Love | Mahdi Ahmed

Posts from the ‘Love’ category

DHEVI: A HAUNTING LEAP FORWARD FOR DHIVEHI CINEMA

I had the privilege of attending a private screening of the much-anticipated Dhivehi film Dhevi, ahead of its official release on 26 September.

After watching it, I could not simply wait for the release, write a conventional review and move on.

Because this is more than a review.

This is what I felt while watching it.

To begin with, Dhevi has one of the tensest openings I have seen in a Dhivehi film—and, strangely enough, it is introduced by a hen and her chicks.

I will not reveal what happens.

Let us just say that filmmakers have spent years using dark corridors, abandoned houses and creaking doors to frighten audiences. Dhevi begins by proving that even a perfectly innocent hen can carry us towards dread.

The opening hooked me from left, right and centre.

Anatomically impossible, perhaps—but that is how firmly it held me.

From that moment, the film makes its intentions clear. It is not here merely to make us jump. It wants to build a world, place us inside it and slowly remove every feeling of safety.

At its heart, Dhevi tells the story of twin sisters whose lives are overtaken by something far more sinister than one can imagine.

What begins with unease gradually tightens into a chain of terrifying events, each one drawing the sisters deeper into something they cannot easily escape. The horror continues to rise until the story arrives at a rousing and emotionally charged conclusion.

That is all I will say about the plot.

This is a film best experienced without someone walking ahead of you with a torch and warning you about what may be waiting in the darkness.

Superstar Mariyam Azza plays the twin sisters, Maahi and Maashi, while also serving as a producer for the first time.

Either responsibility would have been demanding enough. Azza chose both—apparently because sleeping peacefully is overrated.

I could not take my eyes off her.

That was true not only because of the physical demands of playing two roles, but because of the complete command she has over both characters. Through her body language, expressions, voice, movement and emotional rhythm, she creates two distinctly different women.

She does not merely change her clothes or appearance and expect the audience to complete the illusion. She changes her entire presence.

Even when the sisters occupy the same frame, we never feel as though we are watching an actress performing opposite herself. We believe that two separate individuals are sharing that space.

Physically, Azza is astonishing. Every movement appears carefully designed for the character she is playing. As an actress, she is equally remarkable. Her eyes carry fear, confusion, pain and strength—sometimes before a single word is spoken.

I watched her in awe.

These performances are miles apart from those in her recent blockbusters. There is no attempt to repeat what has worked for her before. She enters a darker and emotionally heavier space, then gives us two extraordinary performances in the same film.

As a first-time producer, Azza has also chosen an unusually ambitious project. Dhevi does not feel like a safe production created merely to carry her name. It feels like the work of someone prepared to challenge herself, her team and even the technical boundaries of Dhivehi cinema.

Mariyam Azza is not merely impressive in Dhevi.

She is extraordinary.

The supporting cast gives the film the strength it needs.

Sharaf Abdulla, Ismail Rasheed, Mohamed Manik, Ahmed Saeed and Rishmy Rameez deliver convincing performances, grounding the supernatural events in recognisable human emotions. Newcomer Hamdhaan also makes a confident impression, holding his own among experienced actors.

Then there is the late Ahmed Nimal.

He appears in a cameo in what would become his final film role.

Seeing him on the screen was bittersweet. There was happiness in witnessing him perform once more, but also sadness in knowing that this would be the last time a new performance of his would greet us from the screen.

For a moment, the horror gives way to remembrance.

Written by upcoming writer Shahudha Mahmood and director Sandy, the screenplay carefully establishes its atmosphere before allowing the horror to take control.

The writing understands that suspense comes from waiting—from sensing that something is approaching without knowing when, how or from where it will arrive.

Rather than treating the unfolding events as a convenient machine for producing frightening scenes, the writers build a human story around the people trapped inside it. That emotional foundation gives the horror its weight.

The screenplay steadily raises the tension and carries the story towards its powerful conclusion without revealing its hand too early.

Abdulla Muaz (Bhaai) and Rishmy Rameez’s crisp editing gives the narrative a well-balanced pace. The film knows when to let a moment breathe and when to tighten its grip. Horror can become exhausting when every scene screams for attention. Bhaai and Rishmy allow the quieter moments enough space, making the frightening ones strike even harder.

Amid the mounting dread, I enjoyed the welcome breather offered by a modern rendition of legendary singer Naifaru Dhohokko’s Funhaa Loabi, performed by Anji with infectious energy and effortless moves.

It is difficult to believe that Dhevi is Sandy’s first film as a director. He directs it as though he has been calling the shots for years.

His confidence lies in his control. Performances, production design, cinematography, editing and visual effects all belong to the same cinematic world.

Of course, no director creates such an ambitious film alone. Sandy received wholehearted support from his team—particularly Bhaai and the visual-effects artists, whose technical brilliance helped him attempt things rarely seen in Maldivian cinema.

And now we come to the technical highlight of Dhevi: its visual effects.

Created by Bhaai, Vishal Zaky and Shamwyl Shareef, the visual effects contain moments that will genuinely leave audiences wondering how they were achieved.

The seamless presentation of Azza’s dual role is something I cannot recall seeing attempted with this level of complexity and polish in Maldivian cinema.

The sisters do not merely stand on opposite sides of a conveniently divided frame. They exist within the same physical world. They move through shared spaces, react to each other and interact with such precision that the technical construction becomes invisible.

And that invisibility is the achievement.

Creating a convincing dual performance requires far more than placing two images together. The eye-lines must match. The timing must be exact. Lighting, perspective, movement, shadows and physical distance must remain believable. Above all, the emotional performance on one side must feel alive to the performance on the other.

If even one element fails, we see the trick.

In Dhevi, we see the sisters.

Some effects proudly announce themselves, giving the film moments of visual scale and spectacle. Others work quietly beneath the surface, supporting scenes without asking the audience to admire the machinery behind them. Both kinds are handled with remarkable confidence.

The effects are not included merely to show us what the team can do. They serve the story, strengthen the horror and make Azza’s two performances possible.

That distinction matters.

Visual effects are most powerful when they stop feeling like visual effects. At several points, I found myself forgetting that the woman standing opposite Azza was also Azza.

My mind knew it.

My eyes refused to believe it.

The greatest compliment I can give the visual-effects team is that, after a while, I stopped searching for the trick.

I simply watched the sisters.

And one has to see this film to believe what this team has achieved.

Dhevi is not merely a successful horror film. It is evidence of what Dhivehi cinema can accomplish when ambition is supported by skill, patience and people willing to move beyond familiar limits.

It gives Mariyam Azza two extraordinary performances in one film. It announces Sandy as a director who already appears fully in command of his craft. It gives Shahudha Mahmood another strong step forward as a writer. It also gives us one final glimpse of the late Ahmed Nimal—an unexpected and bittersweet gift.

I walked into that private screening expecting to watch a much-anticipated Dhivehi horror film.

I walked out feeling immensely proud of the entire team behind Dhevi for bringing our cinema to a level of technical brilliance that genuinely surprised me.

Every department has contributed to that achievement. But the brilliance of Bhaai and his visual-effects team deserves to be celebrated. They have not merely created impressive images. They have helped turn an ambitious idea into something believable, seamless and technically remarkable.

Their work allows the film to dream beyond the limitations normally associated with our industry—and then places that dream convincingly on the screen.

For me, that may be Dhevi’s greatest achievement.

It does not ask us to admire it simply because it is a Maldivian film.

It gives us every reason to admire it because it is a technically brilliant film.

And that made me very proud.

THE STRAIGHT MAN

If he were here today, my father, Ahmed Fulhu, would have turned 94.

I still find myself using those two words—would have—as though life made a small mistake that might yet be corrected. As though he is simply late. As though, at any moment, the door might open and the man whose birthday we are remembering will walk in.

But the door remains closed.

So today, I want to open another door: the one that leads back through his life.

He was born Ahmed Yusuf of Ma. Haivakaruge on 1 September 1932, to Yoosuf Adam and Aishath Aboobakuru. Many would later know him as Haivakaru Ahmedfulhu. But before the uniform, the rank and the public service, he was a little boy who lost both his parents when he was about ten.

At ten, a child should still have someone asking whether he has eaten. Someone waiting for him to come home. Someone to tell him that the world may be frightening, but he does not have to face it alone.

My father largely did.

He grew up with the kind of absence that could easily have hardened him. Instead, he became a man others could depend on. Perhaps that was the first great achievement of his life—not that he survived loneliness, but that he did not pass that loneliness on.

He studied at Majeediyya School and became part of the first generation of modern Maldivian footballers. Selected during the time of Mohamed Ameen Didi and trained under Michael de Silva, he played as a goalkeeper. He also played cricket, hockey and military rugby, apparently believing that one sport offered an unreasonable amount of free time.

Goalkeeper seems, in hindsight, the perfect position for him. It requires patience, concentration and the discipline to remain alert even when the action appears to be somewhere else. Those qualities would remain with him long after he left the football field.

On 21 August 1953, just eleven days before his 21st birthday, my father witnessed the mob attack on Mohamed Amin Didi near the Henveiru ferry terminal.

At twenty, he had already seen the country at one of its most painful political turning points. He would live through many more chapters of Maldivian history—not as someone reading about them years later, but as someone who had been there.

On 8 October 1953, less than two months after that incident, he joined the police-military service. He began at the lower ranks and rose through Sergeant Fourth Class, Third Class, Second Class and First Class, eventually becoming Captain—the highest rank at the time.

He served during both Thinadhoo rebellions. He was there through periods of unrest that most of us now encounter only as a few paragraphs in history. For him, they were not paragraphs. They were places, faces, orders, consequences and memories carried home.

When the Investigation Office was introduced on 27 August 1970, he was serving as Deputy Chief. After approximately 24 years in uniform, he retired on 27 December 1978.

This photograph is of him standing beside President Maumoon Abdul Gayoom during the presidential oath-taking in 1978. It records an important public moment. But whenever I look at it, I see something more personal.

I see how straight he stood.

That was not merely military posture. It was the way he tried to live.

Retiring from the military did not mean retiring from service. In different years, he served as Atoll Chief of Mulaku, Faadhippolhu and Addu. While serving in Addu, he requested a proper police-military force for the atoll—a request that helped lead to police-military services being established across the atolls.

He also served as Assistant Under Secretary at the Ministry of Provincial Affairs, Assistant Manager of the Rentals Division, Manager of Central Hospital, Assistant Director General at the Ministry of Information, Arts and Culture, and Director General of the Community Organization Development Council.

Written as a list, these are job titles.

Lived across a lifetime, they were responsibilities. Each one meant people turning to him when something had to be organised, protected, settled or made to work.

History, it seems, had a habit of arriving during my father’s working hours.

On 3 November 1988, when mercenaries attacked Malé, he was managing Central Hospital—the only hospital in the capital at the time. As injured people arrived and the city descended into fear and uncertainty, he extended the hospital’s operations around the clock and brought all available doctors and nurses on duty to treat them.

While fear moved through the streets, he made certain that the place meant to heal people did not stop working.

His actions that day were acknowledged by both the government and the public. But the most important result was simpler: the hospital remained available when a wounded city needed it.

That was public service not as a title, but as action.

He believed in discipline, rules and responsibility. He was honest and transparent, sometimes with the uncompromising firmness of someone who had spent much of his life maintaining order. But firmness did not make him reckless. He preferred negotiation before action. He listened. He waited. He tried to settle matters fairly.

His patience was not weakness.

It was strength under control.

He understood that trust takes years to build and only moments to destroy. So he guarded it—in public service, in his decisions and in the way he lived when nobody was watching.

He also understood that memory must be protected.

On 21 April 2013, his article titled From My Pen: The Military and the Police was published on an MNDF magazine. He wrote about the institutions he had personally seen change: the period when there was no separate police force, the creation of investigative departments in 1960, and the temporary police unit established in 1972 ahead of the Queen’s visit.

He had lived through history.

Then he took the trouble to write it down for those who had not.

Many people assume someone else will remember. My father knew that memory, like duty, requires someone to take responsibility.

His life was not built only around public service. At its centre was his family.

From his first marriage came two children. With my mother, six.

Eight children.

The Captain retired in 1978.

The father never did.

At home, his values did not arrive as grand speeches. They arrived through example. Be honest, especially when honesty is inconvenient. Do not act in anger when patience may still solve the problem. Listen before deciding. Keep your word. Never treat responsibility as privilege.

He had known what it meant to grow up without parents. Yet he spent his adult life building a family large enough to fill every silence childhood had left behind.

The ten-year-old boy who had once been left largely alone became the centre of a family of eight children. Life had taken a home away from him early. He answered by building another.

My father passed away on 5 August 2022 at the age of 89 at 07:33 AM. His funeral prayer was held after Asr at Aasahara Mosque.

He was only 27 days away from his 90th birthday.

That first 1 September after his death felt especially cruel. His birthday arrived exactly when it was supposed to.

He did not.

That is the strange discipline of the calendar. It keeps every appointment even after the people we love can no longer attend. Birthdays return. Anniversaries return. Familiar dates quietly knock on the door and make us feel the absence all over again.

But today, I do not want his absence to become larger than his life.

He was here.

He was the orphaned boy who refused to be defeated by loneliness.

The goalkeeper who stood between danger and the goal.

The twenty-year-old who witnessed one of the country’s most painful political moments.

The officer who rose from the lowest ranks to Captain.

The public servant who carried responsibility from one office and one atoll to another.

The hospital manager who kept the doors open while a wounded city came through them.

The witness who wrote down what he had seen so history would not have to depend entirely on rumour.

The husband.

The father of eight.

Some people leave behind buildings, titles or monuments bearing their names. My father left something quieter: a way of standing in the world.

Stand straight.

Remain calm.

Carry responsibility without turning it into privilege.

On his 94th birthday, I remember not only that he is gone.

I remember that he was here—and throughout his long life, he stood straight.

May Allah forgive his sins, accept his good deeds, fill his grave with light and grant him the highest place in Jannah.

Aameen.

NAJMAATTHA: THE VOICE BEYOND THE STATIC

On 3 November 1988, the distance between Colombo and Malé was measured not in miles, but in static.

I was in Colombo continuing my studies. Every day, I tuned in to Radio Maldives. The signal was faint, but whenever my mother’s voice emerged through the noise, it brought home a little closer.

Then Malé was attacked.

I knew what was happening, but the telephone lines had been cut and the radio signal had disappeared. I could not contact my family. I did not know if the people I loved were safe.

That night, I kept waking and turning on the radio.

Static.

Then, towards dawn, a signal returned.

And I heard my mother’s voice announcing that the Maldives had been saved.

To the nation, she was delivering the news.

To me, she was delivering my family back.

If my mother had gone to the radio station, I knew everyone at home must be safe. For a frightened son thousands of kilometres away, that was proof enough.

Thirty-eight years later, on the National Day of the Maldives, that memory returned to me.

My mother, Najma Hussain—affectionately known to the public as Najmaatha—received the National Award of Honour in the Field of News and Information Dissemination from the President of the Maldives for her outstanding service to the nation.

Today, the nation carried its gratitude back to her.

My mother joined Radio Maldives on 8 July 1970. She began as an announcer and rose through the institution as a senior announcer, presenter-producer, programme organiser, senior programme organiser and finally, director.

By the time she retired on 1 April 2009, she had devoted nearly thirty-nine years of her life to public broadcasting. Retirement, however, did not silence that familiar voice; she continues to lend it to private radio stations.

But job titles tell only a small part of her story.

She read the news, wrote and presented programmes, produced content and trained a new generation of broadcasters. Her programmes covered almost every part of Maldivian life—our national identity, Islamic history, fishing, health, family, youth, the environment, and Dhivehi language and literature.

In many ways, her work became a record of how a young country spoke to itself while it was growing.

She continued learning throughout her career, undertaking professional training in the Maldives and abroad. More importantly, she returned and shared that knowledge with those who followed her.

A voice can present a programme.

A mentor helps create many more voices.

My mother never served the nation in search of applause. Like so many people of her generation, she simply believed that the work entrusted to her had to be done properly.

This award does not create her worth.

It recognises what was already there.

For generations of Maldivians, Najmaattha was a familiar and trusted voice. Her programmes informed them, educated them and kept them company.

But my own history with that voice is different.

It is the voice I searched for through the static.

It is the voice that reached me when every other connection to home had been severed.

It is the voice that told me my country had been saved—and, without speaking directly to me, told me that my family was safe.

On that morning in 1988, I felt proud of my mother.

Today, I feel that same pride again.

Only deeper.

The nation may remember Najmaattha as a broadcaster, producer, mentor, director and recipient of the National Award of Honour.

I will always remember her as the voice beyond the static.

The voice that brought home back to me.

Congratulations, Mamma.

May Allah reward you for every moment you devoted to the nation, bless you with good health and happiness, and make this honour a source of pride in this life and the next.

Aameen.

FOUR YEARS, AND I STILL WAIT FOR YOU

It has been four years, Bappa.

Four years since that Friday morning when the doctors fought for forty-five minutes to keep you with us.

At exactly 7:33 AM, they stopped.

My world did too.

That morning taught me one of the cruellest truths about grief: the worst moment of your life can happen quietly beside someone else’s perfectly ordinary day.

I once believed time would heal me.

It has not.

It has only taught me how to hide the wound better. How to smile while missing you. How to speak about you without allowing my voice to break.

Moving forward is not the same as moving on.

These four years have also taught me how dangerous the word “tomorrow” can be.

I thought there would always be another day to sit beside you. Another day to listen to your stories and record your memories.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask. But I kept postponing them because I believed we had tomorrow.

Tomorrow did come.

But you did not.

Now, all I have are the memories I return to again and again.

One memory that refuses to leave me is the day Taqi was born.

We were in Bangkok. You were in Malé.

When I called, I heard your happiness—and the sadness of a grandfather who could not be there to welcome his grandson.

“Don’t worry about anything,” you said.

That was all. But even from thousands of kilometres away, those words made me feel you were standing beside us.

I still remember the day you received a clean bill of health. You stretched your arms out proudly, almost like an athlete preparing for the Olympics.

We laughed.

You laughed with us.

It was such a small moment. I did not know then that I was standing inside a memory I would one day return to with tears.

That is the cruelty of memories. We can visit them as often as we want, but we can never stay. We can relive the moments we had, but we can never make new ones.

Did you know that almost everyone has moved into our house?

Everyone except you.

I often imagine how happy you would have been to see your children finally home. The rooms are full now, yet your absence fills them more than anything else.

I once believed strength meant not breaking.

Now I know it means waking up broken and continuing anyway. It means carrying sorrow without allowing it to become bitterness.

Most days, I manage.

But beneath all the strength I try to show, I am only a son who wants his father back.

Just for one day.

One hour.

One final conversation.

This time, I would not look at the clock. I would not postpone a single question.

I would tell you how deeply sorry I am for the distance I once allowed between us, and how much I regret the precious time we lost because of it.

I would hold your hand and tell you how much I love you. How much I still need you. How empty the world has felt without you.

I would keep saying it until I was certain you had heard me.

It has been four years, Bappa.

My mind knows you are not coming back.

But knowing has never stopped my heart from waiting.

I miss you more than these words could ever hold.

May Allah forgive all your sins, fill your grave with light, widen it beyond measure, and grant you the highest place in Jannat al-Firdaus.

Ameen.

THE SHAPE OF TRUST

For more than two years now, every evening, almost with the precision of prayer, a crow visits my mother’s balcony.

Some evenings it comes alone.

Some evenings it brings another crow. Occasionally two.

Apparently, good restaurants don’t need advertising. They rely on word of beak.

My mother, of course, never disappoints. She feeds them every day.

What amazes me isn’t that the crow comes.

It’s that, somewhere along the way, it simply decided we were no longer worth fearing.

None of us can remember when it stopped flying away. It simply… decided one day that we were no longer something to fear.

Now, when any of us walk onto the balcony, it barely flinches. It looks at us with the confidence of an old neighbor who has borrowed sugar one too many times.

Every now and then I joke that my father has been reincarnated.

My family laughs.

The crow doesn’t.

It just stares at me with an expression that says, “Keep talking.”

Science, as it turns out, has an interesting explanation for all this.

Crows can recognize individual human faces. More impressively, they remember who treats them well and who doesn’t. They even pass that knowledge on to other crows. A kindness shown to one crow doesn’t always end with one crow.

Think about that for a moment.

We humans spend our lives believing that our reputation is built by what people say about us.

Perhaps it is built just as much by what we repeatedly do when nobody is keeping score.

To this crow, my mother is not “a human.”

She is a pattern.

A certainty.

She is the person who has never broken tomorrow’s promise with yesterday’s kindness.

That is why the crow comes back.

Not because it remembers the food.

Because it remembers what safety feels like.

Perhaps that’s how all trust is born.

Not through words.

Not through promises.

Through repetition.

Trust is simply predictability wearing kindness.

One kind gesture.

Repeated so many times that it becomes predictable.

And isn’t that what love really is?

Not grand declarations.

Just kindness that becomes so consistent, it starts feeling inevitable.

I also find it amusing that, despite having an entire balcony to themselves, the crows still prefer eating from the floor.

Success, it seems, doesn’t erase instinct.

And just when they’re peacefully eating, a myna arrives.

Within seconds, the crows chase it away with the enthusiasm of security guards protecting a luxury resort.

Somehow, our balcony has become their territory.

Or perhaps…

We’ve become part of theirs.

We often think we are observing nature.

Maybe nature has been observing us all along.

Maybe every small act of kindness leaves an invisible fingerprint—not only on people, but on every living thing that crosses our path.

The crow never thanks my mother.

It doesn’t need to.

It keeps coming back.

Sometimes, that is gratitude in its purest form.

Perhaps that’s the quiet secret of life. We are remembered far less for the extraordinary things we do… and far more for the ordinary kindness we repeat until someone, somewhere, stops being afraid of us.

Perhaps the purpose of kindness isn’t to change the world. Perhaps it’s simply to give one more living soul a reason to be a little less afraid tomorrow… if you ask me.

INGILI (2013): THE BET THAT CHANGED DHIVEHI CINEMA FOREVER

Twelve years ago today, a small Dhivehi film quietly walked onto an international stage and did something no Maldivian film had ever done before.

On 26 May 2014, Ingili won the Bronze Award at the SAARC Film Festival, while Ismail Rasheed brought home Best Actor. For the first time in history, a Dhivehi film had won at an international film festival.

Today, many may have forgotten the film.

And that’s okay.

Because some films are not made to dominate the box office. Some films are made to push boundaries. To test courage. To ask uncomfortable questions. To experiment with storytelling when playing safe would have been much easier.

Ingili was one of those films.

It was not a commercial success. It did not arrive with songs, glamour, or crowd-pleasing formulas. It was strange. Minimalistic. Dark. Unusual. The kind of film that made some audiences confused and others deeply curious.

But the producers took the risk anyway.

That is the part worth remembering today.

At a time when it was safer to repeat familiar formulas, a group of people decided to gamble on something different. Not because success was guaranteed. But because cinema grows only when someone is brave enough to fail publicly.

And honestly, there is something beautiful about that.

Because every industry needs films like Ingili.

Films that tell younger filmmakers they are allowed to try, to be different, and even to fail while searching for something new.

Without risk-takers, cinema becomes predictable.

Without experiments, industries become stagnant.

Looking back now, I don’t think the true victory of Ingili was the trophy itself. The real victory was proving that Dhivehi cinema could stand shoulder to shoulder with international films and still be noticed for its originality.

That moment mattered.

It gave confidence to many filmmakers who came after us. It reminded us that stories from a tiny island nation could travel beyond our shores. And perhaps most importantly, it proved that creativity does not always need permission.

Twelve years later, Ingili remains an important memory for me not because it was a hit… but because it dared.

And sometimes, daring is the first step toward history.

To my fellow producers, Ravee Farooq and Hussain Munawwar (who also beautifully masterminded the visuals behind the camera) — we were young, ambitious, and just crazy enough to believe we could pull this off. Thank you for sharing the risk and the vision. Ravee’s brilliant direction and Munawwar’s eye changed the game.

To our indomitable cast, Abdulla Muaz and Ismail Rasheed — you both carried the entire weight of this narrative on your shoulders. Ingili required you to strip away your layers performance-by-performance, building a psychological tension that still holds up flawlessly today.

And to our small crew, including our melody maestro Ikram, and our ever-dependable Production Manager Sofee, thank you all for carrying this film on your shoulders with passion, exhaustion, madness, and love. We were small in numbers, but our dreams were ridiculously oversized. Somehow, that helped.

You all proved that you don’t need a crew of hundreds to make a masterpiece. You just need the right people who refuse to compromise on quality. A special shoutout goes to the youth and community of K. Gulhi, who welcomed us and helped us wrap this project against all odds.

Twelve years later, I remain proud of every single person who stood behind Ingili.

History rarely begins with certainty.

Sometimes it begins with a small crew, a strange script, limited resources… and a reckless decision to try anyway.

Here’s to the legacy of Ingili. Let us once again dare to make a bet!

MY CEILING FAN KNOWS ARSENAL PAIN

For 22 years, being an Arsenal fan was not a hobby.

It was a medically undocumented emotional condition.

People think supporting a football club is just watching matches and celebrating goals.

No.

Supporting Arsenal was surviving trauma in weekly installments.

Every single season began the exact same way.

August arrives. New signings. Beautiful pre-season football. A random 4-0 victory against some team whose defenders probably work part-time at Tesco.

And suddenly I become a philosopher.

“This team feels different.” “There’s balance.” “There’s maturity.” “We have depth.”

DEPTH.

The biggest lie since “I’ll just watch one episode.”

Then September comes and Arsenal start playing football so beautiful it should be framed in a museum.

One-touch passing. Fluid movement. Young players smiling. Arteta standing on the sidelines looking like a mathematics professor who secretly knows how to kill people.

And that’s when the hope enters.

Dangerous hope.

The kind of hope that ruins marriages, sleep cycles and blood pressure readings.

By December, I start calculating fixtures like a conspiracy theorist.

“If Liverpool drops points against Spurs and City draws against Villa while we beat Brighton away after the international break…”

Brother, I had spreadsheets in my brain.

Then January arrives.

And with January comes our annual collapse package.

One injury.

Then another.

Suddenly our midfield was being held together by tape, prayer and one teenager from the academy.

Then comes THAT match.

Every Arsenal fan knows THAT match.

The one where a relegation team with a striker named something like Craig Butterworth suddenly turns into 1970 Brazil.

We dominate possession. Hit the post three times. Miss open goals. VAR develops temporary blindness.

And then in the 93rd minute…

BOOM.

Some defender who hasn’t scored since primary school heads in the winner.

Camera cuts to Arteta looking like a man watching his house, car and retirement savings sink into the ocean simultaneously.

Meanwhile I am lying in bed at 2:46 AM staring at the ceiling fan like it personally betrayed me.

My wife probably thought I had hidden debts.

Because after Arsenal losses, I walk around the house silently like a zombie heading to the nearest balcony.

Even breakfast tastes different.

Tea becomes sorrow soup.

And don’t get me started on the rival fans.

Chelsea fans. United fans. Liverpool fans. Even Tottenham fans — people who celebrate finishing above Arsenal like they’ve discovered a cure for cancer.

The names they called us…

“Banter FC.” “Bottlejobs.” “Trust the Process FC.” “Almost FC.” “Set Piece FC.”

Every year pundits lined up to perform Arsenal funerals before Easter.

Gary Neville spoke about us like a disappointed military officer. Carragher looked personally offended whenever we scored from corners. And rival fans treated our annual collapse like a public holiday.

Then came the knockout stages of every competition.

And this is where Arsenal became a falling domino set made by Satan himself.

Lose one match in the league.

Then suddenly: OUT of the FA Cup. OUT of Europe. League lead gone. Confidence evaporated. Entire fanbase googling “best meditation techniques after sports trauma.”

Every season ended the same way.

“We go again next year.”

The unofficial slogan of emotionally exhausted Arsenal fans worldwide.

But last night…

Football changed.

Manchester City. Bournemouth. A draw.

A DRAW.

I watched that match like a man waiting for medical test results.

Every Bournemouth clearance felt spiritual. Every City attack shortened my lifespan.

Then the final whistle blew.

Silence.

Beautiful silence.

No rival messages. No clown emojis. No “bottle job” tweets.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that happens when years of banter suddenly expire all at once.

And with one game in hand…

Arsenal have done it.

After 22 years.

TWENTY-TWO YEARS.

Some Arsenal fans became adults waiting for this. Some lost hair. Some gained cholesterol. Some probably named children “Thierry” hoping to manifest miracles.

And now here we are.

The memes survived. The suffering survived. Arteta survived. WE survived.

Today the ghosts finally left the Emirates.

Today the dominoes stopped falling.

Today sleep finally returns to my eyes.

At least until next season starts and one of our defenders accidentally passes the ball to the opposition in August.

Because deep down…

An Arsenal fan never fully relaxes.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have 22 years of screenshots, memes, bookmarked insults and emotional receipts to revisit.

Respectfully.

One by one.

Because we are finally champions.

Last night, for the first time in 22 years, my ceiling fan spun above me without witnessing suffering.

No silence.

No heartbreak.

No calculating league tables at 3AM like a conspiracy theorist.

Just peace.

Beautiful, unfamiliar peace.

And somewhere above me, that fan probably whispered:

“Finally.”

FROM AFAR, WITH LOVE

Watching you grow… through a screen, miles away — smiling like a proud uncle who hasn’t even had the honor of holding you yet.

That’s the strange magic of you, Yuvee.

I’ve seen you in videos that end too quickly.

In pictures I stare at a little longer than I should.

In the way your dad — my Malli — looks at you… like the world finally made sense.

You feel close… even from afar.

Because your mom — she doesn’t just share videos.

She shares pieces of love.
Every clip. Every photo.

A small window into your world.

And I keep thinking…

One day, I’ll meet you.

Not on a screen. Not through a call.

For real.

I’ll hear your laughter without speakers.

See you run without buffering.

And maybe — if you allow it —
I’ll carry you for a few steps…
before you decide you’re too fast for me.

Until then,

I’ll stay right here… watching, waiting, smiling.

Growing fond of a little boy I haven’t met yet — but already feel like I know.

Grow strong. Stay joyful.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Yuvee.

THE REAL SCRIPT DOCTORS

In my profession, we use big words.

“Character arcs.”
“Inner strength.”
“Resilience.”
“Transformation.”

We build women on paper. We debate their resilience. We engineer their courage. We sit around tables trying to make fictional characters feel real.

And yet, if I am honest, nothing I have ever written comes close to the women who shaped me.

The First Storyboard

My mother did something quietly radical.

She didn’t tell a dreamy boy to be practical.

She didn’t warn me that stories don’t pay bills.

She didn’t drag my head out of the clouds.

She handed me a ten-sheet drawing book.

That was it.

No speech. No grand encouragement. Just belief — folded into paper.

That little stack became my first storyboard.

While she worked at the radio station and raised eight children with a steadiness that felt almost supernatural, she was teaching me structure. Not cinematic structure. Life structure.

Wake up. Show up. Carry what must be carried. Repeat.

She was a quiet force. The kind of strength that doesn’t need volume. The kind that doesn’t need applause.

Sometimes when I write a resilient female lead, I smile.

Because I know I am not creating her.

I am remembering her.

The Architecture of Strength

Strength is often misunderstood.

We think it is loud.

We think it wins arguments.

We think it dominates rooms.

But real strength is architectural.

It holds weight without complaint.

It absorbs shock without collapsing.

It adapts without announcing the adjustment.

You don’t notice it — until you lean on it.

And most of us spend years leaning on it before we recognize it.

The Producer of My Life

Then there is my wife.

My muse. My fiercest critic. The silent producer of our daily production.

When I am stuck in the messy middle of Act Two — doubting plot points, rearranging scenes, chasing perfection — she is running something far more complex.

A family.

Schedules. Emotions. Responsibilities.

The invisible labor that never makes the end credits.

She reads my scripts and tells me when something rings true — and when I am hiding behind cleverness.

That kind of honesty is rare.

I may have the public credit.

She ensures the work is possible.

And that realization does something awards cannot.

It humbles you.

Living With the Strongest Characters

For years, I tried to write “strong female characters.”

I gave them sharp dialogue. Defiance. Bold decisions.

But the strongest women in my life rarely perform strength.

They practice it.

Daily.

They endure without theatrics.

They adapt without complaint.

They build without announcement.

Their resilience is not dramatic.

It is disciplined.

It is not scripted.

It is lived.

The Uncredited Editors

If I look carefully at my life, most of what I value was not taught through speeches.

It was demonstrated.

Patience.

Consistency.

Grace under pressure.

Emotional intelligence.

Not explained.

Modeled.

Many of us build careers standing on foundations we did not pour.

We accept applause supported by scaffolding we did not construct.

And only later do we realize who the real script doctors were.

They didn’t just support the story.

They shaped the storyteller.

Happy Women’s Day.

FIFTEEN: THE DAY I WAS BORN TOO

5 March 2011.

At 12:10 pm in Bangkok, you entered this world.

And in that exact second, I entered a new one too.

I became a father.

I have replayed that moment in my mind more times than I can count. The hospital light. The quiet tension in the room. The first cry — sharp, honest, alive. Then they placed you in my arms. You were small. Wrapped tight. Eyes half-open, as if you were studying this planet before deciding whether to commit.

I had written scenes for decades. Designed emotions. Crafted climaxes. Built heroes.

But nothing — absolutely nothing — prepared me for that close-up.

That was the day my real story began.

When you were little, I carried you everywhere. Morning walks. Evening walks. Five kilometers at a time. Every day. Your head resting on my shoulder. Your tiny fingers gripping my shirt as if I might vanish into thin air.

You probably don’t remember.

But I do.

I remember the weight of you. Not heavy. Never heavy. You weren’t weight.

You were purpose.

There was a day someone promised you a motorbike ride and didn’t show up. I still remember your face. The way your eyes searched the road. The way disappointment sat on your small shoulders like it didn’t belong there.

That day changed me.

I couldn’t promise to protect you from the whole world. But I could promise this: if you wanted to ride, I would be the one driving.

So I got my license.

For you.

You’ve grown into someone I admire in ways I don’t always say out loud.

Yes, you win matches. Yes, you juggle school, basketball tournaments, soccer training — and somehow still find the stamina to debate with me like a courtroom is waiting for you.

But it’s not the trophies that move me.

It’s your heart.

I see it in the way you care. Even when you pretend not to. Even in your teenage fire — those sparks that sometimes land directly on me. I won’t lie… sometimes they sting.

But inside?

I smile.

Because fire means you feel. Fire means you are alive. Fire means you are becoming.

Fifteen is not small.

It’s that beautiful bridge between boy and man. Not fully either. Strong enough to question. Brave enough to try. Young enough to dream without limits.

Some days you are calm like still water.

Some days you are lightning.

I see all of it.

And I am proud of all of it.

Here is something you may only understand years from now:

You have been my greatest teacher.

You taught me patience in ways no book ever could. You taught me humility. You taught me that love is not loud speeches — it is showing up. Again. And again. And again.

If life were a film, you would be my favorite long-running series. Every season better than the last. Plot twists I didn’t see coming. Comedy I didn’t expect. Action sequences that nearly gave me a heart attack. But always — always — heart.

Fifteen years ago, I held you in my arms.

Today, I watch you walk ahead of me. Taller. Faster. Stronger.

And I am still right here.

Not to control your road. Not to rewrite your script. Not to dim your fire.

Just to stand on the sidelines — and cheer the loudest.

Run hard. Stay kind. Guard your heart. Protect your fire.

And whenever the world feels too heavy —

Remember something simple.

I once carried you for miles.

And if you ever need it…

I still can.

…Although, let’s be honest — carrying you now might officially retire my lower back.

So maybe we’ll walk side by side instead.

Happy 15th birthday, my son.