HEARTBEAT
The Silence of Fulfilment
This was my first published book. The cover was my own creation—the jacket, my design; the sketch, drawn by my own hand. One might imagine that such a moment would stir a man to tears or triumph, to exultation or at least the quiet warmth of accomplishment. And yet, when at last I held it—this tangible fruit of countless unseen hours—I felt... nothing.
Not despair. Not joy. Simply a vast and curious stillness.
The noise of the world seemed to fall away. My senses, usually so alert to texture, colour, scent, became strangely dull, as though muffled by an unseen veil. I looked at the object in my hands, and yet I did not see it. My mind, it seemed, had quietly taken leave of my body and gone elsewhere—to a place of calm so deep it could not be named.
It was not indifference, nor was it elation. It was peace—not the peace that shouts, but the kind that slips in when all expectation is hushed and all striving laid down. In that strange moment, I was not the creator, nor even the recipient of creation—I was simply a witness to something that had passed beyond me, into the world.
And perhaps that is as it should be.
Location: My house
INNER VOICES
Whispers from the Margins
My second book took the form of Inner Voices—a curious anthology, gathering strange and spectral tales from the shadowed corners of the globe. It was a collection not intended to comfort, but to unsettle; to provoke a shiver of thought where once there was certainty. I was quietly pleased to see my own work included among its pages—not for vanity’s sake, but because it had found its place among stories that spoke with a peculiar candour: unnerving, unbidden, and true in ways the waking world often dares not admit.
There was, I must confess, a certain satisfaction in knowing that what I had written could trouble the still surface of a reader’s calm—that it might, if only for a moment, dislodge them from the safety of their assumptions. For sometimes, it is in the shock of the strange that the soul hears its own inner voice most clearly.
Location: My house
CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL ON FRIENDSHIP
A Tale of Companions and Their Callings
My third book bore within its pages a story drawn not from fancy, but from the wellspring of memory—a recollection of two companions from the unclouded days of youth. One was C. M. Poonacha, whose path has since led him to the dignified heights of the High Court bench and the stewardship of one of India’s foremost legal institutions, LEXPLEXUS. The other, Nagesh Manay, hails from the distinguished Manay lineage and has carved his name in the world of ideas and images through Opus CDM, a firm as bold in spirit as it is refined in craft.
To write of them was no exercise in nostalgia alone, but a quiet meditation on the mystery of friendship—that strange and sacred bond which time does not sever, but transfigures. In childhood we played at destiny; in manhood, they met it.
It was, in truth, a joy to let their stories take root in print, for in chronicling their lives I was reminded how the seeds sown in the schoolyard sometimes grow into towering oaks, under whose shade a great many find shelter.
Images Copyright (c) Farahdeen Khan
Location: My house
CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL CELEBRATING BROTHERS AND SISTERS
On Grace, and the Friends Who Cherish It
This book remains especially dear to me, for it was once again shaped under the gentle and discerning eye of my beloved friend, Baisali Chatterjee Dutt—who had also served as editor on my previous work. To say she is among the kindest souls I have ever known would be no exaggeration, but rather a modest truth. Her absence from Bangalore leaves, even now, a quiet ache—like a familiar lamp once lit and now missing from the corner of the room.
The story itself was close to my heart, for it sought to revive a theme much neglected in our present age: the quiet nobility of manners, the hidden strength of grace. In a world where coarseness has masqueraded as authenticity, and insolence is paraded as charm, I found it necessary—perhaps even urgent—to offer a gentle defence of dignity.
There is nothing quaint or outdated in kindness, nor is courtesy a relic of a less enlightened past. These are not ornaments, but foundations—marks of a civilisation that still remembers how to be human. And in writing this tale, I hoped, however faintly, to remind the reader of that forgotten truth.
Location: My house
DAWN AND DUSK
Of Brotherhood and the Blooming of a Book
Dawn and Dusk—of all the books I have written—remains, to my mind, the finest fruit of my labours thus far. When the revered publishers at Westland wrote to inform me that it would be released first in digital form for six months, I confess I was quietly elated. The thought that my words would find a home in the swift, unseen current of the digital world thrilled me in a way I had not expected.
No sooner had I received the news than I rang my brother, Subi Samuel—a man whose faith in me has long surpassed my own. After a warm congratulations, he said, without pause or preamble, that he would design the cover himself.
Now, I ask you—what can one say of such a moment? How does one describe the quiet majesty of being seen, truly seen, by one who has watched your life from its earliest murmurings? Subi had seen me not merely as I am, but as I was—when my thoughts were still formless, my voice still untrained, my hopes unspoken. He had watched, like the gardener watches the tender green shoot, hoping, praying, yet never presuming. And now, for him to lend his own artistry to this work—to clothe it, as it were, in a garment of his design—was to me an honour beyond the telling.
And more astonishing still: amid the flurry of his professional life, between the flares of camera flash and the hush of studio lights, he found the time to conjure not one but several designs—each wrought with thought, with care, and with the quiet love that only a brother can give.
To say I was proud would be too simple; I was moved, deeply and unspeakably, as one is moved not by achievement alone, but by the shared joy of those who have walked beside you from the very beginning.
The Counsel of Kindred Spirits
No sooner had my eyes fallen upon the cover designs Subi had lovingly fashioned than I was overcome with a kind of joy that defies precise measure—a joy too keen to be kept to oneself. There are moments in life when one’s elation seeks not merely an audience but a kindred spirit—someone who, by nature and not merely by effort, understands the inner architecture of your excitement, and mirrors it as if it were his own.
For me, that person was Ali Zafar—known to many as a luminous artist, but known to me more intimately as “Zee,” a brother and buddy whose intuition for beauty and proportion is matched only by the warmth of his heart. His ability to breathe life into anything he touches is not his second nature—it is his very first, as integral to him as light is to flame.
And so, without hesitation, I dispatched the images Subi had sent—those hopeful emblems of my labour—via iMessage to Zee. What followed was no less than an act of gentle wizardry. With the grace of one who sees what others only strain to glimpse, his reply came almost at once: “The second one, with the lady. The pink should yield to green. Your name must rest in the footer, and the title should crown the header.”
Concise, precise, and as always, unfailingly sound.
I forwarded Zee’s discerning suggestions to Subi, and as if by some divine orchestration, scarcely thirty minutes later a new version appeared—refined, clarified, and, to my mind, quite perfect. It is this rendering that I now offer to you for your viewing pleasure—a testament not only to aesthetic refinement, but to the rare and sacred fellowship of creative souls.
Of Gratitude, Brotherhood, and the Labour of Love
When I sent the newly reworked jacket design to Ali Zafar, his response was simple, yet resounding—a silent thumbs-up, which from him, conveyed not mere approval, but a quiet benediction. There are certain souls in this world whose affirmation carries the weight of grace; and his was such.
To have received the unstinting generosity of two of the finest men I have known—Subi Samuel and Ali Zafar—was a gift for which I shall remain unspeakably grateful all the days of my life. Their involvement was not mere assistance—it was a gesture of love, woven into artistry, offered without condition.
And thus, this particular jacket—shaped by Subi’s eye and refined by Ali’s counsel—shall, for me, be unmatched. That is, until the day when Ali, with brush in hand, paints the cover of the book that gathers the entirety of my life’s work, and Subi, with lens in hand, captures the light and shadow of that final offering. But until such a time arrives, let this book stand as a modest altar of gratitude.
I dedicate it to Subi, my brother in every sense but blood—my steady guide, my harbour in storm. To Ali, my younger brother, whose wit is matched only by his wisdom, and whose every word has been a lodestar on my journey. And to Rahul, my heart’s own younger sibling, who never ceases to spur me on with the loyal provocation only a true brother can give—always challenging, always believing, always there.
Such bonds are rare, and I count myself rich indeed.