In the shadow of a mulberry tree, a circle of men gather not just to share tea and tasks, but to weave bonds of care and vulnerability. In this Chitrali mehfil, I rediscovered a tenderness in men, a quiet poetry in their companionship that defies modern notions of masculinity and healing.

In Islamabad, I meet Fatima—a woman I’ve known for years, now unrecognisable. Her life, stripped bare by a society that devours its own, unfolds before me. Over chai, her numbness speaks louder than her words. Survival has replaced hope; faith, a fragile anchor. I weep for her—and for us all.

As a child, I dreamed of Makkah through the Kaaba’s serene images, symbols of purity and faith. Standing before it as an adult, heartbreak replaced awe. High-rises now overshadow sacred mountains, and the Prophet’s simplicity is buried under opulence. What was once holy feels suffocated—faith commodified, history erased.

In summer 2024, I returned to Chitral, a place that transformed me. Amid wild beauty and creative contradictions, I found a home in its simplicity. From chai with strangers to writing under a walnut tree, I embraced a quiet arrival into a life that feels both sacred and utterly mine.

In the blistering heat of the summer of 1996, my family and I embarked on a journey that would gently unfurl layers of memory and emotion, as persistent and pervasive as the sun itself.

The West, with its ostentatious facade and unacknowledged fault lines, remains blissfully unaware and ignorant of its role in this global theatre of injustice. Its hysteria, a mask to cover the underlying apathy and disinterest in the plight of those beyond its immediate sphere.

As I meander through the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh, where the mists of Duddingston, Brunstane, and Portobello weave into my daily backdrop, I am constantly reminded of the fluidity of my existence

The wintry air wrapped us in nostalgic embraces, and as I wandered the terraces of my grandfather’s home, I was drawn to a spare room, where memories lay ensnared in the form of VHS tapes.

In the quiet corners of childhood memories, where past and present blend and fade, I return to the disorder of spools of tactile and meditative threads.

In the dimly lit room, the art workshops were more than just about crafting masterpieces; they were a fusion of souls and stories. Adil, with his rich tapestry of experiences, melded effortlessly with women of different backgrounds, creating a non-hierarchical dance of creativity.

The laughter of Pakistani uncles, a boisterous and unabated joy, shakes the room's very foundations. It feels like a serenade, echoing tales of old cities and ancient gatherings. As they drink their chai, the rich aroma of the brew mingles with that of tobacco.

On those rare Saturday mornings when Ami has the day off, I cherish our breakfasts together, even as someone in his late 30s.

I am a performer on the world's stage, my healing a charade, my peace a treacherous entity. Yet, I dance in the world's mirror, taking my seat before the portal of Zoom, plunging myself back into the abyss of ego.

Enshrined in my memory are the Chinar trees, an endangered species that exudes a sense of majesty and extravagance. I recall my first meeting with these giants in 2011 at the Mountain Inn guesthouse.

In an era defined by uncertainty, identity politics, and the shifting sands of global power, the concept of Khudi - selfhood - espoused by the celebrated philosopher and poet Allama Iqbal, offers a powerful and prescient vision for navigating the complexities of the world.

This habit is old; I collect scraps of fabric; some are picked up from random places of my travels, and others are pieces of desire. The restlessness within my heart simmers; I take a moment to breathe and let the process of healing start.

Compassionate and gentle eyes on which perched warm, scattered dust. Reluctantly, I uttered ‘Asalamun Alaykum (peace be upon you), which instantly connected me with two older Uyghur men outside Id Kah mosque in Kashgar.

Gazing out from the Kadıköy Sahil, the abundance of glistening water dances like a scattering of misri rocks, trickling beneath a city camouflaged in multiple life modes.

I stroll down the promenade in Portobello (Edinburgh) snuggled in my Chitrali woollen Chogha (overcoat), sipping on a strong flat white and listening to a track by Arooj Aftab.