Category: Musings

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Musings

The Stars that Watch Us…

Narrtive and photographs by Sai Abhinay Penna

It begins before the city wakes up. At 4:47 AM, and I’m already lacing my shoes in the dark corner of the room. From here, the kettles glow is the only warmth. The streets outside are in the colour of old photographs — amber and grey. When I push open the door, the hush silence greets me with the way truth always does, without ceremony, without apology.

The streets around the beach are empty except for stray dogs, and the occasional tea vendor preparing his first mix of tea for the day. The air carries a sense of salt, and the sky above the ocean looks like an extremely carefully unfinished painting.

I begin my run the way I always do, slowly.

To run at these hours every day has become more of a private ritual. The world has not yet started asking for anything. Messages have not arrived, notifications are empty, and no one expects you to be anyone yet.

It is on these runs that the strange things happen, not strange as in unusual, but strange as in true.

For a brief stretch of time, you are simply a human body moving through space in a physical form. On mornings like this, I often look up to the sky and sometimes, something stranger happens. The stars appear closer than usual. Not physically closer, but perpetually, like distant observers leaning slightly forward, curious about what a single human like me might be doing running along a shoreline of a small rotating planet.

I imagine them watching me, not judging but just observing. The way we observe ants building a colony on the edge of a pavement.

There are roughly eight billion humans alive on Earth today. Each of us, convinced secretly that our lives matter in ways the universe must somehow acknowledge. Yet our species is only one among roughly ten million species to exist on Earth. From the view of a galaxy, we can assume that our home is just a small planet orbiting an ordinary star inside the Milky Way, which could contain around a hundred billion planets. Our galaxy is only one among approximately two trillion galaxies scattered across the observable universe.

Sometimes while running, I try to hold all of this in my mind at once, and when I do something peculiar happens. My problems shrink so quickly that they almost disappear.

Deadlines lose their urgency, career anxieties dissolve into footprints on the wet sand. Even ambition, the most powerful and core engine of the growing human life, suddenly feels like a small flame flickering in an unimaginably large room. Through my own eyes, I am the protagonist of a vast and sophisticated story. When I run, it feels as though the city recreates itself around my movement. My life as I experience it from inside is the whole universe.

From the perspective of nature, the calculation is clear — we are insignificant. Each of our lifetimes is roughly eighty years, which is barely one-thousandth of the time humanity has existed. Humanity itself occupies only about one-twenty thousandth of Earth’s history. The universe did not design itself around our arrival. And despite all of this, we wake up each morning with the strongest conviction that we must do something extraordinary with our lives.

Perhaps, human significance works the same way, one life alone may barely record the size of a rich cosmic history. One person writes a poem, another discovers a mathematical principle, and another teaches a child how to ask better questions. And yet another simply shows the value of kindness in a moment when cruelty would have been easier.

Each act is small, yet individually they look like waves dissolving into the sand one after the other. Because, across generations these small acts compounded into something larger. Our very civilisation itself is nothing more than a tiny speck in the ocean of time.

From kings to democracies, cars, airplanes, bulb, technology, computer, mobile, and now, AI — none of these appeared suddenly. They emerged slowly, through billions of lives adding to their tiny additions to our human existence. When viewed from far away, our universe doesn’t seem indifferent to this process. It almost appears curious about it as we are.

Halfway through my runs the horizon on my right begins to glow, the sun starts to rise slowly. The thing about sunrise is that it doesn’t appear all at once. To me, I see the sun negotiating with the darkness. At first, the sun didn’t brighten all at once. It’s ages into light like a slow burning ember. Then, the ocean begins to reflect the light like a sheet of moving glass. The universe rarely moves in spectacle. It is built in the dark silence while the particles lean into one another, matter learning structures, atoms organising into life, life learning to think, and thoughts becoming curiosity.

And curiosity, quietly yet stubbornly, pushes the boundaries of what existence understands of itself.

By the time my run ends, the city begins to wake up. Motorbikes hum along the road. Fishermen return to the docks with their captures. Old men on the corner of the road sit on benches while turning the pages of their newspaper and sipping their morning coffee. It feels like the universe has resumed its rhythm. By the end of my run, I realise that no star has acknowledged, or no galaxy shift has taken place because of anything I did this morning. And yet oddly enough, this realisation felt comforting rather than depressing. Because if no single life is of cosmic importance, then the weight of greatness fades.

What remains is truly simpler: to remain your tiny self ; to write a thought that might travel further than our existence; to raise a child who will see the world more clearly than we do, and to ask questions that makes the universe slightly more aware of itself.

In the eyes of nature, we may be unimaginably small. But perhaps, evolution has always worked this way — not through grand singular gestures, but through the billions of tiny lives, each briefly conscious, adding to their quiet momentum to the long unfolding story of our universe. And somewhere far beyond today’s morning sky, the stars might still be watching us.

Not because any of us matters individually, but because all of us together just might.

Sai Abhinay Penna is a professional cricketeer, investment banker and writer based out of Chennai.

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Musings

Looking for that Goodness…

By Farouk Gulsara

From Public Domain

Another of my favourite pastimes is immersing myself in true-crime dramas. After listening to case after case, I noticed a particular pattern. The spouse or a close family member would invariably[1] be the guilty party whenever there is a murder. It’s only in fiction that the butler does it!

Then I start wondering: why is there so much evil? I thought the crux of any relationship was the need to protect one’s own kind. How could a loved one have the heart to look into the eyes and see the living daylights just disappear like that? Is that all the human bond is about, protecting and nurturing?

Some talk about the suppressed reptilian mind having to act in accordance with what is deemed normal in civilised life. There is a demand that society act in a particular way. If all our actions are merely acts, and we are just actors playing our roles, then what happened to the ‘humanity’ that humans are so proud of?

In 1961, the world was curious to find out what a man who sent people to the gas chambers looked like! What they saw at the Nuremberg trials was an unremarkable civil servant who made killing a banal act. His aim in life was to be a good worker and to complete the tasks he was assigned. He did not see beyond his duty. As long as his i’s were dotted and his t’s were crossed, he had a good night’s sleep. 

Following that observation, Stanley Milgram[2], a psychologist at Yale University, devised a series of experiments to show that ordinary people are willing to inflict severe harm on others when instructed by a figure in authority. In these experiments, participants were asked to administer electric shocks to subjects taking part in a memory test under the experimenter’s scrutiny. The recipients of the shocks were actors who were heard but not seen. The voltage was progressively increased as more mistakes were made. It was shown that 65% of the participants were willing to inflict fatal shocks when prodded. This overrode personal conscience. 

That study suggested that ordinary people are surprisingly willing to inflict severe harm on others if instructed to do so by who they consider a legitimate authority. Authorisation may be expressed through words or through inanimate objects that signify power, such as uniforms or white coats. When people view themselves as instruments of something bigger than themselves, they shift their moral responsibility to the authorised persona. Obedience also increases when participants do not see their subject and the environment is imposing, such as when the task is conducted in a university or government institution. 

So, where does it leave us? Are humans mere automatons with no agency, easily moulded, moving in herds according to the whims and fancies of the dominant group? As thinking beings who consider ourselves superior to animals and capable of compassion and empathy, we should be able to do better. 

Are the events depicted in William Golding’s 1954 classic Lord of the Flies[3] not merely fiction but inevitable consequences of a society descending into violence, savagery and mob mentality?

Despair not. The Milgram experiment has been re-evaluated[4] with particular attention to the 35% who stood their ground and did not bow to the pressure of authority. The original experiments were also conducted with a series of setting variations. When the experimenter was not wearing a white coat, obedience decreased to 20%. When there were two experimenters, and they started arguing with each other, obedience fell to zero. There is also a possibility that conscience overrode authority in these people. Some empathised with the ‘victims’ and felt personally responsible for causing pain.

In 2002, Reicher and Haslam, through their BBC Prison Study, reported findings that were quite contrary to those of Milgram’s. In a simulated prison setting, in an oppressive environment, the prisoners formed a cohesive bond to fight the injustice in the system. They do not conform to the oppressive authority and challenge inequality. The outcome is quite different from Zimbardo’s 1971 Stanford Prison Experiment[5].

All is not lost. There is hope in humans to think, evaluate, and make a mindful decision about what is best for their kind and humanity at large. We are not automatons or psychopathic maniacs who can be programmed to be a wrecking ball. We have the capacity to distinguish right from wrong, moving from blindly following orders to making informed decisions based on lessons learned from life and our past.

There remains a sliver of hope for mankind.

[1] https://bjs.ojp.gov/female-murder-victims-and-victim-offender-relationship-2021

[2] https://www.simplypsychology.org/milgram.html

[3] https://blog.nls.uk/william-goldings-lord-of-the-flies-is-70/

[4] https://www.simplypsychology.org/milgram.html#Critical-Evaluation

[5]https://static1.squarespace.com/static/557a07d5e4b05fe7bf112c19/t/5b84796f352f53d4e6a1ee86/1535408496256/ConsensusStatement.pdf

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Musings

The Gift of Grace

By Jun A. Alindogan

Grace refers to unmerited favour, a universal concept associated with both psychology and philosophy. It signifies the ability to function and thrive amid vulnerabilities and denotes unconditional love, serving as a guiding and healing influence that connects humanity, irrespective of merit or effort. Individuals and even places can act as conduits of grace. There is no such thing as a gracious coincidence; many individuals are often unaware of their own experiences of grace. Reflection is integral to developing this sensitivity.

I was barely out of my teens when my father lay comatose for more than a month in the hospital where I was born. He eventually passed away at 62, leaving my younger siblings and me as minors, and my mother widowed at a young age.

My father wanted my eldest brother to become a certified public accountant, as he was a bookkeeper himself. This dream was realised when my brother passed the exam on his first attempt. I vividly recall the celebration at a Chinese restaurant in the city, where my mother’s co-teachers and supervisors were also present.  My father beamed with pride as he engaged in conversation with my mother’s colleagues about my brother’s success. The food was exceptionally delicious, and everyone enjoyed it. In time, my brother secured a position at an established accounting firm, which my father, unfortunately, did not live to see.

On the other hand, my mother lived a full life but passed away two months shy of her 80th birthday due to undocumented dementia. I am uncertain if this condition is genetic. Our family’s request focused on ensuring that my mother would not suffer significantly before her departure. She peacefully passed away almost two decades ago.  It was also a most trying time for our family, as my youngest sibling underwent surgery for a benign brain tumour in North America around the time of our mother’s passing. Two months ago, this brother celebrated his 60th birthday.

During the onslaught of Typhoon Ondoy (Typhoon Ketsana), I was away from my coastal suburban home on a weekend while teaching my weekly Academic Writing class at a seminary. It was understandable that my cousin’s family, who were temporarily staying with me, chose to leave our residence as the water level rose to chest height. Regrettably, my clothes, desktop computer, photographs, and both personal and work documents were completely swept away by the flood, and nothing was salvaged in the aftermath.

Impact of Typhoon Ondoy(Ketsana) which occured in 2009 From Public Domain

Two seminary students supported me after this ordeal, without informing them of this tragic episode. One organised clothes from their family closet, providing me with quality clothing and some cash to help me. The other invited me for coffee and pastries at a mall shop, where she also gave me some good clothes and cash in an envelope. We exchanged stories about the ordeal, which made the loss somewhat more bearable.

Years prior to my seminary teaching, I was accepted into an advanced leadership training program at an international institute based in Singapore. However, I needed to raise US $300 as part of my counterpart fee for the month-long training. As a freelance teacher and writer, my funds were limited; however, after corresponding with an elderly lady whom I have never met in person, based in the U.S. and headed a mission-related NGO, kindly sent me a check to cover my training expenses. This experience was particularly memorable, as it marked my first overseas trip.

As part of my routine, I often schedule a massage with a blind masseur at a mall near my residence. After a recent seated massage, I fainted, likely due to the air conditioning’s inability to counteract the heat. The masseur and manager fanned me and provided water once I regained consciousness a few minutes later. These episodes are rare; however, as always, there is someone looking after me.

In terms of my freelance writing, every time I felt discouraged and considered giving it up entirely, opportunities for publication would appear. More importantly, feedback from readers indicates they were able to relate to my stories, as they resonated with their personal experiences. My experiences attest to the enduring quality of grace in various seasons of life, which I continually rediscover, relearn, and rewrite. While the operation of grace is always invisible, its manifestations become clear when an individual recognises that its timeline is not necessarily linear. Last year, an essay on diminishing memory was included in an anthology. While grace is difficult to define, one’s openness is key to understanding how it relates to our everyday encounters. Grace always matters as it continues to abound in all aspects of our lives.

Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specializes in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Musings

Where Stories Find You…

By Gowher Bhat

There are places in this world that do not seek attention. They exist quietly and hold something essential. In such spaces, differences soften. What remains is a simple sense of connection.

Sunday Book Bazaar. From Public Domain

The Sunday Book Bazaar of Daryaganj, now at Mahila Haat near Delhi Gate, is one such place. Every Sunday this space fills slowly. The city moves in its usual rhythm, yet here time seems to settle into something gentler. People begin to arrive from many walks of life. Students come with curiosity. Collectors arrive with patience shaped over years. Families walk through the narrow lanes with children who pause at almost every stack. Some come with purpose. Others arrive without any clear intention. Yet all seem drawn by something they cannot fully explain.

A bookseller looks up and smiles at a passerby. “What are you looking for, sir?” he asks.

The question lingers for a moment. The answer does not come easily. Perhaps that is how most people arrive here. Not searching for something specific, but open to possibilities.

Within this space, differences begin to evaporate. People stand side by side, turning pages, asking questions, sharing small discoveries. Conversations form and dissolve with ease. What remains is a shared interest in stories and knowledge. In that quiet exchange something simple takes shape. People come closer without effort.

For more than six decades this bazaar has existed as a home for books and readers. What began in 1964 has grown into a living space that continues to gather voices across time. Books lie in uneven stacks that rise and fall like small landscapes. Some are worn with age, their pages softened by many hands. Others remain untouched, waiting for their first reader.

A reader pauses at a stack and picks up a worn paperback. The cover is slightly faded. The pages carry the faint scent of time. A nearby voice observes gently, “Old edition. Hard to find now.”

There is quiet assurance in such words. Years spent among books leave their own kind of memory. Titles are not just remembered. They become familiar, almost like people one has known for a long time.

Books move through this space with a quiet freedom. A thought written years ago finds meaning in the present. A story that began in a distant place settles into a new life. Each exchange is simple, yet it carries something lasting. In these movements books connect people without effort.

There is comfort in that continuity.

The booksellers who sustain this space form its quiet centre. Many have spent years, even decades, among these pages. Their knowledge is shaped through experience and repetition. They know where a book might be found. They sense what a reader may need. Often, they understand before a question is fully spoken.At another stall a name is mentioned in passing. The response comes without hesitation. “If it is not here today, it will be found.”

There is no urgency in the voice. Only certainty. It is a certainty built not on systems, but on familiarity and care. Their interactions remain simple and unforced. A suggestion is offered. A brief conversation begins. A moment of connection follows. During these exchanges, the act of selling becomes something more. It becomes a quiet way of keeping stories alive.

In their own way, they create bridges between people who might otherwise have continued remain strangers.

As one moves through the bazaar, small moments begin to gather meaning. A child sits on the ground, absorbed in a book that seems to hold engross. A student moves from one stack to another, choosing carefully, balancing interest with affordability. An older reader pauses with a book in hand, holding it for a little longer, as if revisiting something once known.

Nearby a young voice carries a quiet excitement. “This one was only fifty[1].”

The reply comes with an easy smile. “That is a good find.”

The exchange is brief, yet it holds a sense of completeness. At such moments, the value of something is not measured by price alone, but by the joy of discovery.

These are not merely transactions. They are connections between people and ideas. Each book that changes hands leaves behind something unseen, yet quietly lasting.

Around the books other objects carry fragments of time. Old coins rest in small boxes. Stamps lie arranged with care. Postcards show places that may no longer look the same. Each object holds a story that extends beyond itself.

A gentle question arises. Do people still come for these?

The answer is simple. “They do. Some have been coming for years.”

Memory does not disappear easily. It finds ways to remain present, often in the simplest forms.

In a world that moves quickly such spaces feel rare. Here there is no rush to finish. One can pause without purpose. One can browse without intention. One can sit with a book and allow time to move at its own pace.

There is also a quiet sense of trust that shapes this place. A book may be handed over without hesitation. A familiar face is recognised without effort. A price may soften in a moment of understanding.

“Take it,” a voice says gently. “You can pay next time.”

Such gestures do not draw attention to themselves. Yet they remain long after the moment has passed.

The bazaar continues despite its challenges. Facilities are limited. Weather often interrupts the day. At times the space must adjust and adapt. Yet it endures — not through ease, but through persistence and care.

Perhaps that is what gives it its meaning.

Because this space is not only about books. It’s about access. It’s about memory. It’s about people sharing something simple and real. It allows stories to continue moving. It allows connections to form without effort.

It offers a quiet reminder. When people come together with openness something meaningful begins to take shape.

As the day moves towards its close the space begins to thin out. The stacks remain. The voices grow softer. Yet something lingers in the air, something that cannot be easily named.

A small gesture remains. A bookmark is handed over, light and unassuming.

“For your reading,” comes the gentle voice.

On it a single line rests.

Some stories find you.

The words feel simple, yet they stay.

As one leaves the bazaar there is a quiet awareness that follows. Not every visit is planned. Not every discovery is expected. Some moments arrive without effort and remain without intention.

Sometimes stories find us.

They arrive at the turning of a page. In a passing conversation. In something remembered long after the day has ended. They remind us of what we share, even when we do not speak of it.

In a fast-paced world, such spaces offer something steady. They remind us that connection still exists in simple forms, that stories continue to travel without barriers, that meaning does not always need to be sought. Sometimes it appears quietly, in places we might overlook.

[1]Fifty rupees or USD 0.53

Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Musings

Living Through Change

By Farouk Gulsara

Penang of Old
Modern day Penang
From Public Domain

I had the same feeling during my last visit to my hometown, Penang. After doing all the rituals I needed to, I decided to go for a run around the places I used to run more than 30 years ago.

The quarry where I used to run has now become a cluster of towering apartment complexes. New roads leading to new housing estates were everywhere. Secondary forests had disappeared.

I have noticed this over the years as I visited my mother periodically. The view from the balcony constantly changed as more buildings sprang up and greenery shrank. More renovations were taking place, and fewer and fewer familiar people were seen around. It seems they have either moved away or passed on. The ambient temperature became intolerable. I remember we did not even need a fan to sit in the sitting room; now even the air conditioning seems not enough.

As the days go by, I feel more and more like a foreigner in the very environment where I spent my growing years. I feel like someone waking from a coma after spending 20 years in a vegetative state. It seems as if the world has moved on while I was in deep slumber.

This must also have been the feeling my late mother experienced in her twilight years, when she was unable to keep up with the changes around her. She never could order a ride on her phone. She found a smartphone too problematic. Despite my sisters and me teaching her again and again, she simply could not master it. She found it too complicated. She had to depend on physical paper or TV to consume news. After some time, even reading or watching TV became incomprehensible. I guess she reached a point where she simply let her favourite pastime of keeping up with current affairs just slip away.

I wonder how she must have felt, watching these changes unfold right before her eyes — the eyes that watched pre-Independent Malaya, the people with spirits high as they embraced the new Malaysia, the racial calamity, the new social order in Malaysia, and the seedy, megalomaniac years of the 90s, which saw Malaysia slowly spiral down the ravine of bigotry and discrimination.

Would she have been thankful to have lived through a time of dramatic change, from a black-and-white world to a colourful digital one that morphed into one of virtual reality and deep fakery? I do not think she felt intimidated by all the changes happening around her; she let others live as they wished. For a start, she stuck to her car with a manual gear. For the love of her life, she was never convinced that a car with an automatic transmission was easier to drive. Maybe she lived through the times but did not change with it. She must have thought, “Let others live their lives, I will live mine!”

That brings us to the question of whether there is only one way to live. Is there only one prescribed way to live? Should we live the way we want, while reminding ourselves that others choose their own unique way to carry on? Perhaps we should live our lives the way we want, whilst remembering that others have their own way. Who is to know which is right? One thing is for sure. There would be peace on Earth when everyone is mindful of others. I would take a leaf from the pages of my mother’s book of ‘Life Lessons’ – Just let us live and let others live too.

From Public Domain

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Sundus, You Are My World

By Gowher Bhat

From Public Domain

Nothing could have prepared me for the weight of holding someone so completely mine.

I first held Sundus at 3 a.m., in a room lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Her tiny chest rose and fell with a fragile, steady rhythm. I whispered to her, almost to myself, “How am I supposed to love someone so small so completely?”

For months before her arrival, I had imagined this moment endlessly: quiet nights, gentle rocking, tiny hands curling around mine, the first tentative smiles, her eyes meeting mine for the very first time. And somewhere under all the hope was a quiet worry, what if I can’t do this?

Late one evening, while sitting in the nursery with my wife, I found myself speaking aloud the fears I had carried for weeks. “I keep imagining all the ways I might mess up,” I said softly.

My wife reached for my hand, resting hers on mine. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she said gently. “All you need to do is be there. That’s enough. You’ll see.”

Her words stayed with me. I realised then that fatherhood wasn’t about knowing all the answers. It was about presence, patience, and the willingness to feel everything fully. And we were in this together, learning step by step, moment by moment.

When Sundus finally arrived, the world became a delicate rhythm of small, luminous acts. Nights blurred into mornings filled with feeding, rocking, wiping tiny faces, humming songs we barely remembered. I watched my wife navigate these first days with patience and care, and together we learned to notice the subtle changes in Sundus’s breathing, the way her little body stiffened when curious, or relaxed when comforted. Each gesture became a promise, I am here, we see you, we will stay with you.

But the early months were not without fear. The first time Sundus was hospitalised, I felt a pain I could never have imagined. My wife tried to feed her, letting her suck as hard as she could, but the milk wasn’t coming through enough. Sundus’s tiny lips were raw from all the effort, and still, she struggled. When her sodium levels rose dangerously high, I felt my heart split in two, as if a hot, sharp knife had cut right through it. Watching her in the ICU, so small and fragile, my chest ached with every tiny cry she made. We whispered encouragements that felt almost powerless, holding her little hands, willing her to be safe. After six long days, once she was stable, Sundus was gently put on formula milk. I had never realised before how terrifying it could be to love someone so completely, and how fiercely protective a father’s heart can ache.

There was a small scare when Sundus had a minor health issue and seeing her so tiny under the gaze of doctors made our hearts ache. Every cry she let out cut deeper than I could have imagined. I held her hand and whispered, “We are right here with you,” while my wife stroked her hair softly, murmuring, “It’s going to be okay, baby.” In that moment, I understood how our own parents must have felt, fear, helplessness, and a love so intense it can almost hurt.

One particularly long night, after another restless evening, I slumped in the chair and whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

My wife leaned over, brushing my hair from my forehead. “Look at you,” she said softly. “You’re doing this. You’re here. You’re enough. I see you. Sundus sees you.”

In that moment, I understood that fatherhood was less about courage or perfection and more about vulnerability. And in that vulnerability, I found a kind of strength I hadn’t known existed, the strength to be fully awake, fully present, fully human, alongside the person who shared this journey with me.

Now, at eight months, fatherhood reveals itself in small miracles that arrive unannounced. Sundus’s first laugh that lights up the room, the way she reaches for a toy with tiny fingers, the tilt of her head when my voice calls her name, they are moments too precious to be planned. Each one feels eternal, luminous, and grounding all at once.

Even though Sundus doesn’t speak yet, her smile and her eyes say everything. Each look, each tiny gesture carries a language all her own, telling us joy, curiosity, comfort, and trust without a single word. In those moments, it feels as though she is having long conversations with us, and we understand her perfectly.

I watch Sundus explore the world with wide-eyed curiosity, and I am reminded that love is both ordinary and extraordinary. It is in quiet sighs of contentment, in the trust of falling asleep in my arms, in the small discoveries she makes each day. Every moment is a thread weaving us together, a connection invisible to anyone but us. My wife and I share those moments, sometimes in laughter, sometimes in whispered awe, sometimes in the silent gratitude of being a little family.

I talk to Sundus constantly, narrating the world as she notices it, “Look at this leaf turning golden,” I say, or “See how the sunlight falls across the floor?”. My wife does the same, her voice soft and steady, full of warmth. Even though Sundus cannot respond in words yet, I know she hears us, I know she feels it.

She reaches for our hands often, tiny fingers curling around our thumbs, and every time she does, the world narrows to this circle of warmth and trust. Every cry, every sigh, every tiny movement speaks to me in ways I cannot fully name. I whisper, “I love you, Sundus,” and my wife echoes it softly, almost as if the walls of the room themselves could carry the weight of our love.

Fatherhood is not about routines or perfection. It is about noticing, feeling, responding. It is about showing up every day for someone who depends on you completely. Even in quiet, uncelebrated moments, it is extraordinary.

The mornings when Sundus wakes with a new curiosity in her eyes, the afternoons when she naps across my chest, the evenings when my wife and I share a quiet tea while watching her drift to sleep, all of these moments accumulate into a kind of living memory that feels sacred and ordinary at the same time. The hospital scares, the sleepless nights, all of it has carved space in my heart deeper than I ever thought possible, a space I now carry with love and awareness.

Sometimes, I catch my wife looking at Sundus and whispering, “She is ours, isn’t she?” Her eyes glisten, and I nod, realising that every joy and every fear belongs to both of us equally. Even the silent, unnoticed moments, like watching her eyelids flutter during a nap, or feeling her tiny sighs against my chest, carry meaning that words cannot hold.

Looking back on the months before Sundus’s birth, I understand that imagining fatherhood was not rehearsal for perfection. It was preparation for presence. Anticipation taught me patience, empathy, and the courage to love fully, imperfectly, and unreservedly. Sharing this journey with my wife has made every moment richer, every fear lighter, every joy deeper.

The first time Sundus rolled over on her own, I felt a surge of pride and awe. My wife and I celebrated quietly, as though the world beyond our room did not exist. The small milestones, the tiny gestures, the new sounds she makes, all carry weight far beyond their size. Each moment is a new discovery, a lesson in patience, in wonder, in presence.

Eight months into this journey, I am still learning. Every smile, every gesture, every fleeting glance teaches me something new about love, presence, and wonder. Fatherhood is beyond imagination, yet it begins in imagination. It is ordinary and extraordinary, quiet and luminous, intimate and universal.

Every night, when I hold Sundus close and see her nestled against her mother, I know this truth with absolute certainty. To love and be loved in this way is the most profound gift life can offer. Perhaps in these quiet months, we also come to understand something deeper about life itself, the fragile, luminous weight of love, patience, and presence that threads generations together, unseen but unbreakable.

And in the moments between laughter and tears, between cries that feel like knives through the heart and sighs of contentment, we feel the invisible, enduring pulse of family, of trust, of presence, of love that makes all the sleepless nights, the hospital fears, and the quiet anxieties worthwhile. Sundus, you are my world.

Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir.

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Categories
Musings

Conditional Comfort

By Anupriya Pandey

Before anyone can enter my building, I have to approve them. The request arrives on my phone through an app. Name. Photograph. Purpose of visit.

It is strange to have this much authority over a door I do not own.

The security guard knows my face now. By the time the office cab turns toward the entrance, my expression has already arranged itself. Chin level. Eyes steady. Mouth resting in that neutral line that suggests I am expected somewhere. I have learned the angle that prevents questions, the slight narrowing of the eyes that reads as purpose instead of uncertainty.

The guard notices before I stop. His back straightens. The chair shifts behind him. For a second we look at each other through glass and distance. Then the small salute. A nod.

I return it without smiling too much.

It gives me an unreasonable amount of happiness. For those few seconds, I feel official. Important. As though I sign documents that matter.

The gate opens without delay.

Bougainvillea spill over the compound wall in disciplined pink. The buildings are painted a respectable beige, the kind that promises longevity. Children cycle in slow circles in the evening. There is a fountain that works on weekends.

I live here.

On paper, it sounds like arrival.

The apartment is on the thirteenth floor. Rented. I correct myself even in my head, as if the walls might overhear arrogance and respond by peeling faster.

My job is stable. The salary comes on time. Most of it leaves on time too. Rent. Loan. Groceries. Wi Fi. Electricity. The arithmetic of adulthood. There is no emergency fund. There is, instead, faith in continuity.

Nothing dramatic must happen.

Before I open my banking app to check the balance, I make a guess. I calculate what should be there. I add a little extra, just in case the universe appreciates optimism. For half a second, before the real number appears, I inhabit that slightly larger life. 

My phone buzzes before my eyes are fully open. Emails. Calendars. Deadlines. Proof that I am employable, that I am responsible, that I am, by most standards, doing well.

Doing well is a cage with good lighting.

The fridge is full in a quiet way. Vegetables in transparent boxes. Protein measured. I hit my daily intake. I hydrate. I function. There is a bed that does not sink in the middle.

Doing well is not the same as being free, but it photographs better.

Some days, I am careless. If the milk smells slightly wrong, I throw it away without boiling it into submission. If the coriander wilts, I don’t resurrect it in water. I have, on occasions, ordered cute ceramic coasters because they made the table look like someone more relaxed lives here. When things arrive at this house, I check my account immediately.

In the evenings, when the light falls softly against the balcony grill, I look at the corners of the house and imagine painting them a color that would surprise someone. A blue that does not apologize. A yellow that refuses subtlety. Instead, I search for renter friendly tape. I press frames against the wall gently, as if the plaster is a sleeping animal I must not wake.

There are rules to inhabiting what is not yours.

I was born into caution, into a home where nothing was extravagant, but everything was accounted for. The lights stayed on because someone calculated and paid for the electricity> Dreams were allowed, but only the practical ones. It had to be something with benefits.

I learned early that comfort is rented. That it can be revoked.

Even here, in a gated society with biometric entry and a clubhouse I have never used, I remove my shoes carefully. I wipe the kitchen counter twice. I do not drill without permission. The idea of permanence feels like an overstep.

Sometimes, at night, I stand at the window and look at the other towers — so many lit rectangles, so many people paying on the first. The sameness is almost tender.

I think about the education loan tenure the way some people think about weather forecasts. Eight years if nothing goes wrong. Fewer, if I am stricter with myself. More, if life decides to experiment.

I lower my voice when discussing money, as if the currency might overhear and leave.

I was raised to believe in floors, not wings.

At work, someone talks about buying land on the outskirts of the city. Another mentions investing in something volatile and exciting. I nod. I calculate my remaining EMI[1]. I imagine the first of next month waiting patiently, already hungry.

In the apartment, I light a candle — lavender and patchouli, balance it in a jar. The flame makes the beige walls look intentional. I curate softness because chaos would be irresponsible. I call exhaustion discipline.

The melatonin waits on the nightstand, a small excuse to stop thinking about the math, about parents who age in percentages, about the way one emergency could rearrange everything.

I take it.

In the dark, I do not think about failure. I have met failure. We are acquainted. Failure is loud. It has witnesses. What unsettles me is the possibility of sliding backward quietly. Of losing the salute at the gate, the lift.

I stand in a house that is not mine, eating measured protein, watering plants I cannot root into the ground.

Still, there is a quiet rage — a grief for the woman I could have been if survival had not been my full-time job.

Someone has been living my life overnight and leaving me with the bill — not a crushing debt, just the lifelong payment plan of being almost comfortable.

The gate will open for me tomorrow.

The rent will leave on the first.

The loan will leave on the first.

The job will still be there.

I sign the receipt. Not because I want to, but because I don’t want to know what happens when you do not pay.

[1] Equated Monthly Installment

Anupriya Pandey is a writer from India. Her work wanders between tragedy and comedy, with a voice that is equal parts self-deprecating and sincere. Her writing has been previously published in Belladonna Comedy, Little Old Lady Magazine, 5 on the Fifth, and more.

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Categories
Musings

When Measurement Fails

Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos

By Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos

The numbers arrived without ceremony: a small column of figures, neat and confident, delivered through a screen that assumed fluency. There was no preamble, no invitation to feel anything about them. They simply existed—self-contained, conclusive. I stared at them longer than necessary, as though attention itself might persuade them to say something more.

I had been trained to trust measurement. To believe that what can be counted is what can be known, that precision is a form of care. Science has given us extraordinary clarity—the age of the universe, the speed of light, the composition of distant stars. It reduces the world to units small enough to hold without trembling. And yet, faced with those figures, something loosened. Not doubt exactly, but space.

Outside the window, trees moved according to rhythms that resisted instruction. The wind shifted, paused, resumed. Nothing announced itself. Nothing asked to be improved. I noticed this only because the numbers left room for it. They explained something, certainly—but not the sensation of standing there, or the quiet pull of attending to what did not ask to be solved.

The figures were accurate. The method sound. Still, they felt incomplete—not because they lacked information, but because they stopped where experience continued. They could describe a condition, but not what it felt like to inhabit it, or how knowledge settles unevenly into a day.

I began to notice how often I reached for numbers for reassurance. Steps counted. Hours logged. Probabilities consulted. Each promised orientation, a sense of being located within something stable. Yet the more faithfully I checked them, the more sharply I felt what they could not carry: anticipation, curiosity, the pleasure of patterns that were alive rather than abstracted.

The trees continued their unsystematic movement. No pattern held. Nothing corrected itself. They offered no explanation, only presence. Whatever I was leaning toward did not arrive as conclusion. It arrived as attention.

My body seemed to understand this before I did. Breath shifted. Awareness sharpened. These responses did not contradict what the numbers said; they existed alongside them—gathered without instruments, held without proof.

By evening, the figures had settled into their proper place—neither dismissed nor revered. What lingered was the act of noticing: the difference between explanation and understanding, between knowing the parameters of a situation and standing inside it.

Later, I returned to the window. The trees were still there, indifferent to coherence. Light moved across them without emphasis or instruction. It required very little of me—not judgment, not conclusion, only presence.

Some kinds of knowledge arrive complete. Others unfold slowly, through attention. The numbers gave me the first. The rest asked only that I stay.

Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos is an Australian writer working across poetry and lyric non-fiction, exploring perception, science, and the spaces where language meets what cannot be measured.

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Categories
Musings

Imprints from the Past

By Farouk Gulsara

From Public Domain

It was a sombre occasion. The only sounds audible were the occasional sniffles and a quiet hum of a mantra in the background. The crowd arrived in an orderly manner, circled the casket, paused at her feet, touched them, and raised their hands in reverence. They stopped near the son; some offered a consolatory handshake while others embraced. Afterwards, they found a safe corner to watch the world go on, lost in thought. They wonder if they should slow down, take a step back, and smell the roses. They understand that every passing day brings them closer to the day when they will be the main focus at such an event. 

Many who knew her well will remember her 87 years of life and the challenges she faced. Coming to Malaysia as a young, match-made bride from India, she must have encountered difficulties adapting to her new country. Widowed for more than half her life, her children were her constant companions. The recent sudden death of her eldest son took a heavy toll on this octogenarian. It said that the biggest burden that a parent carries is to bury their own child.

The mourners who were there at the funeral were there to pay respect to the soul that had endured all the challenges that life threw at her. Amid those hurdles, she managed to bring forth offspring who helped make the world a better place. The kids, in their own ways, contributed to society and the nation. It is like a 21-gun salute to a fallen hero, minus the military regalia. That is all. 

It was an act of gratitude. The rituals symbolised the completion of a book; an immersive one. The covers were closed, but the memory of its contents would linger in readers’ minds for a long time, especially if it was well written. What is a good book in the story of life? That would start the debate about the purpose of life. Why are we here? Is it a reward to be born into a species with higher senses, after enduring millions of births before which were not so glamorous? Is it a test bed for other births to come? 

Are we here just to engage in the dizzyingly indulgent experience of being alive? Are we sent here to make some indelible change or leave a legacy?

These questions popped up again after his funeral as I was watching a reel sent to me on social media. 

It was one of those rare, civilised discourses on Tamil Nadu TV about the younger generation and their outlook on marriage and having kids. On one side of the auditorium, Baby Boomers and Gen-X’ers[1] were complaining that Gen-Zs were delaying their marriages and even postponing the time they embarked on having children. Their bone of contention was that this was bad for society at large. Society’s in a constant flux, needing new innovations and people with unabashed energy to stay afloat. Only young minds can do this. Delaying this process could be a disservice to mankind, they say.

In defence, the Gen-Zs asserted that we are given just one life. Within that span of a lifetime, we are expected to learn, save, serve, experience and enjoy. There isn’t much time. Bringing a child into the world is a big commitment and a strain on their time and finances. There is no guarantee that they would do as good a job as the generation before them. They went on to say that the world is a dangerous place with predators and with global degradation on the rise, every living day draws earthlings a day closer to annihilation. The fear of passing on harmful genes was also mentioned.

In rebuttal, they were told that no one comes with a cookbook for surviving. Everyone tends to learn on the job, savouring every moment of it, the ups and downs, and leaves the world with nothing but memories. If that is our purpose in life in the first place, this was it. 

Then again, the same thought came into my conscience around the time when Renée Good was shot dead by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) officers in Minnesota. If Renée were not shot, the world would probably not be reading her award-winning poem, ‘On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs‘. As if by a stroke of serendipitous and synergistic coincidence, her poem also explores the interplay of faith and scientific reason in our day-to-day lives. The logical mind tells us something is either white or black. Further exploration may reveal various shades of white, off-white, beige, ivory, and more. There is a confusing line that separates the analytical mind, which complicates understanding, from the spiritual awe that prompts one into submission. In that poem, Renée probably conceives of life as a chance meeting of an ovum and a sperm. Is there a higher meaning for this chance meeting?

To quote George Orwell, “The trouble is every generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it.” In the late 18th century, economist Thomas Malthus postulated that population would outstrip food production, leading the world to starve into oblivion. Subsequent generations, through science, proved him utterly wrong, and we are now afflicted with malnutrition of abundance. 

We should not underestimate the next generation to find answers to questions we cannot answer.

Every generation is still searching for the ultimate secret of life. What we are given instead are the red pill of the sciences and the blue pill of unquestionable social traditions[2]. 

Propagating the race with our progeny may not be the only reason for existence. If such is the case, the world would not remember literary doyens like Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf. Neither would spiritual figures, like Swami Vivekananda and Adi Shankara, who left without children, remain in people’s minds. They left us with chests full of wisdom to help us think.

A perfect life need not be complemented with children. Legacies may be handed down by other means, through passing of wisdom, art or impact.

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[1] Baby Boomers (born 1940-64); Gen-X (1965-80); Gen-Y (1981-1995); Gen-Z (1996-2012)

[2] The Red Pill / Blue Pill concept was introduced in the 1999 movie, ‘The Matrix’. The Red Pill reveals the harsh truth about the world, and the Blue Pill lets him stay in comfortable ignorance. 

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

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Categories
Musings

How I Learned to Write from Films

By Gowher Bhat

From Public Domain

There was a time when watching films was nothing more than rest, an evening comfort after work, a temporary escape into worlds beyond my own. Like most people raised in an era saturated with visual storytelling, I consumed narratives without questioning their construction. I laughed, worried, and wondered alongside characters, yet I rarely asked how those emotions were engineered or how those journeys were shaped. Stories simply happened, and I accepted them as complete experiences rather than crafted designs.

My relationship with cinema began to change when my relationship with writing deepened. As I started shaping my own manuscripts and essays, I discovered that watching films could be far more than entertainment. They could instruct how to be subtle, practical, and immediate. Gradually, the screen became a classroom where narrative structures revealed themselves through observation rather than formal lectures. This transformation did not occur overnight. It emerged from habit, curiosity, and a need to look beyond spectacle into construction.

I did not learn storytelling theory in abstraction. I learned it by noticing patterns and by asking why certain stories held my attention while others dissolved into forgetfulness. The first lesson I absorbed was that nearly every compelling narrative rests upon a recognisable arc, a beginning, a middle, and an end. This realisation might seem elementary yet seeing it repeatedly across films gave it clarity and emotional substance. I began recognising this structure not as formula but as rhythm, the natural pulse of storytelling that guides audience engagement.

In the beginning of a story, I observed how filmmakers introduce their worlds with efficiency and intention. Characters appear within contexts that suggest their ordinary reality. Atmosphere, tone, and relationships are established with subtle precision. Tensions are hinted at, even when not fully expressed. Soon an event disturbs equilibrium. Something shifts irreversibly, and the narrative awakens. I came to understand this as the true starting point of storytelling. Watching this transition repeatedly taught me how crucial it is to establish stakes early in writing. Without disruption, there is no curiosity, and without curiosity, there is no reader commitment.

As I continued observing, the middle portion fascinated me most, because here stories breathe and struggle. I noticed how conflicts deepen, relationships evolve, and obstacles accumulate. Rarely does tension remain static. Instead, it escalates, twists, and transforms. Films helped me grasp pacing, how narrative momentum must be sustained without overwhelming or exhausting the audience. I learned to appreciate shifts in direction where revelations redirect expectations and intensify engagement. Translating this insight into writing helped me maintain movement in long narrative stretches that might otherwise drift.

This exploration also introduced me to the art of foreshadowing, those delicate hints planted early that later bloom into significance.

At first, I experienced these moments subconsciously, feeling satisfaction without understanding its source. Later, I trained myself to detect them consciously. A line of dialogue, a recurring symbol, or a passing gesture might appear trivial, yet later return with emotional resonance. Observing this taught me the elegance of preparation and restraint. Foreshadowing became a lesson in trust, demonstrating how writers guide readers gently rather than instructing them bluntly. It is not manipulation. It is anticipation crafted with care.

From foreshadowing I moved toward understanding twists. Watching narratives unfold, I realised that satisfying surprises rarely appear without groundwork. Effective twists do not betray logic. They reinterpret it. They cause viewers to revisit earlier scenes mentally and perceive them differently. This discovery reshaped my own approach towards writing. I began questioning whether my narrative turns felt earned or merely sudden. Films revealed that the most powerful twists balance unpredictability with inevitability. They shock the mind while satisfying the intellect.

Eventually, the story advances toward culmination, the climax. I learned to recognise this convergence where tension peaks and decisions crystallise. Cinema often dramatises this moment visually, yet its structural importance remains universal. Climax is not spectacle alone. It is consequence. It represents the meeting point of character, conflict, and choice. Observing this repeatedly helped me appreciate emotional resolution as much as narrative resolution. Writing began to feel less about describing events and more about guiding emotional progression toward meaningful closure.

Then comes the ending, not merely stopping the story but settling it. Watching endings taught me that resolution does not require complete explanation. Instead, it must honour the journey undertaken. Closure arises through thematic harmony rather than exhaustive answers. Some endings comfort, some provoke reflection, and some remain deliberately open. Each variation revealed to me that endings must resonate rather than conclude mechanically. This awareness influenced how I approach narrative responsibility in my own work.

Beyond structural awareness, films broadened my understanding of storytelling elements intertwined within that structure. Dialogue revealed character identity through vocabulary and rhythm. Settings shaped emotional atmosphere and influenced decision making. Secondary characters reflected or challenged protagonists, often revealing hidden dimensions. Physical gestures conveyed interior conflict that words might obscure. Observing these layers expanded my appreciation for narrative texture and encouraged me to incorporate similar awareness into my writing.

Yet while learning from cinema, I also became aware of its limitations in comparison with the written form. Films often rely on action and expression to communicate thought, whereas writing allows direct entry into the interior life of characters. This distinction reminded me that visual storytelling could inform craft without replacing literary strengths. The purpose was not imitation, but adaptation. I absorbed lessons about pacing and structure while preserving the depth of introspection unique to prose.

One practice that accelerated my learning was revisiting familiar films analytically. Knowing outcomes freed me to examine construction rather than suspense. I studied how scenes transitioned, how tension was distributed, and how narrative clues were planted. Sometimes I watched without sound, observing gestures and movement alone. At other times I focused exclusively on dialogue patterns. These exercises sharpened my sensitivity to storytelling architecture and strengthened my capacity for conscious observation.

Reflecting on this journey, I recognise that films can never replace reading or scholarly study. They complemented them. In a cultural moment where visual narratives dominate collective imagination, ignoring their instructional potential would be wasteful. The screen became not a distraction from writing, but a partner in understanding it.

Today, when I sit to write, echoes of those observations accompany me. I think about beginnings that invite curiosity, middles that sustain tension, and endings that resonate emotionally. I consider foreshadowing that prepares revelation, twists that deepen understanding, and climaxes that honour investment. These insights have become instinctive rather than theoretical, woven into my creative process through attentive viewing and reflection.

The screen, once merely entertainment, became an unexpected mentor. And perhaps that is the quiet gift of storytelling in all its forms. It teaches those willing to observe. For me, learning structure through films did not diminish the magic of writing. It enriched it, providing shape to imagination and confidence to craft.

I still watch films for enjoyment. I also watch with awareness. Somewhere between these two experiences lies growth, the gradual shaping of a writer who learns not only from books and lived experience, but from the stories unfolding in light and motion before him. In that space between viewing and reflection, I continue discovering new dimensions of narrative, reminding myself that learning, like storytelling, never truly ends.

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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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