Love | Mahdi Ahmed

Posts from the ‘Love’ category

BEYOND THE FRAME, BEYOND THE FILM

Today, Maldivian cinema lost a giant.

And I lost someone who quietly, decisively shaped the writer I became.

Abdul Fatthaah was many things — a director, a producer, an editor, a storyteller.

But to me, he was something rarer.

He was someone who trusted writers.

I admired his work long before I worked with him. His films had heart. Restraint. Courage. They didn’t shout at you — they stayed with you.

When I finally had the privilege of working with him, I realised something important:
Faththaah didn’t direct from fear.

He directed from clarity.

That clarity changed my life during Hinithunvelaashey Kalaa, the 52-episode TVM drama that went on to become a national sensation. It entered homes. Conversations. Memories. People still talk about it.

But for me, its greatest impact wasn’t public.

It was deeply personal.

For the first time in my life, a director allowed me to write as freely as a writer possibly can.

No constant corrections.

No fear-driven notes.

No creative handcuffs.

Just trust.

That kind of freedom is rare. And when it’s given at the right moment, it can change everything.

That series didn’t just shape my career.

It made me the writer I am today.

Faththaah understood something many never do — that strong direction doesn’t mean control. It means knowing when to guide… and when to step back. He had an instinctive respect for writers, actors, and technicians. He listened. He observed. Then he guided — gently, but firmly.

Whether it was Himeyn Dhuniye, Vehey Vaarey Therein, Hahdhu, or his television works, his stories always carried empathy. He approached sensitive themes with courage, but never without dignity. He wasn’t chasing noise. He was chasing truth.

Beyond cinema, he cared about society. About people. About responsibility. You could feel that — not just in the stories he told, but in the way he treated those around him.

Some people influence your journey.

Others define it.

Abdul Faththaah defined mine.

I will always be grateful — not just for the opportunities, but for the belief. For seeing the writer before the writer fully believed in himself. For trusting me at my most vulnerable creative stage.

To his family — your loss is beyond words. But please know this: his legacy lives far beyond awards or filmographies. It lives in the writers he trusted, the actors he shaped, and the countless lives his stories touched.

He mattered.

Deeply.

And he will never be forgotten.

Thank you, Faththaah.

For the trust.

For the freedom.

For everything.

Rest in peace, Buddy.

WE CHOSE THE ROAD

We married on December 16, 2004.

Ten days later, the ocean tried to take us back.

Phuket was meant to be a soft beginning—sand, salt, slow mornings, the luxury of being newly married and slightly lost in each other. We were young enough to believe the world was mostly kind.

On December 26, kindness took the morning off.

The day didn’t announce itself as dangerous. The sky looked ordinary. The sea looked calm. If danger had a color or a smell, maybe we would have noticed. Instead, it arrived disguised as silence.

We stepped out for a walk. A small decision. A forgettable one—except it wasn’t. My wife wanted the road, not the beach. She always preferred movement to stillness. I followed, without knowing I was following instinct disguised as love.

Then the world cracked open.

While we were inside a beach shop, a girl ran in screaming. I didn’t understand her words, but I understood her fear. Outside, the chaos grew louder.

Panic isn’t cinematic. It’s clumsy. People trip. They shout in languages that collide mid-air. Time bends. I remember boats being dragged toward the shore. I remember my wife’s grip on my hand—tight, commanding, absolute. In that moment, she wasn’t my wife of ten days. She was gravity.

We ran. We climbed. We didn’t ask questions. A stranger’s truck stopped. We didn’t thank him properly. Survival doesn’t wait for manners. As the wave swallowed everything below, we stood higher than we deserved to be.

That day taught us something terrifying and holy: life can change its mind without warning.

We spent the night wrapped in borrowed blankets, surrounded by strangers who felt like mirrors. No one slept. At dawn, we walked through a city that no longer recognized itself. The sea had written its signature everywhere.

Only later did we understand the scale. Numbers too large to hold. Entire coastlines erased. Families undone. We survived a story that ended for hundreds of thousands of others.

That knowledge never sits comfortably. It shouldn’t.

What stayed with me wasn’t fear, but humility—the understanding that our marriage didn’t begin with certainty. It began with mercy. We didn’t promise each other forever in a vacuum. We promised it on borrowed ground.

Twenty-one years later, I see that day everywhere.

Bills. Loss. Parenthood. Fear dressed up as routine. None of it as loud as the wave, but all of it just as real. And every time, without thinking, we do what we did that morning.

We choose the road.
We move together.
We don’t wait for proof.

We survived the sea.

The rest of life, we face the same way— hand in hand, alert, grateful, and awake.

THE REEL OF US

My Dearest Love,

Today, when I think of us, it feels as though a series of soft, glowing flashes drift before my eyes — not a long rewind, not a dramatic montage — just the moments that shaped us, one after another, like tiny sparks in the dark.

FLASHES OF OUR BEGINNING

Flash.

Two souls in the same neighborhood, exchanging shy smiles and eyebrow greetings.

You mistaking my voice for my brother — the moment destiny gently nudged us forward.

ICQ usernames.

MSN chats.

Scrabble duels.

Karaoke nights — and the song where your voice wrapped itself around my heart and never let go.

Walking side by side from office to home, your hand slipping into mine like it had always belonged there.

Flash.

FLASHES THAT MOLDED US

Flash.

A Qazi, an orange dress, a quivering dupatta, your teary smile, our vows — the moment we officially began our forever.

Patong, Phuket.

A monstrous wave.

Your instinct.

A fish truck.

High ground.

A miracle.

A beginning forged in survival.

Samitivej, Bangkok.

A tiny upside-down Kokko screaming like a newborn warrior.

Our home overflowing with laughter, school runs, countless ferry rides, homemade meals, and you whispering to your bougainvillea like they’re your botanical babies.

These flashes… they define us.

THIS YEAR — THE STRENGTH OF YOU

This year tested you in ways that would have broken many.

But you stood firm — fierce, steady, unshakable.

Your business hurdles.

Your long days.

Your headaches.

Your battles.

Where I would’ve collapsed — you held on.

Where I would’ve panicked — you powered through.

Where I would’ve fallen — you rose higher.

You hold this family together with a strength that is quiet, graceful, and unstoppable.

And if anyone doubts that?

Let them hear the full truth.

Flash.

Ramadan, you cut the tip of your pinkie, screamed in pain, yet lay on ER bed like a warrior.

I sat beside you, chest puffed, ready to be your rock…

Flash.

When I opened my eyes,

I was lying on your bed,

And you were sitting calmly on my chair.

That’s us in one scene:

You — power.

Me — unconscious comic relief.

THE BOY WHO TESTS ME DAILY

And then there’s our son — your perfect clone.

He has officially chosen me as his archnemesis.

Every day feels like a miniature war.

He throws shade.

I counter.

You mediate like a UN peacekeeping force.

Peace lasts four minutes.

Then we begin again.

And the Breaking Bad incident?

Unforgettable.

We suggested a cartoon.

He demanded Breaking Bad.

We explained.

He insisted.

We surrendered.

Ten minutes later, he hid behind a cushion like it was riot gear.

We didn’t laugh aloud —

But inside, we were in pieces.

THE LITTLE RITUALS THAT ARE EVERYTHING

We still do our tiny dance in the kitchen:

You cook.

I scrub.

You stir.

I clean the stove, the shelves, the walls, the ceiling…

I’m basically the vacuum robot — A happily programmed one.

Walking beside you on any red carpet makes me feel like I’m escorting royalty.

And when you give feedback on my films,

My heart doesn’t beat —

It drums, like Travis Barker warming up backstage.

And now you play Co2 on loop,

smiling at Prateek Kuhad’s soft whispery voice.

I’m not jealous… I just think I could whisper better if given a fair audition.

And Alhamdulillaah…

Life is shifting beautifully for us.

Especially for you.

Seeing you content feels like watching dawn replace darkness.

It fills me with a peace I can’t put into words.

AND STILL…

You are my strength and softness.

My laughter and calm.

My compass and my comfort.

My joy and my journey.

My Jessica — and now, my SV.

You hold this family steady with courage, wit, and boundless heart.

And I am endlessly grateful that after all these flashes, storms, joys, and years…

It is still you I walk beside.

Thank you for being everything you are.

Thank you for giving everything you give.

Thank you for holding this family together with your strength, your humor, and your heart.

Thank you for loving me in ways I never deserved but always needed.

Here’s to us —

To the story still being written,

To the adventures waiting ahead.

Happy 21st Anniversary, My Love

Cut to black.

Roll credits.

Soundtrack fades.

Forever yours,

Mahdi

MY MOTHER: THE SILENT ARCHITECT OF MY DREAMS

Every story I write began with her quiet strength.

My mother’s life is a quiet epic — full of grace, grit, sacrifice, and silent suffering wrapped in a love that speaks softly but endures fiercely. She bore life’s weight with unshakable patience, trading her own dreams for ours, never once asking for recognition.

She is — without even realizing it — the reason I became a filmmaker.

The Quiet Force

My late father served in the national defense force, and most days, my siblings and I grew up with his absence. It was my mother who filled that void — not with words, but with strength. She worked at the national radio station, juggling duty and motherhood at a time when “women empowerment” wasn’t even a phrase. Yet, she embodied it — quiet, determined, unstoppable.

She worked long hours, often coming home exhausted — but never empty-handed. Sometimes she’d bring me a Noddy book, sometimes a Tintin comic borrowed from a friend. One at a time. I’d read them with wonder, and when I was done, she’d bring the next. Those stories became my escape, my adventure, my first classroom of imagination.

The First Tool of My Craft

One day, she bought me a small drawing book — ten sheets, a deer printed on its back cover.
It wasn’t expensive, but for our family back then, it was the price of a meal. Still, she never hesitated. Every time my book filled up, she’d find a way to get me another. I knew how much that meant, so I drew carefully — tiny figures packed into every corner of a page to make it last.

That little book was the beginning of everything.

From Tintin to Asterix to Phantom, I started drawing my own comic panels. Without knowing it, I was storyboarding — shaping narratives, building worlds. My mother had given me the first tool of my craft. She had unknowingly set me on the path that would define my life.

The Source of My Protagonists

Now that I have a son, I finally see the magnitude of her strength. Raising one child is a journey. She raised eight — and raised us well.

We grew up disciplined, grounded, and kind — because she somehow managed to hold chaos together with grace.

Even today, she’s the heart of our family. The quiet force behind every one of us.

And no wonder — almost every screenplay I’ve ever written carries her shadow. My female protagonists, whether fierce or fragile, carry her spirit. They stand tall because she stood tall.
They endure because she endured.

Lizards and Crows

Of course, even heroes have weaknesses — and my mother’s only weakness, as far as I know, is lizards. One tiny lizard can turn this strong, fearless woman into a sprinter. I’ve seen her clear a room faster than any action sequence I’ve written.

And lately, she’s had a visitor — a crow that lands on her terrace railing every evening. She feeds it regularly, talking to it as if it understands every word. I joke that it’s Dad dropping by, keeping an eye on her and all of us.

Maybe it is.

Maybe love finds its way back — in the most unexpected wings.

The Story Behind Every Story

Today, as my siblings and I surround her, I realize — she didn’t just raise us; she built us.
Every dream I chase, every story I write, began with her small sacrifices and silent strength.

She is the story behind every story I have ever told.

And when I pause between those stories — in the stillness after the words, in the quiet corners of my thoughts — I often find her.

Sitting on her terrace as the day unwinds, sunlight brushing her silver hair. The crow perched nearby waiting for its share of rice.

And I feel time folding gently, the past and present meeting in quiet gratitude.

Maybe Dad really does visit her through that crow — to see the woman who once carried everything without complaint, who raised survivors disguised as children, who turned scarcity into strength and love into legacy.

Some stories are written on paper. Others are written on hearts. Hers is written on mine.

For my mother — my first story, my forever inspiration.

Happy 80th.

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.

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.

THE WEIGHT AND GIFT OF GRIEF

Grief is a strange companion. It doesn’t knock politely before entering. It doesn’t leave when we ask it to. And it doesn’t speak when we beg for answers. Instead, it lingers — quietly and stubbornly — in the corners of our days. It shows up in the silence of mornings, in the middle of conversations, or in the way the light falls on an empty chair.

Today, I had a deeply emotional conversation with a good friend whose parent passed away recently. As he shared his sorrow, I felt his pain echo within me, pulling me back to my own loss — the day I said goodbye to my father three years ago. Different stories, different people, yet grief spoke in the same language. It made me realize that while no two losses are identical, the emptiness they leave behind often feels hauntingly familiar.

When we lose a parent, the world shifts beneath our feet. A piece of the foundation we have always relied on is suddenly gone. No matter how old we are, or how strong we believe ourselves to be, their absence leaves us feeling strangely small. Yet even in those moments, grief doesn’t feel like the end of something — it feels like a reminder of what continues to guide us, even in absence.

And here lies the deeper truth about grief: it is not something that truly heals. We often hear people say that time heals everything. But grief isn’t a wound that closes; it’s a scar that becomes part of us. It doesn’t shrink with time — instead, we grow around it. We learn to carry it.

Within that truth is something almost comforting: grief exists only because love existed. If the pain feels endless, it is because the love was vast. To grieve deeply is to have loved deeply. And so, grief becomes both our burden and our proof.

What I’ve come to realize is that grieving is not about staying in sorrow. It’s about remembering. It’s about keeping alive the laughter, the lessons, the stubbornness, the kindness, the everyday things that made them who they were. When we live by what they gave us, they remain here — woven into the fabric of our days.

So maybe grief is not a thief after all. Maybe it is a guardian. It guards the love we had, reminding us that though time moves forward, bonds are eternal.

To my friend — and to anyone walking through this shadow — I say: let grief sit with you. Don’t rush it away. Let it teach you, shape you, and even soften you. One day, it will stop feeling like a storm and start feeling like a quiet sea. The waves will still come, but you’ll learn to float.

And perhaps, with time, grief transforms. It begins as sorrow, sharp and unbearable. But slowly, it becomes gratitude — gratitude for having had someone to miss so deeply. Gratitude that their love was strong enough to outlast even their presence.

Because grief is not the end of love. It is love’s echo — and if we listen closely, that echo can guide us forward, gently, into the light.

THREE YEARS WITHOUT YOU

It’s been three years, Bappa.

Three years since that early morning of August 5th, 2022, when the world seemed to hold its breath… and never let it out again.

I was there beside you in that cold, sterile ER. The hum of machines. The smell of antiseptic. When your vitals began to fade, they wheeled you into the resuscitation room—right in front of me. The door was left slightly open, as if it didn’t dare close.

I could see your feet on the bed. Every time they pressed the paddles to your chest, your body fought back in violent jolts, your feet lifting from the bed with each surge of electricity. I wanted to run in. I wanted to scream. But I stood there, trapped inside my own skin, my hands trembling, my heart begging the clock to turn back.

Forty-five minutes. That’s how long they tried to bring you back. Forty-five minutes of hope and horror, braided so tightly I couldn’t breathe. And then at 07:33 AM—it stopped. One moment they were fighting for you, the next… silence. An ending so abrupt it felt like a blade.

Three years. People say time heals. But it doesn’t. Not really. Time only teaches you how to walk with the wound. The emptiness doesn’t shrink—it just learns to hide in the folds of your days. Until a smell, a sound, a memory slices you open again. Some memories of you sit quietly in corners, like the cane you left behind. Like the flip-flops you wore the last time we rushed you to the ER. And through it all, what remains untouched—what never fades—is a love that stays forever, quietly holding everything you left behind.

Your dreams still live here. The big ones, the stubborn ones, the ones you never got to chase. Some fulfilled. Others, sadly, taking far longer to fulfill than we first dreamed.

I wish you had laughed more. I wish you had seen more. I wish I had said the words I thought I had time to say.

Three years, Bappa.

And I still miss you in ways words cannot carry.

I love you, Bappa.

May Allah grant you the highest place in Jannat al-Firdaus, where there is no pain, only peace and light. May Allah bless your soul for the love, prayers, and dreams you carried.

Amen.

HEVANA MALDIVES– A PRIVATE SLICE OF PARADISE

Tucked away on the serene western edge of V. Keyodhoo, Hevana Maldives is more than just a guest house—it’s a warm island embrace wrapped in comfort, charm, and outstanding service. Our two-night family escape here was filled with memorable moments and heartfelt hospitality.

From the moment we arrived at the jetty, the Hevana Maldives team made everything seamless. Friendly staff welcomed us with genuine warmth, promptly took care of our luggage, and set the tone for a stress-free vacation.

Located in a peaceful, private corner of the island, Hevana Maldives felt like our own beachfront haven. The entrance carried a homely vibe—quiet, intimate, and just steps away from a beautiful, spacious beach that felt reserved just for us.

Rooms had already been thoughtfully allocated for each family member. Spacious and family-friendly, ours featured a plush king-sized bed, and an extra bed was added upon request. The bathroom was a pleasant surprise—generously sized with a semi-open shower area that added a rustic Maldivian touch.

But the soul of Hevana Maldives lies in its open-plan main lounge. Surrounded by large windows, including one that overlooks the beach, this space became our gathering hub. It’s where we had our long family chats and even hosted a lively DJ night to celebrate my wife’s birthday.

The beach itself was equally inviting—lined with beach beds and a cozy lounging area where adults could unwind while keeping an eye on the kids enjoying the calm sea.

Dining at Hevana Maldives is an experience in itself. We asked for a local buffet, and the spread exceeded expectations—traditional Maldivian dishes, fresh tropical flavors, and the grilled reef fish? Simply divine. Caught fresh, grilled perfectly, and served with love.

Murakabar, the on-site mini café, was a hit with both the young and the young-at-heart. From local frozen juice bags and ice cream to branded coffee and crema, everything felt like a sweet little indulgence. If you visit, don’t miss their coconut ice cream—it’s unforgettable.

We also ventured out to the famous boat wreck—a short trip made incredibly easy thanks to the Hevana team. For those with an adventurous streak, snorkeling and diving are available too.

When we left, we weren’t just saying goodbye to a place—we were leaving behind a collection of memories. And with one unanimous decision, we promised ourselves: Hevana Maldives will be our yearly tradition. If you’re looking for peace, fun, and a deeply personal island experience—this is where you need to be.

MADULU MOHAMED WAHEED: THE LAST VERSE OF A GUARDIAN

This morning—April 14, 2025—the final chapter of a remarkable book closed.

My dear friend, Madulu Mohamed Waheed, passed away at the age of 77, while seeking treatment for his illness.

He was no ordinary man—he was a living manuscript.

A towering volume in the library of Maldivian literature and journalism.

His words did more than fill pages—they stirred thought, preserved culture, and gave breath to Dhivehi language.

He was not merely a writer. He was the binding that held our language together.

In 2019, he was awarded the National Award of Honor—a bookmark in a career richly underlined by purpose.

As Special Envoy of the Dhivehi Academy, he wrote till the ink ran dry.

His dedication? Unmatched. His margin notes? Timeless.

But there’s a personal grief scribbled in the margins of my heart.

He used to call some mornings and say, “Free for breakfast?”

It was never just about eating—it was about the chapters we were both writing.

About the drafts, the rewrites, the plots half-formed in our minds.

He’d help me find the right phrase, the perfect form, the word that unlocked a scene.

And when he published something new, he placed a copy in my hands.

Weeks before illness stole his final sentences, he said to me: “Let’s meet for another breakfast soon.”

We never turned that page.

And after my father passed, I found myself in one of those breakfasts—lost.

I spilled my sorrow on the table like ink.

He didn’t edit my grief.

He told me stories— verses about my father I had never read.

He reminded me that no one truly disappears from the book of life, as long as someone remembers their chapter.

Today, I feel the same ache.

Another book I cherished has closed.

But some books never really end.

They sit on our shelves—dog-eared, beloved, often revisited.

Rest now, my dearest friend.

The nation mourns.

I mourn.

And somewhere, in the silence between sentences— your voice will still turn the page.

Thank you for every word.

Rest in peace.