Shabnum Rashid Khan

I write because it gives me pleasure.

Not because the world is waiting for my words. Not because I expect applause, validation, or agreement. I write because somewhere between the first sentence and the last, I lose track of time and find a version of myself that everyday life often hides.

Writing is one of the few places where I am completely free. Free to question, to remember, to imagine, to confess, and sometimes to heal. A blank page never interrupts, never judges, and never asks me to become someone else. It simply allows me to be.

People often ask writers who they write for. The truth is that not every piece is written for an audience. Some words are written for survival. Some for clarity. Some because thoughts become too heavy to carry in silence.

If someone reads my writing and connects with it, that’s wonderful. If nobody reads it, the purpose remains unchanged. The reward was never in being read; it was in the act of writing itself.

So I don’t write as a favour to others. I write as a favour to myself. Because in a noisy world full of expectations, writing is the one place where I can disappear into words and return feeling a little more whole than before.

Everyone applauds a doctor because they can see the prescription.

Nobody applauds a writer because they only see the finished page.

I always wanted to become a doctor. Life, however, had other plans. I studied Mass Communication and became a writer instead. Sometimes I think I merely exchanged one form of diagnosis for another.

Doctors study bodies. Writers study people.

A doctor listens to a heartbeat. A writer listens to the silence between words. A doctor examines symptoms. A writer examines insecurities, ambitions, hypocrisies, and wounds people spend years trying to hide.

My profession is observation. I collect fragments of humanity—a broken promise, an uncomfortable conversation, a lonely smile, a quiet act of kindness—and turn them into stories. Then I spend countless hours wrestling with sentences until they carry the weight of what I witnessed.

Yet writing remains one of the most underestimated professions in the world.

People casually say, “Anyone can write.”

Of course anyone can write.

Just as anyone can hold a stethoscope.

The question is whether they can diagnose something worth talking about.

Writing is not typing words. It is seeing what others miss. It is feeling what others ignore. It is staring at a blank page and somehow pulling meaning out of emptiness.

So whenever someone tells me that anybody can become a writer, I invite them to try.

Not a caption. Not a quote borrowed from someone else. Not a recycled opinion disguised as wisdom.

Just one original page.

One page that reveals a truth.

One page that survives criticism.

One page that makes a stranger feel understood.

Because the most uncomfortable thing about writing is this:

Most people don’t struggle to write because they lack vocabulary.

They struggle because they have spent their entire lives talking without ever truly observing.

When I was at school, birthdays felt different.

Some friends would spend hours making handmade greeting cards. Others would walk into Archies and carefully choose a card that cost only a few rupees. A few would save their pocket money for days just to buy a Rs 30 or Rs 100 chocolate.

None of those gifts were expensive. Yet, somehow, they felt priceless.

Today, people gift branded clothes, watches, perfumes, and jewellery. The price tags are larger, the packaging is fancier, and the gifts are objectively more valuable in monetary terms. But if I’m honest, many of those childhood gifts brought a kind of happiness that expensive presents often fail to recreate.

The reason is simple: we remember sacrifice more than cost.

A handmade card was never just paper folded into shape. It was time. It was thought. It was someone sitting at a table after school, choosing colours, drawing borders, making mistakes, starting over, and writing your name carefully because they wanted you to smile.

A Rs 30 chocolate was never just chocolate. It was a child deciding that out of the little money they had, a portion should be spent on you. They could have bought something for themselves. Instead, they chose you.

That is why gifts cannot be measured by price alone.

When a wealthy person spends Rs 5,000 on a gift, it may be generous. But when someone who has very little spends Rs30 or Rs100 on you, they are often giving a much larger part of themselves. The amount is smaller, but the sacrifice can be greater.

As we grow older, we often confuse value with cost. We start looking at brands, labels, and market prices. Children, however, understand something adults frequently forget: a gift is not valuable because of what it is; it is valuable because of what it represents.

The card represented effort.

The chocolate represented affection.

The gift represented remembrance.

And those things cannot be purchased in any store.

Perhaps that is why many of us still remember a handmade birthday card from twenty years ago, while struggling to recall who gifted us an expensive shirt or watch last year.

Because long after the chocolate is eaten and the card has faded, the feeling remains:

Someone thought of me when they didn’t have much, and still chose to give me something.

There is no luxury brand in the world that can compete with that.

People talk about sunshine as if happiness only arrives under a clear sky. I disagree. Some of the most peaceful moments of my life have come wrapped in dark clouds and falling rain.

Today, Kashmir is drenched. The rain has been pouring heavily since morning, turning the world outside my window into a moving painting. Ever since childhood, I have loved the sound of rain. There is something strangely comforting about it. The steady rhythm of raindrops on rooftops, leaves, and pathways feels less like noise and more like a conversation between the earth and the sky.

And then there is that smell.

The moment the first drops touch the soil, the air fills with the scent of wet earth. I can't describe it without feeling nostalgic. That fragrance has followed me since childhood, carrying memories of simpler days when happiness did not require explanations.

As I stood by my window today, I watched the garden come alive. The grass looked greener than it did yesterday, as if the rain had washed away its exhaustion. Every plant seemed refreshed. The leaves sparkled with tiny drops of water, and the entire garden exuded a calm, soothing energy that no luxury resort or expensive therapy session could ever replicate.

Eventually, I stepped outside.

Like I always do, I stretched out my hands and tried to catch the falling raindrops. For a few moments, I forgot about responsibilities, deadlines, and all the unnecessary worries that adulthood teaches us to carry. The cool water touched my skin, and I felt refreshed in a way that words rarely capture.

I love walking in the rain.

The irony is that I usually end up getting sick afterwards. Common sense tells me to stay indoors. Experience confirms the same. Yet every time it rains, the child inside me wins the argument. Some joys are stronger than logic.

Perhaps that is why rain feels so special.

It reminds us that not everything valuable has to be practical. Not every beautiful experience needs to be efficient, productive, or sensible. Sometimes, standing under a cloudy sky and feeling raindrops on your face is enough.

But maybe that is the uncomfortable truth about growing up: we spend years learning how to protect ourselves from getting wet, only to realise that in the process we have also shielded ourselves from feeling truly alive.

This morning, I woke up earlier than usual and heard the gentle chirping of birds outside my window. There was something incredibly soothing about it. Before the noise of traffic, notifications, deadlines, and responsibilities could fill the day, these tiny creatures had already begun theirs with a song.

As I listened, I wondered how they manage to wake up so early every single day without alarms. We, humans, set multiple alarms, hit snooze repeatedly, and still struggle to leave the comfort of our beds. Yet these little birds rise with the dawn as if they are perfectly in tune with life itself.

For a moment, I thought about how simple their lives must be. They do not worry about school, college, office deadlines, promotions, bills, social status, or what others think of them. They do not spend their days chasing wealth or comparing their lives to others. Their primary concern is finding enough food to survive another day.

And somehow, they set out each morning with faith.

They do not know where every seed or insect will come from, yet they fly out confidently. They trust that what they need will be provided. Whether you call it instinct, nature, or faith in their Creator, there is something profoundly beautiful about that trust.

What struck me even more is that birds do not spend their energy pulling each other down. They are not obsessed with proving they are better than the next bird. They are too busy living—too busy building nests, raising their young, searching for food, and singing their songs.

Meanwhile, we humans—blessed with intelligence, technology, and endless opportunities—often exhaust ourselves with comparison, competition, jealousy, and judgement. We worry about things that have not happened yet and carry burdens that may never arrive.

I wish we humans could live this peacefully too.

I wish we could wake up each day without carrying yesterday’s grudges and tomorrow’s fears. I wish we could celebrate another person’s success without feeling threatened by it. I wish we could trust a little more, compare a little less, and remember that life is not a race where only one person gets to win.

The birds do not seem concerned with being famous. They do not seek validation for every song they sing. They simply live as they were created to exist. Perhaps that is why their melodies sound so free.

Maybe true peace is not found in having more money, more status, or more control. Maybe it is found in wanting less, trusting more, and learning to appreciate the ordinary moments we often rush past.

The birds reminded me of that this morning. Their songs were not just sounds; they felt like a lesson.

And as their voices echoed through the quiet air, I couldn’t help but wonder: if creatures so small can greet each day with such faith and contentment, what happened to us?

“Good times tell the world who you are; hard times tell you who your real people are.”
Success has a strange way of attracting people. When life is easy, your phone rings often, your achievements are celebrated, and many seem happy to walk beside you. But prosperity can be deceptive. Sometimes people are not truly attached to you—they are attached to your comfort, your influence, or the opportunities that come with knowing you.

Difficult times strip all of that away.

When you lose, fail, fall ill, or have nothing left to give, the crowd quietly disappears. The messages stop. Invitations fade. Those who once promised forever suddenly become too busy. And that painful silence teaches a lesson no success ever can.

Good times introduce you to the world.
Bad times introduce the world to you.

The ones who stay when there is no advantage, no applause, and no reward are the people who value your presence more than your circumstances. They don’t judge your worth by your wealth, status, or success. They simply choose you.

Perhaps that is why adversity, despite its cruelty, is one of life’s most honest teachers. It strips away the masks that comfort allows people to wear and leaves behind only what is genuine.

Because the brightest days reveal your identity, but the darkest nights show you your family, your friends, and the hearts that never needed your sunshine to remain.

The human mind has a strange habit. It turns blessings into burdens the moment it sees someone else’s life.

Take the example of two women.

One goes to work every morning. She is educated, financially independent, and successful in her profession. She earns her own money, drives her own car, and never has to ask anyone before making a purchase. To many, she is living the ideal life.

The other is equally educated but stays at home. She raises her children, manages the household, remembers every birthday, every doctor’s appointment, every little detail that keeps a family together. She is there when her children return from school, when they are sick, when they need comfort, and when they want someone to listen.

Now watch what comparison does.

The working woman looks at her neighbour and thinks,
“She is the lucky one. She gets to watch her children grow up. She can rest when she wants, spend time with her family, and enjoy moments that no promotion or salary can ever replace. I have achieved things people admire, but somehow I still feel that I am missing what truly matters.”

At the very same moment, the homemaker looks at the working woman and thinks,
“She is the lucky one. She is independent, respected, and financially secure. She has an identity outside her home and the freedom to buy what she wants without depending on anyone. My entire day is full of work, yet the world doesn’t even call it work.”

Neither woman is wrong.

And neither woman is completely right.

Because each one is looking at the reward and not the sacrifice that comes with it.

The working woman does not see the loneliness that can exist in a home once the children grow older, nor the countless invisible things a mother does.

The homemaker does not see the guilt of missing school functions, the pressure of deadlines, or the exhaustion of carrying both a career and a family.

One is rich in moments.
The other is rich in independence.

One fears she is losing herself.
The other fears she is losing time.

The irony is that both are working. One’s labour builds a career; the other’s builds a home. One receives a salary at the end of the month, the other receives love that often goes unnoticed.

Perhaps comparison is not the thief of joy because it makes us want more.

Perhaps it is the thief of joy because it convinces us that the life we have is somehow less valuable than the life we merely observe.

And the uncomfortable truth is this:

If these two women could exchange lives for just one month, they would probably come back with a little more respect for each other—and a little more gratitude for the burdens they once called blessings.

Stop calling yourself patient when, deep inside, you’re keeping score against God.

I know that feeling.

I keep praying because I have faith in Allah. I believe that what I ask for is not impossible for Him. I believe that one day, in shaa Allah, my prayers will be answered. Yet there are days when setbacks pile up so heavily that faith feels harder to carry. Days when another closed door, another disappointment, another delay makes me wonder whether my prayers are being heard at all.

And then I complain.

I complain about the hardships. I complain about the waiting. I complain about the prayers that seem unanswered and the dreams that remain suspended between hope and reality. I ask why life has been written this way for me while others seem to receive what they seek with ease.

But faith has a strange way of reminding us of what we already know.

A single drop of rain can travel through clouds, winds, changing temperatures, and thousands of miles just to land exactly where it was meant to. It does not lose its destination because storms exist. It does not miss its purpose because the journey was difficult.

So why do I doubt that what is written for me can find me?

If a drop of rain can cross skies to touch my face, then what Allah has decreed for me can cross every obstacle to reach my life. No delay can erase it. No rejection can steal it. No person’s jealousy, betrayal, manipulation, or conspiracy can block it. What is truly meant for me does not need directions. It already knows my address.

Perhaps the delay is not denial.

Perhaps the waiting is preparing me for what I keep asking for.

Perhaps some prayers are taking longer because the version of me receiving them does not yet exist.

And maybe every setback that feels like evidence of abandonment is actually evidence of a story still being written. A story where the closed doors become protection, the tears become purification, the losses become redirection, and the disappointments become the very things that make the blessing meaningful when it finally arrives.

So I will continue to pray.

Not because I understand every delay, but because I trust the One who controls them.

Not because life has been easy, but because Allah has never promised ease without purpose.

And not because I know when my prayers will be answered, but because I know they are not lost.

One day, in shaa Allah, the setbacks will become comebacks. The waiting will make sense. The unanswered questions will find their answers. And the prayers that seemed stuck in the heavens will arrive exactly when they were meant to.

The uncomfortable truth is that the hardest test of faith is not believing that Allah can answer your prayer.

It is continuing to trust Him while He makes you wait.

We are from that era where people were real and filters were for water.

There was a time when conversations were not edited, faces were not airbrushed, and lives were not measured by likes. People laughed with crooked teeth, cried without hiding, and showed up exactly as they were. If someone wanted to know how you were doing, they knocked on your door or called your home phone—not because an app reminded them, but because they genuinely cared.

Back then, memories were stored in old photo albums with blurry pictures and closed eyes. Nobody deleted a photograph because it wasn’t “perfect.” The value was in the moment, not in how it looked to strangers.

Today, almost everything comes with a filter. We smooth our skin, brighten our smiles, edit our vacations, and even rehearse our personalities for social media. Ironically, the more connected technology has made us, the more carefully we hide our real selves.

We often hear that times have changed, and they have. But perhaps what we miss is not the absence of technology—it is the presence of authenticity. We miss friendships that survived without constant updates, love that didn’t need public validation, and a world where being ordinary was enough.

“We are from that era where people were real and filters were for water” is not just nostalgia. It is a quiet reminder that authenticity was once considered normal, not brave.

And maybe the saddest part of the modern world is this: the water no longer needs filtering as much as our carefully manufactured lives do.

How strange it is.

We fill our phones with thousands of songs. Gigabytes of music sit in our pockets, available at the touch of a screen. We can choose any artist, any genre, and any mood within seconds. Yet sometimes an old song playing unexpectedly on a radio brings a smile that no playlist ever could.

Maybe happiness was never hidden in unlimited choices.
Maybe it was hidden in surprise.

How strange it is.

We dream of sitting in luxury hotels, surrounded by influential people, elegant interiors, and expensive menus. We imagine that sophistication must feel like fulfilment. Yet some of our happiest memories are made on plastic stools beside a roadside tea stall, laughing with friends over a cup that costs less than a bottle of water.

Because people rarely remember the price of the tea.
They remember who sat across from them.

How strange it is.

We work hard to buy bigger cars and imagine ourselves driving endlessly down beautiful roads. We believe freedom has four wheels and a powerful engine. Yet the conversations that heal us most often happen while walking beside someone we trust, with no destination, no fuel, and no hurry.

The road was never the point.
The company was.

How strange it is.

We save money for branded clothes. We chase labels, trends, and admiration. We dress to impress strangers who will forget us by tomorrow. Yet after a long day, the outfit we rush back to is the simplest one waiting at home. Soft pyjamas. Bare feet. A cup of tea. A quiet evening.

Because comfort speaks a language that status never learns.

Perhaps the strangest thing about human beings is that we spend so much of our lives chasing symbols of happiness while repeatedly finding happiness in ordinary things.

We chase luxury and treasure comfort.
We chase attention and treasure connection.
We chase possessions and treasure memories.

The world keeps telling us that more is better.

But our hearts keep proving that meaningful is better.

And maybe that is the uncomfortable truth:

Most of the things we desperately want are not the things we truly need. By the time many people realise this, they have spent years climbing ladders that were leaning against the wrong wall.