Me. - Write ups

The Sound of Her Silence

He first met her on an evening painted in soft gold, where the horizon seemed to forget where the sky ended and the earth began.
She sat there, under the palm tree, her eyes filled with questions, with a stillness that somehow echoed louder than the world around them.
She was silent — not by choice, but by fate.
She couldn’t speak, but she listened.
She listened like no one else ever had.

He spoke — at first out of habit, then out of need.
He told her about the shape of clouds, the stories he buried in his chest, and the fears that no one else ever stayed long enough to hear.
And she — without uttering a word — asked for more.
Her gaze, her slight tilt of the head, the way her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress — all whispered louder than voices ever could.

In time, something extraordinary happened:
her silence became his language.
Her unspoken longings became the sentences he strung together with care.
He spoke for her, not because she needed a translator, but because he loved giving voice to what her heart sang soundlessly.

Sometimes, at twilight, when the world went quiet enough, he would sit beside her and listen — truly listen — to the way silence hummed between them.
It wasn’t empty.
It was dense, full of words that never needed to be shaped by tongues.

As the seasons turned, her whispers became his thoughts, her sighs became his poetry.
He realized then:
words are not always necessary.
When it truly matters, even the right words stumble and fall,
and yet — even the heaviest truths are somehow understood, somehow carried across the spaces between two souls.

She never needed to shout, or even whisper a full decibel.
Her sound lived inside him, resonating in the hollow of his chest,
like a secret song only he could hear —
a song that needed no voice to be believed.

In her silence, he heard everything he had ever been waiting for.

May 11, 2025

When Depression Makes Crowds Unbearable

Why some absences are not about carelessness, but quiet survival.

Not all absences come from disinterest. Sometimes, not showing up — especially in social or communal spaces — is a silent signal of inner struggle.

Depression is often misunderstood as sadness, laziness, or lack of willpower. In reality, it’s a deep, exhausting mental state that can make even the most basic tasks feel monumental. For someone in the grip of it, facing a crowd isn’t just overwhelming — it can be emotionally paralyzing.

Crowds bring noise, expectation, energy. But depression drains energy, shrinks the desire to interact, and builds a wall between the person and the world outside. It’s not about being antisocial or avoiding people — in fact, many who go through this are ambiverts or even extroverts by nature. The struggle lies in how mental health silently reshapes one's ability to engage.

To the outside world, the absence may seem strange. Misunderstandings arise. People question loyalty, faith, or intent. But what often goes unnoticed is that the person staying away is not choosing comfort — they are choosing survival. Avoiding the crowd isn’t running away; it’s a quiet form of self-preservation.

Understanding this requires empathy — to recognize that not every silence is a rejection, and not every distance is indifference. Sometimes, the strongest form of care a person can offer themselves is retreat. And for others, the most powerful response is patience, not judgement.

Before assuming someone doesn’t care, consider the weight they might be carrying. The ones who don’t show up might be the ones fighting the hardest battles behind closed doors.

-May 04, 2025

A Balcony, a Garden, and a Moment That Stayed

I watched a video today, and it brought back a memory I hadn’t thought about in years. It came quietly, like a breeze carrying the scent of something familiar—soft, fleeting, but enough to pause everything else.

It was a day from long ago. I remember standing on a balcony, making a call, and showing someone the small tomato garden just below. There was laughter on the other end—teasing, light-hearted. A simple joke: “So, are you a gardener now?” The kind of line that stays with you not because of the words, but because of the warmth behind them.

After the laughter, the conversation shifted—something about an upcoming exam and learning computer basics. I had said, casually, “I’ll explain everything once I get home.”

Nothing dramatic. Just a passing moment. But somehow, it left a mark.

That memory came back with such clarity today. The tone of the voice, the comfort of that exchange, the sunlight in the background—all of it. It reminded me how the smallest things, the most ordinary conversations, sometimes settle deep within us without our knowing.

And when the right moment comes, they return—not to haunt, but to remind.

Some days are just days. But some days hold echoes.

May 03, 2025

Through his lens

He stood inside the masjid—shoulder to shoulder among others, the air heavy with stillness. His youngest stood beside him, eyes wandering, not fully understanding. In front of them, the mayyit lay in silence. A father. A colleague. Wrapped in white. The final prayer about to begin. He didn’t move much. Just watched. As the rows formed, as hands lifted in du'a, and then, as the body was gently carried out—toward the earth that waits for every name.

But he didn’t see death. He saw a pause. A breath that never returned. And in that pause, he saw himself.

Not fear—just questions. Who would hold that little hand if he disappeared from the frame? Who would carry the weight of unfinished lullabies, of worn-out hopes, of a home that never asked for too much? His wife would survive. Like she always has—quietly. His children would learn. Maybe forget the sound of his laughter. Maybe keep only pieces.

That day, he didn’t ask for miracles. He just asked for time. To stay a little longer in their ordinary world. To matter, while he still could.

I was in 3rd standard when I first saw my father truly shaken. One of his colleagues had passed away from a heart attack during office hours. That evening, he came home unusually quiet, the weight of grief heavy on his face. He looked at my mother and softly said that his colleague had passed away. I didn’t grasp the depth of it then—but I felt it. I could feel something was different about that day.

He asked me if I would come along for the janaza prayer. I said yes, and we walked together, hand in hand, to the masjid behind the hospital. That walk, though ordinary, left a lasting mark on me.

As we stepped inside the masjid, something hit me. I don’t know if it was the quietness of the place or the sight of people gathering in reverence, but in that moment, I felt the silence of death. I felt the weight of it. It reminded me of something my father used to say during our vacations—pointing casually to a mayath carrier, smiling as he said that one day, we’d all be carried in one. I never thought much of it then. But now, it all came back in a flash, clear and sharp.

After the prayer, we walked towards the main road to catch a cab. One of his managers saw us and offered us a ride. My father hesitated, but the manager insisted with a kind smile. We got in, and during that short drive, my father spoke about his colleague—how young he was, how he had two small children who were now orphaned, how generous and decent he had been.

The manager nodded, agreeing quietly. And then my father said something that I still remember to this day:
“All this pressure… it’s just killing us.”

I was too young to understand it fully then. But that day, I felt a shift—an awareness of mortality, of grief, of how silently pain can live inside the people we look up to. I didn’t know it then, but I was beginning to understand the quiet truths of life.

April 28, 2025

There’s a Light in Her Heart, Always Shining Through That Innocent Smile

Some days are the best when all we can see is her smile and her never-ending tease. For those who don't share the best interest in you, they're truly missing out on the best things in the world. It takes a good heart to navigate through dark thoughts and a brave mind to vent them well. She’ll never fish for troubles, but she knows how to use the boat if she has to sail through life's storms.

-GKB

October 02, 2024

Nothing holds like faith, and we must let it flower before the rain falls.

Faith is the quiet, unseen force that binds us to hope, to purpose, and to the belief that beyond the clouds, light will find its way through. It is not something we turn to only in moments of chaos; instead, it is a garden we tend to in calmness, watering its roots long before the storm arrives.

Just as a seed cannot bloom without nurturing, our faith too needs to be cultivated. We cannot wait for the rain to fall, for the winds to howl, and for the skies to darken before we turn to it. If we plant faith in the soil of our hearts and nurture it daily—with gratitude, trust, and quiet moments of reflection—then when the rain finally does come, it won't wash away what we’ve built. Instead, it will nourish the blossoming of something greater.

Life’s storms are inevitable; they are a certainty as much as the rising sun. But how we face them depends on the strength of the garden within us. Some will look at the gathering clouds and tremble, unprepared for what lies ahead. Others, with the quiet assurance of faith, will see the rain not as an enemy, but as a necessary part of the cycle of life—something that can help their inner flowers bloom even brighter.

Faith is not the absence of doubt, nor is it a shield from suffering. It is, rather, the resilience that forms in us when we trust in the unseen, when we hold on to the promise that after every storm, the sun will break through once more. And so, we must flower our faith now—before the rain falls—so that when it does, we stand not in fear, but in readiness.

September 30, 2024