “when all game ends… I’ll sit down to write about love,” Nasrin promises that love’s survival against cruelty becomes an article of faith. The world of the poet and that of the reader blur here, and in that blurring, a strange comfort arrives, a lesson that even in a country’s crematorium, the rose of hope can burn and perfume the air.
Anindita Basak, a student at the University of Calcutta, is an avid enthusiast of literature and philosophy. Her published works include poetry, prose, and reviews in reputed magazines.
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And murdered through their masks, as if to sift My trembling from the air; the corridors Grew longer, bending out of shape, and drift Enshrouded every threshold. Through the doors Came whispers, half‑remembered, half‑designed, That pressed like winter’s knuckles on my chest; And still the ward‑lights flickered, re‑aligned To mark the pulse of something unexpressed. I walked as though the floorboards might collapse, Or tilt me toward a darkness I had known, Where every echo tightened into traps And every heartbeat felt no longer owned.
Yet through that trembling hush, a figure stood— A patient, pale as frost upon a blade— Who watched me with a calm misunderstood, As if my fear were something he had made. He raised a hand, then let it fall again, And muttered fragments drifting into sense: That storms of thought could batter any brain, That none were proof against experience. His voice, though cracked, retained a tempered grace, A cadence forged from long‑endured despair; And in the trembling angles of his face I saw a truth too heavy to declare.
For madness, in its quietest disguise, Can settle like a frost upon the bone; It does not always shout, but softly lies In corners where the mind stands most alone. And so I passed him, feeling something shift— A weight that was not his, nor wholly mine— As though the ward itself began to lift Its veil and show the seams beneath design. The nurses moved like shadows on a screen, Their footsteps merging with the humming vents; The world grew thin, translucent, in between The drifting of my fractured sentiments.
And still the year went on, a tightening thread That pulled me through each hour’s unsteady frame; The nights were long, the mornings filled with dread, Yet somewhere in that cycle, something came— A gentler breath, a pause within the storm, A moment where the mind, though bruised, could rest. It did not heal, nor wholly re‑transform, But held itself with slightly steadier chest. And in that pause, I learned to stand again, To walk the ward without the same despair; To see, in every trembling fellow‑patient, A fragile strength that hovered in the air.
So through the endless corridors I moved, Not cured, not whole, but slowly re‑aligned; And though the year remained a thing unloved, It left a quiet scaffold in my mind— A place where all the fractured thoughts could meet, Where shadows softened, though they did not cease; Where every trembling pulse, though incomplete, Could find a moment’s tentative release
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
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Narrative by Meredith Stephens: Photographs by Alan Noble
Sydney Skyline
We are not champagne sailors. The only time Alex and I drink champagne aboard a boat is to celebrate the end of a voyage of hundreds of nautical miles. Our sailing expeditions are characterised by breakages, deprivations and isolation. Sometimes the seas are so rough that I cannot move around the boat, let alone change clothes. I can only bathe once a week, and that consists of a dip in the ocean at anchor.
Our meals often consist of fish we have caught and cooked, unless we consume them immediately as sashimi. A single fish might last us days, served in various guises. Other meals are prepared from lentils or canned foods. In contrast to land trips, I usually lose a kilogram or two when at sea. I prefer not to use the term ‘yacht’, because people imagine us sunning ourselves on the deck while sipping champagne. Instead, I use the term ‘sailboat’. I do confess to a tad of reverse snobbery in the deprivations I endure and look down on those I describe as ‘champagne sailors’. But was that about to change?
We had been invited aboard the luxury observer vessel known as The Jackson to watch the start of the annual Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race on Boxing Day. After Christmas lunch, we headed to Adelaide Airport to catch our ninety-minute flight to Sydney. Upon arrival at our hotel, we caught the lift to our room. The lift doors opened on the third floor to let two brothers in, aged around 10 and 12. They met our gaze.
“Would you like us to sing you a Christmas carol?” the younger one asked.
The older one looked a bit embarrassed, but I thought asking strangers to join in singing a carol in a lift on Christmas Day was a nice, if not brave gesture, so I nodded enthusiastically. The younger one started singing ‘We wish you a merry Christmas’, and facing us, moved his hands in the manner of a choir conductor. I joined in. Then the boys noticed that they had arrived at their floor and stopped singing.
“See ya!” said the older one, as they exited.
We continued to the seventh floor and deposited our bags. The light was fading, so we decided to head back outside to take a stroll around the harbour. We returned to the lift. Once we reached the fifth floor the doors opened and the two boys entered again. Three other guests were standing behind us.
“More carols?” asked Alex.
They nodded and smiled. “Yes!”
They launched into another familiar carol, and again I joined in. The tall guest behind me gave a kindly chuckle. Then they reached the third floor, bade us farewell, and exited. We continued to the ground floor and made a tour of Darling Harbour in the remaining light. It had been a wonderful Christmas Day, and what better way to end it than the act of goodwill in being serenaded by children in a hotel lift.
The next day was the yacht race, which has been held annually since 1945 and is one of the world’s great ocean races. The sailors would be competing in a gruelling and treacherous race of 128 boats covering 628 nautical miles (1,200 km), south down the Tasman Sea, across Bass Strait, to Hobart in the south of Tasmania. This race is one of the highlights of Boxing Day and a television staple.
Start of Sydney to Hobart race
We walked to the appointed wharf and noticed a long queue waiting to board. Upon being noticed by our hosts, we were directed to a shorter queue and were ushered up the stairs to the top deck, limited to fewer than sixty people. A ribbon with ‘The Jackson’ written on it was affixed to our wrists. We were greeted by a waiter holding a tray proffering a range of drinks. Alex picked up two glasses of champagne and handed one to me. Was this the beginning of my new career as a champagne sailor?
The Jackson soon departed and we headed out to the deck to view the boats lining up for the race. Even though it was summer the cold penetrated my body and my hands shook. I was determined to brave the cold in order to hold my place to view the start of the race. The lady next to me made some commentary.
“That’s the start line,” she said, pointing to two yellow buoys. The start lines are staggered depending on the the size of the boats to help prevent collisions. It’s a southerly, so that should help.”
I nodded, feigning comprehension. I was not yet a competent enough sailor to pick up the wind direction so quickly. The cannon sounded on the deck below, and a plume of smoke rose. The yachts set off. Soon they had overtaken our observation vessel and most of the guests moved back inside the boat to watch the race on a large screen. Alex and I and a few other hardy souls remained on the outside deck to savour the unique setting of Sydney Harbour. Waiters braved the cold regularly to top up our champagne and offer us canapes. We accepted each time, although I eventually slowed down and shared a glass of champagne with Alex. Had we become the dreaded champagne sailors?
The yachts sailed through the heads until most of them disappeared from view. The Jackson turned around and headed back to King Street Wharf. We remained outside on the deck in the cold, making the most of every minute because Sydney Harbour is so far from home, and we may never have this opportunity again.
I stubbornly refuse to accept the title of champagne sailor though. We are temporarily boatless (which is another story) but once we resume sailing again later this year, we hope to return to the days of self-reliance on the boat and sourcing our meals from the ocean. Maybe not too much deprivation though, because we will continue to uncork a bottle of champagne, as is our tradition, after completing a major ocean passage of several hundred nautical miles.
Sydney to Hobart race
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
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There was a grand fair in the wide field outside our not-so-famous town. People waited for it all year – saving a little, just enough to enjoy a day with friends, with family, to see new things, to bring home something fancy, a bargain to cherish.
The circus was the heart of it all. I remember, as a child, a clown who mocked his own misfortune – his sorrow turned into laughter for everyone else. We laughed too, forgetting, for a while, the weight we carried. The next year, I went back, searching for that face – the vividly painted smile, his real face hidden beneath the colours that shaped a foolish grin.
But the clown was gone. There were the same acrobats, the stunts on bikes, the magician, the elephants parading as before.
Except now, there stood a parrot – clever, talking, outsmarting its master, earning the applause of everyone, who didn’t even notice the clown’s absence
Dr. Shamim Akhtar is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Management at ICFAI University Mizoram. He has recently authored a book titled Smoke and Society: The Culture, Consumption and Control of Tobacco in Mizoram. A researcher, writer, and passionate poet, he explores themes of memory, longing, and the human condition. His work often reflects a blend of lyrical sensitivity and deep introspection.
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I did not grow up wanting to be famous. I grew up wanting to read. Books entered my life quietly, persistently, and stayed. They were never mere ornaments on a shelf. They were companions, confidants, and windows to other worlds. I read late into the night, bent and underlined pages in hand, learning early that a book could be as vital as breath. Reading became a habit, then a need, then a lens through which I understood life itself.
But reading is not always easy. Even as a child, I struggled with the distractions of the world around me, the noise, the pull of tasks, and the sense that books were a luxury rather than a necessity. Many children grow up without sustained access to literature or quiet spaces to engage with ideas. Many adults, too, lose the habit of reading amidst digital noise, constant demands, and a culture that prizes speed over reflection. In such a world, cultivating a relationship with words becomes an act of devotion, of care, and of patience.
I read widely and without rules: fiction first, then mystery, later thrillers, philosophy, psychology, literary novels, family dramas, clean romance, cozy mysteries, science fiction, and books about the craft of writing itself. I read what interested me, what unsettled me, what slowed me down. Each genre teaches something different. Mystery teaches pacing. Literary fiction teaches restraint. Philosophy teaches patience. Psychology teaches observation. Good writing, no matter the category, teaches honesty. And yet, for many, access to books, time to read, and the encouragement to do so are rare privileges.
Reading and writing have always been companions. To write well, I must read widely. To read well, I must be attentive to language and nuance. When I read, I am listening to other writers. When I write, I try to answer, in my own way, the questions they pose on the page. Books that stay with me longest shape my own sentences, not by imitation, but by instilling rhythm, precision, and empathy.
Reading shaped the way I think and the way I write. It taught me rhythm. It taught me silence. It taught me that a sentence does not need decoration if it carries truth. Over time, reading stopped being separate from writing. One fed the other. I read to learn how others solved problems on the page. I wrote to see if I could do the same.
But the act of reading and writing is more than personal; it is communal. Stories, essays, novels, poems, reflections—they connect us. They allow us to see beyond our immediate experiences and inhabit others’ lives. They create empathy in societies that can often feel distracted or rushed. They challenge assumptions, expand understanding, and remind us of shared humanity. Yet, in a time when attention is fragmented, cultivating space for reading and writing is an ongoing challenge.
Writing arrived quietly. I began by writing notes to myself: observations, small scenes, feelings I could not explain out loud. Writing became a place to sit with things without having to perform. There was no audience then, just the page and me. Even a short paragraph, carefully written, could provide clarity where speech often failed. It could contain emotion without spectacle, simplicity without emptiness.
I am an English educator by profession. Over the years, I have guided students in navigating language, finding their voice, and understanding the weight of words. Teaching sharpened my attention. It made me careful with words. When you teach, you learn how fragile confidence can be. You learn how much words matter. You learn that clarity is kindness. The classroom has also taught me patience and observation, qualities essential to writing. Students’ struggles, triumphs, and quiet moments often inspire characters or scenes in my own work. More importantly, it has shown me that access to words, encouragement, and mentorship can transform lives, opening doors to reflection, creativity, and understanding.
My writing grew in that same vein.
I am drawn to ordinary lives, to quiet moments, to people who carry more than they say. I am not interested in spectacle. I am interested in what happens at the table, in the hallway, during a phone call that lasts too long. The smallest moments often reveal the most. A pause, a glance, a question left unasked often speaks louder than any dramatic event. Writing, I have discovered, is about noticing these details and offering them gently to the reader.
I read Jane Austen years ago and understood something important. You do not need to explain everything. You do not need to impress. You only need to tell the truth and step back. That lesson stayed with me. My writing aims for simplicity, not emptiness. Austen’s writing taught me that character, dialogue, and subtle observation can carry a story, even without dramatic plot twists. This resonates deeply as I try to develop my own voice.
I write literary fiction, family drama, and clean romance. I write about relationships between parents and children, husbands and wives, people and their inner lives. I am interested in homecoming, in belonging, in the idea of home as something emotional rather than geographical.
Many of my characters search for peace without naming it. They live in ordinary spaces yet carry extraordinary emotions. Through their stories, I explore love, hope, and resilience, not as abstract ideas, but as lived experience. These themes are not only literary; they reflect challenges we face in real life, in understanding each other, and in finding space for reflection, empathy, and connection.
I read widely to guide my writing. I still read every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes only a few pages. I return often to books that once moved me deeply: Pride and Prejudice, Man’s Search for Meaning, Tuesdays with Morrie. Each rereading feels different. That is how I know books grow with us. Revisiting a familiar story allows me to notice things I had missed before, to understand new perspectives, and to refine my sense of narrative and character development.
I read craft books not to copy technique, but to understand intention. Why does this sentence work? Why does that scene linger? Reading teaches humility. There is always someone writing better, clearer, braver. Instead of discouraging me, that comforts me. It means the work is endless, and that is a good thing. There is always more to learn, always room to grow. This realisation keeps me grounded and committed to the long journey of writing.
I am part of some anthologies, and I have authored many articles over the years. These small contributions are part of my learning and practice, a way to keep writing while I work on larger projects. They are exercises in discipline and experimentation, testing different voices, formats, and perspectives. Each piece, no matter how short, teaches me something about structure, clarity, and the rhythm of language.
The life of a writer is not glamorous. Most of it is quiet. You sit. You doubt. You write. You delete pages you once loved. You rewrite. You keep going. There is no certainty, only commitment. Writing requires discipline more than inspiration. Inspiration visits. Discipline stays.
There were periods in my life when writing was the only stable thing I had. Work challenges, writer’s block, my daughter’s health issues, long waits—writing did not solve these problems, but it gave me a place to stand. It reminded me who I was when everything else felt fragile. Writing became a companion, a place to breathe, a way to make sense of the world. More than that, it showed me that writing, reading, and reflection are tools we all need, as societies and as individuals, to engage with ourselves and others.
My faith plays a central role in my life and writing. It teaches patience and surrender. Writing is similar. You do your part and let go of the outcome. You write honestly and accept that the work will find its reader when it is meant to. Writing, like prayer, requires consistency, trust, and humility.
I do not measure success by recognition. I measure it by sincerity. If a reader feels empathetic, the work has succeeded. If a sentence stays with someone longer than expected, that is enough. Every story, every paragraph, every sentence is a small offering, an attempt to communicate honestly, and that is enough.
I am still learning. Still reading. Still writing. That, for me, is a full life.
And it began, simply, with a book opened in silence.
Gowher Bhat is a a columnist, a freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. He writes about memory, place, and the quiet weight of the things we carry, often exploring themes of longing, belonging, silence, and expression. A senior columnist in several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley, he is also an avid reader and book reviewer. He believes the smallest moments can carry the deepest truths.
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Mr. Williams lived in a town called Vinjamur. He owned several businesses and was well-known for being extremely careful with money. Whether at home or in his shop, he made sure that not even a single rupee was wasted.
One day, Mr. Williams had to go out on some work. Before leaving, he asked his fifteen-year-old son, Raman, to sit in the shop. While Mr. Williams was away, a group of devotees came to the shop asking for donations for the construction of a temple. Raman took Rs 100 from the cash box and gave it to them as charity.
When Mr. Williams returned and heard of Raman’s donation, he became very angry. He made his son sit in front of him and said sternly, “First learn how hard it is to earn money. Only after that should you think of charity. If you do this again, I will not tolerate it.”
Another incident happened sometime later. One day, when Mr. Williams was not at home, a beggar came asking for food. His ten-year-old daughter felt pity for the poor man. She fed him till he was full. She also gave him some rice to take home.
When Mr. Williams came to know about this, he was angry with his daughter as well. He warned her strictly never to do such a thing again.
Mr. Williams’ wife knew her husband very well. She never argued with him about money matters, but she warned the children to be careful and not to go against their father.
A few days later, an old man with an unshaven beard and torn clothes came to Mr. Williams’ shop. He asked the workers about Mr. Williams. Looking at his appearance, the workers assumed he was a beggar. Afraid that their owner would scold them if he saw the man, they asked him to leave at once.
But the old man did not go away. He waited patiently for a long time. After some time, Mr. Williams arrived at the shop. The moment he saw the old man standing there, he recognised him.
Mr. Williams immediately called him inside, made him sit on a chair, and offered him drinking water. When the old man said he was hungry, Mr. Williams arranged food for him. He sat in front of him until he finished eating. Before the old man left, Mr. Williams spoke to him privately and gave him ten thousand rupees.
The workers were stunned. They could not believe that their master—who never spent money easily—had given away such a large amount.
Just then, Raman came to the shop to deliver some things. He saw an unknown person eating in front of his father and, to his shock, saw his father give him a bundle of money. Raman could not believe his eyes.
He went to his father and asked,
“Father, you scolded me for donating just one hundred rupees, and you scolded my sister for giving rice to a beggar. Then how could you give ten thousand rupees to a stranger?”
Mr. Williams smiled and replied,
“He is not a stranger. He is someone I know very well. And he was once a very prosperous man. You don’t need to know anything more.”
Saying this, he returned to his work.
Confused by his father’s words, Raman went home and told his mother everything that had happened. Curious to know the truth, Mrs. Williams came to the shop.
“I know you never give anything away for free,” she said. “You ask for accounts even if ten rupees are spent. So, I cannot believe that you gave ten thousand rupees to a stranger. Who is he?”
Mr. Williams sighed and said,
“So, this matter has reached you as well? He is not a stranger. You know him very well. Do you remember how, soon after our marriage, our relatives cheated us and threw us out? We were on the streets with small children and not a single rupee in hand.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said softly.
“At that time,” continued Mr. Williams, “one great man gave us shelter. He fed us and even gave me some money to start a business. Do you remember him?”
“Yes,” she replied. “His name was Parandham. I can never forget his kindness.”
“The man who came today was Parandham,” Mr. Williams said. “His sons and daughters-in-law took away all his property and threw him out. He said his wife needs medical treatment and he needed money. The foundation of our success today was laid with the help he gave us back then. Today, I got the chance to repay that debt of gratitude.”
Mrs. Williams was deeply moved.
“Has he fallen into such trouble? If he comes again, please bring him home. We will look after him and feed him for as many days as he wants,” she said.
Mr. Williams agreed.
Turning to his son, who was watching everything with wonder, Mr. Williams said, “We have reached this position only after swallowing many hardships and humiliations. Every penny we earned came through hard work. That is why I know the true value of money. When we have nothing, we cannot beg anyone with an outstretched hand. So, when we have money, it must be spent carefully and thoughtfully. I scolded you earlier because you are still too young to understand charity. I did not want you to suffer the hardships we once faced.”
Raman finally understood. He realised that parents always think of their children’s welfare, and that every action of his father had a deeper meaning behind it. From that day on, he learned not to misunderstand his father’s actions, but to try to understand them.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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