observations.

We marvel at the hush of stars, pin them to ceilings, etch constellations in our wrists, but forget the clamor of crickets that stitch the night from the ground up. A child presses her ear to a seashell, searching for the echo of oceans she's never seen meanwhile, the rain on her roof sings the same, in a tongue too familiar to be holy. We praise the silence of ancient ruins, travel miles to walk on sunbaked stone but curse the crumbling wall at the back of our homes where moss writes slow histories in a green script we never read. the pebble beneath our shoe once lived a thousand years in riverbeds "O, that is nuisance, not a memory." What are we? We are exiles from the republic of immediacy, tourists in our own elements, worshippers of distance,pilgrims of what is already gone. -Fahad Fayaz

Spring arrives not merely as a season but also as a provocation an ontological rupture veiled in blossoms. The word spring-echoes resistance, the image of coiled tension released, of a world rebounding from winter's pressure, yet this very recoil gestures toward a deeper disquiet, what does it mean to return, cyclically, to life, to warmth, to bloom, if each return is shadowed by the certainty of decay? Is spring a resurrection or a repetition compulsion? In its relentless re-emergence, does it affirm life or mock it by reducing it to a patterned inevitability? If it does? perhaps then, to celebrate spring is to tacitly accept the farce of renewal; to lament it is to resist the seduction of nothing but a mere illusion. Either way, it demands reckoning, not with flowers, but with time, death, and the myth of progress. Fahad Fayaz

I ride through streets where history lingers, branded, sold, left in the rain? A hand lifts, reaching— not for bread, but for the illusion of choice? The warmth is the capital now, a coffee clutched against the cold of a world that forgets its own hands? What happened? Clocks ring and not tick Where to find the meaning? Is it indifference or ignorance? Postmodernism or anything else?

Rain, are you a mirror or a glass? I see manicured hands lifting lenses high — then sitting back in their cars and snap! and snap! and snap! A filtered drizzle, an aesthetic post, "what scenery and a calming sound!" While gutters swell and laborers lie. Each drop applauded from a Hamam-house view Falls like debt on backs already bowed. The city's arteries clog with rue, But captions call it "beauty overflowed" Their poetry pools in rooftop drains, While we wade deep through the working rains.

BISCUIT   Appetite is never just about hunger; it is a script written long before a child takes their first bite. It is the quiet arithmetic of power, the silent language of class. It dictates who eats well and who merely eats, who dines in abundance and who measures each morsel like a transaction.  One afternoon, in a government office, I saw the entire structure of society laid bare—not through policy documents or official decrees, but through biscuits, at the gate, the watchman sat hunched on a splintered wooden stool, tearing into a dry loaf of bread. Some tea in a worn-out steel cup, no butter—only dry crumbs falling onto the cold cement floor, that meal was not a matter of choice but of necessity, or maybe not but a calculated survival, the cheapest way to quieten an empty stomach. Inside, in the cramped corners of the office, the peon stirred his tea with care, dipping a single Parle-G biscuit into the cup, holding it in just long enough for it to soften b...

 "There are no good and bad movies, only good and bad directors" -François Truffaut This scene is from Asghar Farhadi’s "The Salesman" (2016) in this scene where Rana tells Emad about the pick-up truck being missing from the place where she had parked it, throughout the brilliance of Faradhi surfaces itself not only in terms of cinematic aesthetics but the psychological depictions as well, the long-short camera cuts, Emad's handsign of appology two times and visible fear on the face of Rana tells exactly what Farhadi wants to convey, transformation of the assault from a random act of violence into something that feels almost targeted, intensifying Emad’s sense of violation and anger. This revelation propels Emad further down the path of seeking justice—or revenge—setting the stage for the film’s moral and emotional climax. Emad’s realization is not dramatized with overt expressions of rage or shock; instead, it is conveyed through subtle facial expressions and b...