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.
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.
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.
Some scripts you wrestle into shape. Others… they quietly unravel you while you’re trying to write them.
This one was different from the very beginning.
It arrived as a spec script from a brilliant writer/director, with a strong central idea — but instead of tracing the original lines, I found myself slowly dismantling it, piece by piece, and rebuilding it into something far more internal. Far more unsettling. And far more… me.
The journey wasn’t straightforward. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever rewritten the third act of a screenplay so many times in my life — not because it didn’t work, but because I kept uncovering deeper truths the characters were hiding. Especially the protagonist. He wasn’t just grieving. He was living in the ghost of what he lost.
What began as a psychological drama soon evolved into something deeper — a layered family story about what holds people together even when they drift apart. At its heart, this became a film about how much a family needs each other to stay afloat — even when one of them has emotionally disappeared.
This is a story about presence, absence, memory, and guilt — but not in the ways we usually tell them. Every character carries a wound. Some show it. Some bury it. Some don’t even know it’s there until it explodes into the room. The screenplay flirts with silence, leans into hallucination, and plays with emotional withholding in ways that made me both uncomfortable and strangely fulfilled.
At its core, it’s an exploration of how grief, when unprocessed, can become a kind of architecture — building rooms we live in, long after we should have left. I was fascinated by the idea of a man who hasn’t just lost his mother… but one who hasn’t let her go. That subtle difference shaped everything.
And let’s not forget the child in the story — quietly drawing her emotions in her art book. That subplot, in particular, shook me. Sometimes children say more in silence than adults ever do in monologues.
Now that it’s wrapped — and I mean really wrapped — I feel both emptied and enriched. Like I’ve said goodbye to someone I never really met… but somehow knew intimately.
This script didn’t come easy. But it came honestly. And I think that’s what makes this one special.
The title is still under wraps for now — but the screenplay is ready. And when it finds its audience, I hope it sits with them quietly… the same way it sat with me.
Twenty years ago today, you sat beside me in that stunning orange dress, your dupatta framing a face that held a thousand emotions: nervousness, joy, excitement — and those unforgettable tears. Not because you were unsure, but because you were stepping into the unknown. Little did we know we were embarking on a journey that would be more beautiful, adventurous, and downright hilarious than anything we could have imagined.
Our story began, like all great love stories, with a comedic twist. You mistook me for my kid brother on a phone call. Fate, with its playful grin, was clearly at work, steering us toward endless chats, epic Scrabble battles, and that one unforgettable karaoke session in Relax Inn where you sang “Ordinary World” and made my world extraordinary. From that point, love wrapped itself around us like a warm blanket, leading to the day we exchanged vows, surrounded by family and friends.
Then came the plot twist — our honeymoon. What began as a dreamy escape turned into a survival thriller faster than you could say “tsunami.” You were my hero that day, pulling me to safety from the jaws of danger. Speaking of jaws, remember earlier this year when a thug almost rearranged mine? Let’s just say your inner lioness roared so loudly that I thought he’d have to relocate to another galaxy. You called up everyone in your contact list, ready to turn the world upside down to find him. Honestly, I was more terrified of you than the thug. Thankfully, the issue simmered down before you launched your full-scale operation. But to this day, I tread carefully when I bring it up — for my jaw’s sake, of course!
Over the years, life has tested us, but it has also gifted us countless moments of joy. Like when I clean the house before you get home, just to see that priceless smile that lights up your face as you walk in, visibly tired but instantly delighted. And then, there’s the royal welcome committee — Kokko and I — stationed at the door, ready to greet you like a queen. We spring into action the moment we hear you ascending the stairs. Your handbag, which feels like it’s smuggling gold bricks, is ceremoniously taken from you as if it’s the crown jewels. Sure, I may not always use my brain as efficiently as you would like (ahem), but hey, this kind of devotion takes heart — and a decent back to carry that tonnage!
Of course, nothing warms our home quite like the magic you bring to the kitchen. From your signature crab curry to chicken rice, lemon rice, kabsa, and garudhiya with all the perfect side dishes, every bite still tastes as amazing as it did the first time. Kokko, naturally, is far better than I am at helping you whip up these culinary delights. My humble contribution? Keeping the kitchen clean and washing the dishes, which earns me another one of your Cheshire Cat smiles. And let’s not forget how you tease me about a certain “rat” in the house — me, obviously — who devours any chocolate or sweet you leave in the fridge. But here’s the shocker: the Husnuheena, or the durian chocolates that you and Kokko love, have stayed intact for days now. See? Miracles happen. Though, full disclosure — I did nibble on a piece of the durian chocolate a little while ago. But let’s agree the fridge still counts as intact… mostly.
And in the midst of all these shared moments, one of our greatest joys has been watching Kokko grow — your miniature doppelgänger and our little adventurer. Watching him is like seeing you in a smaller, cheekier package. He’s got your wit, your humor, and that side-eye that makes me wonder what roast is coming my way next.
You’ve always been the star of our story, the glue that holds everything together. From nurturing your bougainvillea with the tenderness of a mother (seriously, you talk to them more than I do) to conquering every challenge with grace, you are a force of nature. You juggle work, family, and passions with a brilliance that leaves me speechless — and for a writer, that’s saying something. Your strength is infectious, your laughter a melody that fills our home, and your determination a reminder that we can overcome anything.
Speaking of writing, you’ve been my muse, my editor, and my harshest critic. I still miss those times when you’d sit on my lap, skimming my drafts and turning my okay stories into unforgettable ones with just a few tweaks. Every screenplay I write carries a piece of you in it — your humor, your honesty, and your heart.
Our adventures together were nothing short of epic. From dancing to Love Is All Around Me to escaping tsunamis, from sunset strolls in Vilimalé to hotpot dinners in Bangkok, every moment feels like a scene from our very own blockbuster. Even on days when your “H-mode” eyebrows make an appearance, or PMS turns you into my fiercest sparring partner, I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.
Today is more than a milestone. It’s a celebration of us — of the laughs, the tears, the quiet moments, and the loud ones. It’s about the life we’ve built, the memories we’ve created, and the love that keeps growing stronger every single day. It’s about you, the woman who makes every moment brighter, every challenge easier, and every day worth waking up to.
Every moment with you has been a masterpiece. I can’t wait to see what the next chapter of our story holds — because with you, every page is extraordinary.
Thank you for being my Jessica, my SV, my partner in crime, and the queen of my heart. Thank you for laughing at my jokes, even the bad ones, and for standing by me through every twist and turn. May the next twenty years be filled with love, laughter, and a lifetime of adventures.
My dad was a man of simplicity and discipline, shaped by over three decades of military service. That discipline wasn’t just a part of his routine; it was who he was, woven into every fiber of his being. If he had to be somewhere, like a hospital for tests or leaving for a trip at 7:00 AM, you could count on him being ready by 6:00 AM sharp, dressed and prepared, as if he were about to march into the most important mission of his life. I’ve inherited that trait, though in a more relaxed form—if I need to be somewhere by 7:00 AM, I’m ready by 6:01 AM. It’s a small nod to the way he lived his life, always a step ahead, always prepared.
He held a special place in his heart for his grandchildren, a deep, quiet love that revealed itself in small, tender gestures. I can still picture those afternoons when he would sit patiently, his fist clenched, waiting for my son, Taqi, to come home from school. The anticipation in his eyes was unmistakable, a mix of excitement and affection. The moment Taqi walked through the door, my dad would call him over, that same clenched fist now outstretched toward him. Taqi, with his curious and trusting nature, would reach out and hold that hand. And when my dad finally opened his fist, there it was—a rolled-up five Rufiya note, a small gift, but one that carried so much meaning for him.
For my dad, giving Taqi, or any of his grandchildren, that little bit of money wasn’t just about the money itself. It was his way of showing love, of feeling connected to his grandchildren in a way that words couldn’t capture. The smile that would light up his face as he handed over that small gift was priceless, a glimpse into the deep joy he found in these simple acts of kindness. And Taqi, being the generous soul that he is, would thank him for that money, never holding onto it too tightly, just as my dad would have wanted. It’s a memory I hold close, a reminder of the quiet, profound ways my dad expressed his love.
Adios 2012. And hello 2013. I wish all my fellow bloggers a fabulous year ahead. Let there be peace, love and understanding in this world not just this year but until the end of time. But most importantly, keep blogging!
Mahdi Ahmed 