Stories Written, Moments Captured, Thoughts Framed.

Posts tagged ‘11 November’

MY MOTHER: THE BEST PART OF MY MORNINGS

Every year, today, the Maldives celebrates Republic Day.

And my mother celebrates her birthday.

I’ve always found that rather amusing. The entire nation gets a public holiday, flags go up, and celebrations take place. I’m not suggesting the country arranged all this for her, but knowing my mother, I wouldn’t entirely rule out the possibility.

This year has been particularly special for her.

Just three months ago, my mother received the National Award of Honour for her remarkable contribution to broadcasting.

Nearly four decades of service. A voice that became part of countless Maldivian homes.

But today, I want to celebrate the woman behind that familiar voice.

The mother who once handed a little boy a ten-sheet drawing book, unknowingly setting him on a lifelong journey of storytelling.

And the woman I now have the privilege of sharing breakfast with every morning.

For the past three years, this has become our little ritual. I sit with my mother over breakfast, and we talk about everything under the sun. Family, memories, politics, films, the world, and sometimes absolutely nothing important.

Just like two best friends having a conversation over coffee.

I cannot think of a more rewarding way to begin my day.

There are little things about these mornings that I have grown particularly fond of.

My mother has arthritis, which makes reaching certain things on the breakfast table difficult. She would point towards the bananas or her special portion of breakfast, and I would pass them to her.

These days, I’ve learned to arrange everything within her reach before she even sits down.

She no longer needs to point.

It’s such a small thing. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to understand that love often lives in these little gestures.

This is the same woman who spent much of her life looking after us. Now, being able to do something as simple as arranging her breakfast gives me a happiness I cannot quite put into words.

Since my father passed away, I’ve become more conscious of how precious these ordinary moments are. The conversations we take for granted. The laughter. The familiar voice across the table.

And the comfort of knowing she is there when another morning begins.

At fifty-five, I’m still that little boy with a head full of stories. Only now, I understand who first encouraged him to tell them.

The nation honoured my mother for the voice she gave its people.

I celebrate her for the love she gave me.

Happy Birthday, mother.

May Allah bless you with good health, happiness, peace, and many more beautiful years with us. Aameen.

With all my love.

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.