Mahdi Ahmed

Scripting waves of imagination from the sunny side of the Maldives.

Posts by mahdiahmed

SAIYAARA (2025) – A LYRICAL REFLECTION ON LOVE, MEMORY AND TIME

Some films don’t rush to dazzle you; they quietly earn your trust, then break your heart—gently. Saiyaara is that kind of romance. Structurally, it’s a clean three-act glide, anchored by an early motif—a diary—that threads private feeling into shared experience. Without giving anything away, the film treats time and memory like tides: always moving, sometimes generous, sometimes unforgiving. You sense it more than you “spot” it.

What gives the film its beating heart is not perfection, but fracture. Vaani enters the story carrying the sting of betrayal—her trust shattered at the very moment she expected stability. Krish, on the other hand, is marked by angst and distance, shaped by an uneasy relationship with his father. They meet carrying these quiet wounds, and the romance doesn’t erase them; it begins with healing. Their brokenness is the foundation, their small acts of mending the mortar. That’s why their love feels earned rather than scripted.

Casting fresh faces in a big-hearted romance is a risk that pays off. Ahaan Panday as Krish and Aneet Padda as Vaani bring unvarnished innocence, chemistry that feels observed rather than engineered. Their performances turn first love into something lived-in rather than lab-grown. This feels like the true launchpad of their careers, and you can see why.

Director Mohit Suri shoots the film with an ear for music and an eye for youth. His grammar has always been songs as story, not interruptions, and Saiyaara leans into this conviction. You don’t wait for the music here—you ride it. The lyrics often function as dialogue, filling spaces that words alone can’t.

From a writer’s chair, what impresses most is the use of plot devices with quiet precision. A personal belonging becomes an emotional compass. A chance encounter propels the story without feeling contrived. Minor misplacements and slips are gentle foreshadowing, never telegraphed. And a parallel family subplot mirrors the central romance, echoing bigger questions of love, silence, and expression. These devices never draw attention to themselves; they act as invisible scaffolding, holding up the emotional architecture.

Last night, I watched Saiyaara on Netflix with my wife—my muse, my first reader, my fiercest critic. And here’s the thing: we didn’t just tear up at the end. No, we cried almost through the entire duration of the movie. We turned into two people locked in a tear-wiping competition. If a tissue box had been nearby, dozens wouldn’t have been enough—we’d have needed wholesale cartons. It’s not our usual style, but then again, it’s very us. That’s this film’s trick: it makes crying together feel less like defeat and more like a strange, soggy victory lap.

As a title, Saiyaara belongs exactly where it points—up there with the brightest of stars. Yes, among the Bollywood, Hollywood, or any-wood constellations. And it gets there the honest way: with feeling, craft, and faces you’ll believe in.

A must-see.

P.S. The editing by Rohit Makwana and Devendra Murdeshwar is crisp and potent, never indulgent, with many sequences that had me grinning ear to ear, even when I was crying.

THE EVE I WAIT FOR EVERY YEAR

My Dearest Love,

Every year, on the eve of your birthday, I find myself here again—fingers on keys, heart refusing to sit still. It’s my favorite ritual, the one thing I never want to outgrow. You often ask me what I really want to do in life. Well, here’s the shocking truth: this. Writing you these letters. Everything else—screenplays, awards, even Everest—can politely wait their turn. Because all of them shrink next to you—you, the most beautiful contradiction I know.

You can silence a room with a single glance, then melt into tears over a stray cat licking a fish bone. Steel wrapped in silk—that’s you. And that mix—strength and softness—has a way of spilling into everything, even laughter, which you’ve turned into the rarest currency of our home.

Your dance moves, your one-liners, the way you make even silence ridiculous—if trophies were given for making me laugh, we’d have to rent a storage unit. Even Tuffin and his wife Hirafus would protest the unfairness. But if laughter is your gift, patience is your superpower—you’ve carried more than your share.

You put up with Kokko’s teenage thunderstorms, my YouTube binges, and my gold-medal snoring during the very movies you lovingly picked. But beyond the funny stuff lie the heavier flaws—the times I wasn’t present, the moments I should have listened, the lapses I wish I could take back. And still, you meet it all with a grace that doesn’t just humble me—it reminds me every day how deeply grateful I am to have you.

And that same quiet grace doesn’t just stay at home—it follows you into your CC days. Nerves before, brilliance after. The world sees strength; I see the heart it takes to show up, again and again.

And when you bring that same strength home, it turns into something else entirely—as a mother, you’re a force. Kokko is basically your twin with a teenage remix. Terrifying? Yes. A blessing? Absolutely. And somehow, on top of that, you still find space for your artistry—it’s magic.

You make your iPhone photography look like fine art and you even charm bougainvillea into blooming just by talking to them. If plants could vote, you’d be president by now. And your creativity doesn’t stop there—it spills into the kitchen too.

Your cooking? If nations wanted peace, they’d serve your chicken rice. Honestly, sometimes I wish I could have surprised you with it, especially last month when you lost your taste. But perhaps it’s better I didn’t—my version would’ve been memorable for all the wrong reasons—one spoon of that would’ve started a war.

But beyond the kitchen, there’s something even more powerful—your presence. People admire you not just for what you say but for the way you make them believe. Not by force, but simply by being you. That’s rare. And it’s exactly why you’ve been my muse from the very beginning.

The whole reason I returned to screenwriting was secretly trying to impress you. Even now, one remark from you can rewrite an entire film. At premieres, I walk proud—not because of the applause, but because you are beside me. And yes, you always steal the red carpet. I wouldn’t trade that theft for anything.

Through storms and sunshine, you’ve been my anchor, my muse, my Jessica, my SV, my gossip partner, my joy, my love. You’re not just the love of my life—you’re the life in my love.

So today, laugh, dance, and if a tear slips through, let it remind you of how completely, foolishly, and hopelessly I have always belonged to you.

Happy Birthday, my love. May your glow forever outshine every candle, every star, every dream I could never quite reach—but always wished I could place in your hands.

Your hopelessly devoted and sometimes hopelessly foolish husband.

ALI SHANIZ: THE CAPTAIN WHO DIDN’T FLINCH

It takes a certain kind of producer to make a blockbuster. But it takes a braver one to follow it up with something as raw, unsettling, and emotionally demanding as Kan’bulo.

Ali Shaniz, the producer behind Kamanaa—the biggest Dhivehi blockbuster of 2024—could have played it safe. He had every reason to. After delivering one of the most commercially successful films in recent memory, most would steer toward lighter waters. But Shaniz chose the storm. He chose Kan’bulo.

This isn’t just a film. It’s a cinematic reckoning. A story laced with silence, trauma, and emotional violence—territory most producers would instinctively avoid. But not Shaniz. When director Hussain Munavvaru handed him the screenplay, Shaniz didn’t hesitate. He understood what the story was asking of him—not just financially, but morally. And he said yes.

Producing a film like Kan’bulo is not just about funding—it’s about backing the emotional and social weight of the story. Shaniz never once tried to soften the edges. He never once asked, “Can this be toned down?” Instead, he leaned in. He created the space for this film to be what it needed to be: unflinching and honest.

It’s also worth noting that this was the very same team that made Kamanaa what it was. From post-production to performances, Shaniz believed in bringing everyone back—not for familiarity’s sake, but because he understood that a story this delicate needed people who could hold it with care.

As a writer, it’s rare to find a producer who not only respects the page but also protects it. Shaniz is that kind of producer. He doesn’t just produce movies—he shoulders them. With grit. With grace. And most of all, with guts.

Producer Ali Shaniz is once again at the helm, this time navigating far rougher waters with Kan’bulo. But steady as ever, he’s steering this ship straight through the storm. And if there’s anyone I’d trust to sail a story this heavy into harbor—it’s him. Aye, Captain.

Kan’bulo is currently enjoying a successful run at Olympus.

KAN’BULO: THE SHELL MOTIF

One of the most rewarding experiences as a screenwriter is when a simple motif quietly transforms into the heartbeat of a story. In Kan’bulo, that motif was the shell.

The shell begins its journey as a tender gesture — Ariz gifting half of it to Kan’bulo. On the surface, it feels like a token of affection, but beneath that lies a symbol of incompleteness, of two halves belonging together. It’s fragile, ordinary even, yet it carries the weight of connection and hope.

The true resonance of the shell revealed itself in the crucial scene where Kan’bulo, utterly broken and stripped of all hope, decides to throw away her half into the sea — as if to surrender everything she has left. On paper, this was the perfect place for dialogue, the kind of moment where one could write pages of desperate exchanges. But instead, I chose silence.

From a screenwriting perspective, this was an intentional technical decision. I let the motif do the storytelling. In screenwriting, dialogue often competes with action, but when a motif is planted and nurtured throughout the narrative, it earns the right to replace words. The act of Ariz stopping her hand and placing his half-shell over hers became a complete scene arc: setup (the decision to throw), conflict (his intervention), and resolution (the joining of the halves). No words needed.

The result was powerful. In the theatre that night, silence extended beyond the screen — the audience, too, fell into complete stillness. You could feel them breathing with Kan’bulo, watching two halves become whole. That shared silence was not emptiness but resonance. It was cinema at its purest: visual storytelling carrying emotion more strongly than dialogue ever could.

For me, that moment alone made the journey of writing Kan’bulo worthwhile. The shell was no longer just a prop — it became the soul of the film, binding the characters and the audience in one collective heartbeat. Sometimes, it is in the absence of words that cinema finds its truest voice.

Kan’bulo is currently enjoying a successful run at Olympus.

KAN’BULO – TRUTH TOLD WITH TENDER BRUTALITY

There are films that entertain, films that inspire, and then there are films like Kan’bulo — films that confront. Films that hold your gaze and refuse to blink first. Directed by Hussain Munawwaru, Kan’bulo is not a safe film. It’s a brave, emotionally volatile narrative that pulses with truth — sometimes uncomfortable, often heartbreaking, and always deeply human.

The story traces back to Yuktha, the award-winning long story by Yashfa Abdul Qani. Her delicate yet devastating writing carried the emotional weight that demanded adaptation. Reshaping it for the screen meant preserving its soul while finding a visual rhythm to match its intensity.

At the heart of the film is Mariyam Azza, delivering one of her strongest performances to date. Playing Kan’bulo demands range and endurance, and she handles every moment — from innocence to devastation to resilience — with precision. Even her silences carry meaning.

The ensemble brings depth and texture: Sheela Najeeb with quiet strength, Wasia Mohamed with loyal presence, Shakeela with protective resilience, Ahmed Easa with tenderness, Ahmed Nimal with chilling intensity, and Ismail Rasheed in a performance that feels like a powerful return. Together, they anchor the film’s emotional truth.

The makeup and costume work of Rishfa Abdul Samad and Hussain Hazim (Sandy) supports the characters with subtle authenticity, while Mohamed Faisal (Fai) shapes sound into an emotional undercurrent that lingers. Ahmed Imthiyaz (Inthi) adds music that mourns, observes, and uplifts without ever overwhelming.

Editor Abdulla Muaz, handling both edit and color grading, balances past and present with seamless precision, letting the story flow like fractured memory while keeping the emotions grounded. His work ensures the narrative is coherent yet haunting.

Producer Ali Shaniz deserves recognition for backing a film of such weight, reuniting the trusted team from Kamanaa and giving space for significance over safety.

And at the center, Munawwaru directs with restraint and conviction. He doesn’t exploit pain; he lets it speak. His choices give the film its raw honesty, making it less of a story told and more of an experience endured.

Kan’bulo is not an easy watch, nor was it an easy script to write. But it is necessary. It stares directly at what many would rather look away from — and by the end, neither can we.

Kan’bulo is currently running at Olympus.

SHOLAY: A CINEMATIC FLAME STILL BURNING AT 50

Sholay turned 50 on 15th August 2025, and I couldn’t resist revisiting this cinematic phenomenon that first burned into my memory when I was a boy of 10 or 12, sitting wide-eyed in Olympus Cinema. The screen was larger than life, and so were the men and women who strode across it. That memory is still with me.

Half a century later, Sholay is still fire.

A Story Told Like a Folk Ballad

At its heart, Sholay is a story of friendship, revenge, and courage. But the beauty lies in how Ramesh Sippy crafted it — not just as a narrative, but as a ballad. Every frame feels soaked in dust, sweat, and echoes of Ramgarh. Screenwriter duo Salim–Javed wrote with such force that lines still roll off tongues like folk proverbs.

“Kitne aadmi the?”

Not just a question — but a line that has lived in film buffs’ bloodstream for 50 years.

Performances Etched in Fire

Every actor gave us something unforgettable.

Amitabh Bachchan’s Jai — quiet, brooding, carrying melancholy in his harmonica.

Dharmendra’s Veeru — mischievous and loud but golden-hearted.

Sanjeev Kumar’s Thakur — dignity wrapped in grief.

Amjad Khan’s Gabbar Singh — terror personified, redefining what a villain could be.

Hema Malini’s chatterbox Basanti added charm, and Jaya Bhaduri’s Radha reminded us that silence can sometimes be louder than words.

Scenes That Became Cinema Itself

Jai and Radha’s Silent Symphony

My personal favorite: Jai sits quietly on the veranda, playing his harmonica under the weight of night, while Radha moves through the opposite balcony, gently extinguishing the lanterns one by one. No words pass between them — none are needed. The sound of the harmonica and the dimming lights create a language of their own.

Each lantern Radha puts out is more than a simple act; it symbolizes the extinguishing of warmth and possibilities in her life. As a widow, bound by cultural expectations that deny her the chance of remarriage, those fading lights mirror the shadows she must live in — the quiet acceptance of a life dimmed by loss. In Jai’s music, there is empathy, perhaps even unspoken longing, but also the recognition of a love that cannot be voiced. The scene becomes both intimate and metaphoric — a communion of silence, where music and darkness carry the weight of connection, restraint, and yearning.

Veeru’s Drunken Proposal

On top of the water tank, Veeru — drunk as ever — threatening to end it all unless Basanti’s aunt agrees to their marriage. It’s comic, dramatic, and absurdly heartfelt — a reminder that Sholay knew how to balance intensity with levity.

The Final Showdown

The crippled Thakur taking on Gabbar — no hands, no guns. Just fury, pain, and justice. It’s one of the most cathartic climaxes ever staged in Indian cinema, where the hero isn’t Jai or Veeru anymore — it’s justice itself.

The Technical Brilliance

Sholay wasn’t just another film. It was a benchmark. Shot in 70mm with stereophonic sound — a first for Indian cinema — it was an event in itself. Dwarka Divecha’s cinematography turned Ramgarh into a mythic land, where dust, rock, and horizon became characters. R.D. Burman’s score — from the playful “Mehbooba” to the melancholic flute — didn’t just accompany the story, it told it.

MS Shinde’s editing kept the three-hour-plus film taut. And the action scenes? Bold, choreographed with raw energy, and still unmatched in their scale.

The Legacy of Friendship

If one thing outlives even Gabbar’s terror, it’s the bond of Jai and Veeru. The two of them, riding the motorbike with Basanti’s horse cart trailing behind, is an image of friendship so iconic that it practically became India’s shorthand for loyalty.

“Yeh dosti hum nahin todenge.”

It wasn’t just a song. It was a promise.

Why It Still Matters

For me, watching Sholay at 50 wasn’t nostalgia. It was recognition. That this film didn’t just entertain, it showed us that a film could be both masala and masterpiece. That dialogues could outlive generations. That silence could speak volumes.

A Personal Reflection

When I first watched Sholay, I didn’t understand the layers. The subtext, the motifs, the metaphors — they all flew past me.

But as I stepped into screenwriting, I began to see differently. I understood the way silence can carry a scene, how a lamp can symbolize love and status, how even a villain’s laugh can echo with meaning. Today, watching it again, I felt the film not just as a story, but as a revelation — timeless in every sense.

From the precision of Salim–Javed’s screenplay — where every scene builds character and tension without waste — to the balance of humor, tragedy, action, and romance, Sholay is a masterclass.

Its narrative arcs are clean yet layered, its use of silence is as deliberate as its dialogues, and its motifs flow seamlessly through character and story. The film doesn’t merely entertain; it demonstrates, frame by frame, what cinematic storytelling can achieve when all elements — writing, direction, performance, music, and craft — converge with purpose.

Sholay is not just a film we remember — it’s a film that continues to teach cinema how to be cinema.

“Jo darr gaya, samjho mar gaya.”

But Sholay never feared time. And that’s why it never died.

HINITHUNVELAASHEY KALAA: MY SMILE, MY JOURNEY

Seventeen years ago, today—on August 25, 2008, at around 8:45 pm—I wrapped up the final episode (Episode 52) of Hinithunvelaashey Kalaa, a series from TVM that went on to win the hearts of the nation. I was sitting inside, wearing only shorts, with rain tapping a busy Morse code on the windows. My heart and body were warmed—not just by the embrace of my ever-loving wife, who helped me kiss goodbye to some corny lines—but by the sheer joy of finishing the journey.

It all began on February 21, 2006, one late morning, under a breezy sky at West Park. I sat with director Abdul Faththaah by the sea, scribbling notes in my worn-out, flower-covered notebook, sipping papaya juice (plus a squeeze of lime), while he sipped a milk coffee. He had a seed of a concept—a 52-episode serial called Hinithunvelaashey Kalaa—about two childhood friends whose lives were wildly different yet bound by a shared past.

From that meeting, characters sprang to life. Ina, the tomboyish farmer girl in Kelai, cap on her head, sun on her shoulders. Fazu, the diligent teacher with a quiet soul. Around them, layers of family, history, and society emerged. The story wasn’t just a drama—it was a slice of the Maldives, its struggles and hopes stitched into every scene.

I scripted the first 32 episodes in just over a month—obsessed and restless, averaging almost an episode a day, since production had already begun in Ha. Kelai and the scripts had to keep flowing to match the shoot. My mind was on fire—literally waking at odd hours, skull burning, yet never able to stop typing. That first arc, set entirely in Kelai, poured out in one feverish burst.

Then something unexpected happened.

Once filming wrapped on the 32 episodes and editing began, the material didn’t quite fit the boxes I had built. Each episode overflowed into the next. Before long, the original 32 had ballooned into 40 episodes.

What could have been a headache turned out to be a gift. Suddenly, I had 12 more episodes to write—episodes that would bring the story to Malé. It was a creative second wind. Instead of dragging my feet, I leaned in. Those episodes gave space for new twists, deeper arcs, and an ending that felt more earned. To my surprise, even Faththaah sighed in relief—the story had room to breathe.

The series first went on air on July 26, 2006—Independence Day in the Maldives. A proud date to begin a journey. But like all long journeys, life had its way of testing us. Around Episode 33, one of our actors ran into real-life trouble, and TVM had no choice but to pull him off the screen. Policy was policy.

The series came to a sudden halt. Weeks stretched into months. And then, more than a year later, re-started again—from Episode 1. Frustration, yes. Suspense, absolutely. But looking back, it was also a strange kind of gift. The audience got to live the story twice, and I found the space to refine the series finale.

By late August 2008, writing Episodes 51 and 52 felt bittersweet. On that rainy evening, August 25th, I typed the final words of Episode 52, closed my laptop, and hugged my wife. That hug—warm, knowing, and peaceful—was my personal wrap party. The final episode later aired on November 11, 2008—Republic Day in the Maldives.

If I could send a postcard to that former me, I’d say:

You did it. You wrangled 52 episodes—that’s equivalent to thirteen feature films worth of storytelling.

You wrestled with long nights, reruns, rewrites, cast drama, and even a mid-series collapse. You turned chaos into creation. And you gave Maldivian audiences a story that made them laugh, cry, debate, and remember.

Hinithunvelaashey Kalaa wasn’t just a TV series. It was a chapter of my life. A love letter to storytelling. A memory stitched forever into the fabric of Maldivian television.

And more than that—it sharpened my craft. Writing this series allowed me to experiment with rhythm, dialogue, symbolism, cliffhangers, and emotional pacing in ways I never had before. I discovered the power of layering subplots, weaving historical flashbacks, planting narrative traps, and using pauses and silences as deliberately as dialogue itself. Many of the screenwriting “tricks” I still use today—those playful double meanings, those quiet beats before an explosion of emotion—were born in those 52 episodes. It was the project that turned me from a writer into a screenwriter. And I will always be indebted to director Fathaah for giving me this opportunity of a lifetime.

Seventeen years on, I look back and realize: every page, every scene, every sleepless night was part of a greater script—the story of my own becoming. That rainy evening in August 2008 was not an ending, but the beginning of everything that followed.

Because sometimes, the greatest journeys are written between two words—

FADE OUT.

MSPA FILM AWARDS 2024: A NIGHT OF TRIUMPH FOR DHIVEHI FILM INDUSTRY

On the evening of 22 August 2025, the Giyaasuddin School hall came alive with an energy the Dhivehi film community has yearned for — the MSPA Film Awards 2024. This was more than an award ceremony; it was a celebration of the unshakable belief that art matters.

The Maldives Society for Performing Arts (MSPA), officially formed on 1 February 2021, is no ordinary association. It was born out of necessity — a direct response to decades of neglect faced by Maldivian artists from institutions mandated to uplift them. Institutions that, more often than not, remember the performing arts only when a political campaign needs color, music, and a crowd.

At the heart of this movement stands Mohamed Rasheed. His journey began 44 years ago, behind the camera at TVM. From cameraman to actor to household name, Rasheed has been a tireless advocate for the arts, even at a time when many dismissed it altogether.

He never wavered. Instead, he made a stand and built a foundation for generations to come. His vision and persistence gave birth to MSPA — an association devoted to empowering the performing arts through education, industry development, and recognition.

Last night’s awards ceremony was a powerful statement of that mission in action. Embraced warmly by the Dhivehi film industry and artists nationwide, the event carried more than festivity — it carried history.

In his heartfelt speech, Rasheed did not shy away from the struggles. He recalled how some mandated bodies initially pledged support to hold this event, only to vanish when it mattered most. Their absence was telling — proving once again that when politics isn’t on the ballot, performing arts isn’t on their agenda. But Rasheed and MSPA turned that rejection into a statement of independence.

The night proved something vital: performing arts in the Maldives are alive and thriving — not because of institutions that abandoned their duty, but because of the artists who keep creating, and platforms like MSPA that refuse to bow.

The MSPA Film Awards 2024 were not just about trophies and applause. They were about recognition. About dignity. About hope. They were a powerful statement to every Maldivian artist: You matter. Your art matters. And no institution, no politics, and no neglect will ever erase that. MSPA will make sure the world sees it — today, tomorrow, and long after the banners of campaigns have faded.

Congratulations to MSPA. The fight for our arts is only just beginning, and this time, it is fueled by spirit and strength.

MARIYAM AZZA: CARRYING KAN’BULO ON HER SHOULDERS

I have already posted a piece about Mariyam Azza’s performance, but after watching the latter half of Kan’bulo with music fully laid in, I couldn’t stay without posting again. While I could easily speak volumes about what director Hussain Munavvaru and composer Ahmed Imthiyaz (Inthi) have achieved in terms of emotional tonality, I find myself compelled to pause and reflect on something else — Azza’s performance in the titular role.

As a screenwriter, you often imagine the rhythms of a scene, the dialogue beats, the unspoken pauses. You hope that when it finally reaches the actor, they will not just recite what’s written, but breathe truth into it. What Azza has accomplished here is beyond that hope — it’s craft turned into pure emotional experience.

Kan’bulo is not a role built on grand speeches. It’s a role constructed on emotional honesty. Azza moves through one devastating moment after another, not as someone acting grief, fear, or resilience, but as someone inhabiting it. Her range and depth are astonishing — she can shift from innocence to devastation to quiet resilience in the span of a breath.

What impressed me most, however, was what she accomplished in silence. A glance downward, a stillness of breath, the weight of unspoken words — these were not voids, they were meaningful silences that spoke louder than any dialogue I could have written. This is where great actors separate themselves: in the negative space, in what they choose not to say, they reveal entire universes.

Azza’s performance is one of those rare instances where the actor’s commitment elevates the screenplay. Watching her, I realized that much of the emotional truth of Kan’bulo was not in the lines I had written but in the way she decided to live between them.

This is not just a performance. It’s a revelation of what cinema can do when an actor completely trusts the material, the director, and, most importantly, her own instincts. Mariyam Azza has carried Kan’bulo on her shoulders, and she has done so with brilliance, courage, and grace.

Kan’bulo is set to release on 31 August 2025.

REMEMBERING A MENTOR: 10 YEARS ON

It has been ten years since the passing of Late Hon. Uz. Abdulla Hameed — a man who forever changed the course of my life. Today, as I reflect, I realize just how much I owe him — not just as a writer, but as a person.

When I first set foot into the film industry, I had already given up. Disillusioned, frustrated, I thought my journey was over before it had even begun. And when I was later transferred to Ministry of Atolls Administration, where he served as minister, that sense of defeat still weighed heavily on me. But he wouldn’t allow it. He saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself.

At the time, the TVM Office Drama Competition was one of the most celebrated events every Ramadan. Atolls had participated the year before I joined, but the reviews were harsh. Instead of stepping back, he entrusted me with producing the next drama. He gave me complete creative freedom, and more importantly, he told everyone around me to support me fully.

That year, Atolls won Best Drama and Best Actress. In the four years that followed, we went on to win 12 awards in total, including two more Best Drama titles. Through it all, he ensured my cast and crew were treated with dignity and care. Those years became the most formative of my career. I experimented, I grew, and I found my voice again. Most importantly, my faith in storytelling was restored.

One night, during a celebration, he said something that has stayed with me ever since: “He is a gem that Atolls has.” I carry those words like a torch. Whenever I stumble or doubt myself, they remind me to rise to the faith he placed in me.

Ten years on, I still feel his presence in the path I walk. I am forever indebted to him. His kindness, vision, and unwavering belief in people like me continue to live through the stories we tell.

May Allah bless his soul.