#excel urdu

[quatregats]

MULTILINGUAL SONG GOOD

[townpostin]

Gold Medalist Honored with Surprise Gift

Kolhan University’s Urdu Topper Receives Golden Ring from MLA Chakradharpur legislator’s spontaneous gesture celebrates academic excellence, highlighting community support for education in the region. CHAKRADHARPUR – At an Anjuman Islamia event, MLA Sukhram Oraon honored Kolhan University’s MA Urdu gold medalist Zabina Parveen with an unexpected gift of a gold ring. Anjuman Islamia Chakradharpur…

[archangeldyke-all]

POLYGLOT SEVIKA IS SO REAL TO ME

do u ever think she'll say idioms from another language that doesnt really work in english? like imagine overhearing her say "he's fart" when in her head she knows she's calling someone really drunk but the saying really only works in spanish, y'know?

this actually made me laugh out loud lmfaooo

men and minors dni

sevika grew up in a multi-lingual house. her mother spoke spanish, her father spoke hindi, and to one another they spoke in english.

by the time she was entering school, she was fluent in three languages. her little brain was so flexible and she loved learning so much that she took to new languages like a fish takes to water.

she excelled in her mandarin classes; while most students were struggling with the pinyin system, she was flying through the textbook and studying hanzi in her free time.

the little boy next door to her growing up spoke arabic with his family, and she picked up on the language with ease after years of playdates and shared dinners. that combined with her hindi meant that when an urdu speaking student joined her class in the third grade, she was able to act as a translator for them.

in high school she gets a job at a little mom and pop shop. the old couple who own it speak russian to each other, constantly yelling across the tiny store at one another. three months into the job, sevika finds herself cursing people out with slavic curses she didn't even know she knew.

so sevika grew up speaking a lot of languages. and she learned most of them through practical, every day use; not through textbooks and school. she's got a lot of sayings buried deep in her mind that she doesn't even remember learning, and sometimes, they don't always come out in the right language.

"aunt sev, did'ya know that i can do ten cartwheels in a row?" jinx asks as she hauls herself into sevika's lap.

sevika lets out a long sigh as she pushes her reading glasses into her hair and closes her book, turning her attention to her god-daughter. "wow." she mumbles tiredly. you chuckle from your chair.

"uh-huh! and i can do six back flips."

sevika snorts. "sure you can, kid."

"and i can dunk a basketball!"

sevika laughs. "okay, now you're hanging noodles on my ear." she says.

you snort from your spot. "she's doing what?" you ask.

sevika giggles. "shit, that's supposed to be in russian. veshat lapshu na ushi. y'know, like, uh... you're trying to trick me."

you giggle. "hanging noodles on your ear, huh?"

her little slip ups happen more frequently when she's tired.

"how was your day, sevi-bear?" you ask as you crawl into bed beside your girlfriend.

"ah. onions and honey, y'know." she mumbles.

you freeze, racking your brain to figure out what the hell she's talking about. you can't manage. "what?" you ask.

sevika blinks at you. "one day honey, one day onions, y'know?"

"so... you were having weird cravings?"

sevika laughs. "no, no, shit, i used the wrong language again."

you giggle. "what's it supposed to sound like?" you ask. you adore the sound of sevika's voice, regardless of if you can understand her or not.

"yom asal, wa yom basal. 's arabic." she whispers. you smile.

"your voice is like honey." you say. she snorts and leans forward to kiss you.

her mix-ups also happen when she's flustered.

"d-do you like it?" you whisper shyly.

sevika blinks at you, her eyes wide as she takes in your appearance. you've decided to surprise her tonight, buying a special set of sexy undies just for her.

"holy shit. you're beautiful." she whispers. you giggle.

"i read online that this color clashes with my skintone--"

"what do monkeys know of the taste of ginger, my love? you're gorgeous."

you burst into giggles. "sev-- what?!" you cackle.

she giggles and shakes her head. "bandar kya jaane adrak da swaad, fuck what those internet losers say, baby."

you're cut off from asking more questions by sevika's lips crushed against yours.

your favorite of all her slip ups happened when she was drunk.

you woke up to a thump in your home.

"sev?" you call. you can hear her giggling from the living room. you crawl out of bed and into the living room, laughing when you find your girl toppled over and struggling with her boots. "how was poker night?" you laugh as you bend over to help untie her shoes for her. sevika grins at you, wiggling to try to pull you onto the floor with her.

"baby. 'm so fart right now."

you blink, then sniff the air. "i don't smell anything, baby. you need me to help you to the toilet?" you ask.

sevika laughs. "no, no, baby. i'm fart! farted! whatever."

you shake your head in confusion, and then it hits you. "sevika, estas pedo!?" you ask with a laugh.

sevika grins and nods up at you. "yes! 'm fuckin' wasted! y'r so beautiful, i love y' s'much."

you giggle and haul your wife to her feet, gently guiding her toward your room. "i'll set a barf bucket and some painkillers out for you, okay?"

"mmm. wǒ ài nǐ." she mumbles into her pillow.

you giggle and kiss her forehead. "i love you too, you fart."

kofi

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

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taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3 @lesbones

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@nanajustnana-a @helaenabugmom @spookymomfriendtm @leeidk87

[wromwood]

I've completed my traditional process of watching the new Amazing Digital Circus episode in the different languages that I'm familiar with and/or trying to learn. As I watched the episode in Spanish, there was a really interesting change. During the "President Pomni" section, Kinger says:

"Bien, Sra. Presidente, parece que hay algunos nuevos desarollos en la guerra en curso entre Argentina y Uruguay."

This means that there appear to be some new developments in the ongoing war between Argentina and Uruguay. NOT Australia and New Zealand (the two countries referenced in the original English version). (Fun fact: Upon mentioning this change to my sister, she immediately started to laugh and said that Argentina and Uruguay are two countries that some people would see as "basically the same, but don't tell them that." Upon asking my mom, she said that those two countries definitely had reasons to feud. I don't know anything else about this.)

Naturally, to match the change, Jax is instead an Argentinian extremist (not Australian). He says "Che boludo!" (a phrase that Google-searching has revealed to be Argentinian) upon bursting in, and says that when his bomb explodes, "va a hacer que caiga nieve que mata gente..." (is going to make snow fall that kills people). Instead of dropping the act he's putting on and saying "Did I pick a bad time?", Jax says, "Me comí el garrón de la gran flauta?" Again, Google is telling me this is primarily an Argentinian phrase. It's harder to translate directly, but I think he's basically asking about what bad luck his timing had.

Even Caine's line directly afterward, when he calls Jax an excellent actor, is different! Instead of remarking that it's hard to believe Jax is vegan (referencing an earlier joke), he instead says, "No me puedo creer que sea argentino." (He can't believe Jax is Argentinian.)

Gangle is an extremist from Uruguay, but her lines are very similar to the English jokes, so we don't have to examine those. Still, it's interesting how much changed for this section! This made me check this specific scene across all languages.

Aside from Spanish, only one other dub chose to adapt the fictional war. The German dub pits Austria and Switzerland against each other. Jax is a Swiss terrorist, and he threatens to spread chocolate and cheese all over the world with his bomb.

Aside from Spanish and German, the countries of Australia and New Zealand remain at war in French, Japanese, Chinese, Dutch, Filipino, Hindi, Hungarian, Indonesian, Korean, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Thai, Turkish, Ukrainian, Urdu, and Vietnamese.

[sergiosimptellitto]

Palinoia

Chapter 2: Goya

goya (noun) Pronunciation | go-yaa Origin | Urdu Definition - story that feels like reality; - momentary suspension of disbelief that occurs when fantasy is so realistic that it temporarily becomes reality, usually associated with a story very well told

The hallway smelled like new paint and old dust. Students buzzed around, most of them pale, polished, and pressed. Záfiro stood out — and not just because she wanted to. She wore a burgundy top that hugged her curves without apology, the neckline just modest enough to be undeniable. Her earrings matched, her lip pencil blended to perfection, and her hair was pinned in a lazy, elegant bun she had rehearsed three times that morning. Everything was intentional.

She was skimming a thick reader on inclusive pedagogy when he appeared.

A tall, skinny smiling boy—too manicured to be truly friendly, too blonde to be sun-kissed. Rich. Entitled. The kind who had a “Christopher” in his name but preferred “Kit.”

“Nice clothing,” he said, leaning in like a secret was forming between them.

Oh no.

She is not naive, she can see through him, he is not flirting with her, no, something far worse than any sort of innuendo.

This one is gay.

The kind of gay man that believes that their queerness cancels out their whiteness, riches, mysoginy and privileges, the ones to call women “bitches” or “sluts”.

He was testing the waters to see how far she would let him go.

Záfiro didn’t look up. “I know. That’s why I chose them.”

He chuckled, tilting his head like she’d just performed a clever party trick. “You have an accent,” he added, as if discovering a rare shell. “How… deliciously exotic. You remind me of my mom’s maid.”

Záfiro blinked once, slowly, raising her eyes to meet his. Her silence made him squirm—just long enough.

“Oh—no, not in a bad way,” he rushed. “You’re beautiful. You know... for a dark-skinned girl.”

She smiled, finally. “Oh, thank you! I like your clothes too.”

His smile widened in triumph.

“That’s a nice top,” she said sweetly. “You know… for a bottom.”

The laughter at the nearby table came so fast it felt rehearsed. He blinked, fake-eyelashed and stunned.

“Excuse me?”

“No,” she sipped her drink. “That was your line.”

He walked away, pretending not to be humiliated.

“El que se lleva se aguanta.” she thinks to herself before resuming her reading.

The classroom was cold, all concrete walls and humming fluorescents, filled with the quiet tension of first-week unfamiliarity. Students sat scattered across the tiered rows, more focused on not being noticed than on the white-haired professor pacing the front.

He stopped abruptly and turned to face them, chalk in hand. “Can anyone tell me,” he said, pausing for effect, “what are some essential characteristics of science?”

Silence.

A heavy, breathless sort of silence. Not even the rustling of paper. Just a sea of blank stares, chewing pencils, and crossed arms.

Záfiro waited. Five seconds. Ten. Still nothing.

She adjusted her posture, raised her hand with quiet authority.

“Yes,” the professor said, almost startled. “You. Name?”

“Záfiro.”

He nodded.

“Science,” she said, clearly, her voice carrying with the ease of someone who had rehearsed this exact answer—because she had—“seeks certainty. It operates on the basis of falsifiability and observable phenomena. It is also amoral—it does not inherently determine right or wrong, only what is. And it could be considered a socio-historical product, in the sense that the questions we ask—and even how we define knowledge—are shaped by our environment, our moment in history, and who has access to the tools of research.”

The professor blinked.

Several heads turned.

Someone actually scribbled something down.

He smiled, pleased—though a little surprised. “Excellent. You’ve touched on epistemology, ethics, and philosophy of science in one breath.”

She offered a slight nod, then looked down at her notebook again, as if it hadn’t cost her anything. As if she hadn’t spent the night before pouring over her photocopied readings, highlighting passages until the tip of her finger turned pink from smudged ink.

She always carried at least three dictionaries—one bilingual, one philosophical, one specialized depending on the class—and today was no exception. Their worn spines peeked from her bag like talismans, corners frayed from use.

As the professor scribbled new terms on the blackboard—ontology, epistemology, teleology—chalk dust raining down like a trail of breadcrumbs, Záfiro was already flipping pages. Quick, practiced movements. One hand on the desk, one on the dictionary. Ontology—there it was. Greek root. Ontos: being. Logos: study. She mouthed the entry under her breath, tasted the sentence structure like something to be memorized for survival.

The professor turned, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “Delving into a bit more of philosophy,” he said slowly, “what is ontology, exactly?”

She didn’t hesitate. “The science of substance,” she said, too quickly. “The branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of being—what things are, what is real, how we classify the world into categories of existence and meaning.”

A pause.

A few classmates blinked, exchanged glances.

The professor chuckled quietly, more amused than mocking.

Záfiro’s fingers stopped on the page. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Too fast. Too much. She felt the old warning rising inside—dial it back, don’t make them uncomfortable.

But then the professor raised a hand, smiling. “No, no. Go on.”

She tilted her head slightly, gauging him. He didn’t look smug, didn’t look like he was about to humiliate her. He looked...genuinely curious. So she continued, slower this time.

“Ontology tries to answer questions like: What exists? What can be said to ‘be’? Are numbers real? Is a shadow a thing or an absence? It’s not just science—it’s the foundation that lets us ask scientific questions to begin with.”

Another pause. One long enough for her to hear someone mutter “okay, damn” under their breath.

Someone in the back actually clapped once. Just once.

She didn’t smile.

Instead, she marked the word in her notebook with a star, then turned the page to make room for whatever would come next. Words are weapons, she reminded herself. If they don’t expect you to have any, all the better when you strike.

The professor capped his marker and turned to face the room, his tone half-tempting, half-challenging.

“There’s an old philosophical debate,” he began, hands tucked behind his back, “between whether things are what they are, or whether we give them meaning. In other words, do objects have intrinsic essence… or are they simply constructs of our perception?”

A heavy silence followed. Pens stalled, notebooks lay still.

Záfiro sat perfectly upright, practically humming with restrained energy. Her fingers drummed lightly on the edge of her desk, her eyes fixed on the professor with such laser-sharp focus it was a miracle the desk didn’t catch fire.

He scanned the room, paused, then let the ghost of a smile stretch his mouth. “It seems like Záfiro has something to say.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Her voice was clear, clipped with precision.

“There was this longstanding debate between Plato—who wrote The Allegory of the Cave—and Aristotle,” she said, her accent wrapping the words in honey and iron. “Plato believed that meaning is a product of the mind. That reality, as we see it, is an illusion. The shadows on the cave wall are only shadows—but we name them, define them, and by doing so, we make them real. The world has no intrinsic significance. We think it—therefore it becomes.”

The professor nodded slowly, encouraging.

“Aristotle, on the other hand,” she continued, “believed in empirical truth. That things are what they are, regardless of our thoughts or feelings. We touch, see, smell, taste. We sense the world—not imagine it. He said essence exists in the object. A rock is a rock whether you think it’s holy, cursed, or decorative.”

Another pause.

Her gaze flicked sideways. A boy in a polo shirt with gelled hair was clearly trying not to roll his eyes.

Záfiro lifted her chin slightly. “One believed in the mind as origin. The other, the body. It’s the first philosophical divide between imagination and evidence. And we’re still arguing about it.”

A beat of silence. Then a faint, reluctant murmur of acknowledgment from the room. Someone in the back whispered “Jesus.”

The professor smiled, this time more broadly. “Nicely done.”

Záfiro leaned back in her chair, flipping a page in her notebook. In the margin beside “Plato vs. Aristotle” she scribbled: Give them space to underestimate you. Then speak.

Weeks passed.

Záfiro had begun to keep her hand down more often. Not because she knew less, but because she’d started noticing the way people shifted when she spoke. How classmates avoided sitting near her, or left quickly when class ended. The brightness in her voice, the certainty in her answers — they echoed too loud in rooms still learning to find their rhythm.

So when a warm shadow fell across her table one afternoon, she assumed it was a mistake.

“Hey,” came a voice like cotton dipped in syrup.

She looked up. A girl was smiling at her, notebook hugged close to her chest. Green eyes, light hair styled to look breezy and effortless. Her makeup was barely-there but expensive, like her tote bag.

Záfiro blinked. She recognized the girl. Marceline — she always walked in with that one rich boy who wore boat shoes indoors.

“You’re Záfiro, right?”

She nodded cautiously. “Yes.”

The boy appeared behind her, all clean white teeth and confidence. “You're the one with the answers all the time. You’re, like, dangerously smart.”

Záfiro gave a polite, stiff smile.

“I... read a lot.”

Marceline giggled. “You’re such a smart little girl.”

Záfiro felt her neck prickle. The phrase hit oddly in her chest — too familiar, too wrapped in memory. A flash: her at eleven, sweaty palms, a teacher calling her a “gifted child” before humiliating her an hour later.

But she pushed the thought aside. “Thank you,” she said with careful grace.

Marceline tilted her head. “We were wondering… maybe we could see your notes sometime? I bet they’re, like, genius level.”

Záfiro hesitated. Was that…mocking? Or admiration? The tone was syrupy but not cruel.

She smiled, tense but trying. “Sure. But they’re messy.”

The boy laughed. “Yeah, but even your mess is probably smarter than my midterm.”

Záfiro chuckled softly. “That’s a low bar.”

They laughed — not at her, with her. Maybe.

Still, her stomach was a coil of wires. This had happened before. Compliments that ended in cut-up notebooks or whispered impressions behind her back. But maybe… not this time.

Marceline leaned in. “I mean it. You’re really impressive.”

Záfiro blinked, surprised. “Thank you.”

She meant it this time. She meant it. Záfiro wasn’t sure how to respond to someone just… being kind.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, unsure if she was smiling too wide or too little. “I could make copies. Of the notes, I mean. If they’re helpful.”

The boy gave her a thumbs up. “Legend.”

Marceline nudged him, still watching Záfiro. “See you in class.”

They walked off, chatting and laughing softly. Not looking back.

Záfiro stared after them for a second, cheeks still pink. She didn’t know if they meant well or not. They probably did. But that gnawing edge of doubt — the instinct to hold something back — was still there.

She scribbled in the margin of her notebook:

Be polite. Be careful. Be kind, but don’t be naïve.

The courtyard buzzed with end-of-day chatter. Záfiro had just zipped her backpack, ready to disappear toward the library again, when a voice rang out behind her.

“Oh! It’s her — she’s going to help us. Záfiro!”

She turned.

Marceline was sitting on the grass with her boyfriend and a small group of classmates — the kinds of people who usually whispered when she answered too fast, too confidently in class. For a moment, Záfiro assumed the worst. But Marceline was waving her over, grinning like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“We’re completely lost on this stats thing,” she said, gesturing at the notes spread across their laps. “Can you help explain it? You’re way better than the guy we’re paying.”

Záfiro blinked. “Okay. What’s the question?”

Rich boy squinted at his textbook. “It says something about compounding probability. Like… if you have fifty percent of winning something, and then you somehow get another fifty percent… does that mean you’ll win for sure?”

Záfiro stared. Then she let out a short laugh. “No. That is not how statistics work.”

She stepped closer, looked around, then grabbed a blank sheet from someone’s binder.

“Okay, imagine you have a fifty percent chance of winning the lottery.”

She folded the paper exactly in half.

“This fold? That’s your fifty percent. Half the whole.”

The group watched with vague amusement.

“Now, let’s say your chances magically increase by fifty percent. Sounds great, right?” She raised a brow. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fifty plus fifty. It means it’s fifty percent of the fifty percent you already had.”

She unfolded the paper and tore it straight down the fold. The sound made a few people jump.

“This —” she held up one half “— is the fifty percent. And now, we’re taking fifty percent of this. Half of the half.”

She tore again, cleanly, with quiet confidence.

“So now, what do you have?”

“Uh…” One of the girls blinked. “Twenty-five percent?”

Záfiro smiled. “Exactly.”

Someone let out a low whistle. Marceline laughed.

“Okay, that… actually makes sense.”

Rich boy tilted his head. “So… if I keep increasing by fifty percent, I’ll eventually win nothing?”

“No,” Záfiro said with a smirk. “You’ll just get closer and closer to something, but never all the way there. Like your understanding of this class.”

The group burst into laughter.

Even she cracked a smile — a real one. Not the tight, performative kind she usually gave to deflect suspicion or shield herself.

“You’re really good at explaining things,” Marceline said after a moment, brushing some grass off her skirt. “You should tutor. Seriously.”

Záfiro raised an eyebrow. “I’d have to charge.”

Marceline grinned. “We’d pay.”

Záfiro looked around. They were still watching her — but not with suspicion this time. With interest. Maybe even… respect?

She blinked at the torn paper pieces in her hand. “Weird,” she muttered under her breath.

“What is?” asked Marceline.

“Nothing,” Záfiro said, handing back the notes. “Just… not used to being asked to explain. Most people just roll their eyes when I talk.”

“Well,” said the rich boy, “maybe you just hadn’t met the right people.”

Záfiro didn’t know if that was sincere or just another thing rich boys said. But for once, she didn’t feel like biting back.

Not yet.

Today, Záfiro is quiet.

The professor is speaking — in full sentences, in structured thought — and yet it all sounds like static to her. Her pen is in her hand, her notebook open on the desk, pages filled with the beautiful, furious handwriting everyone assumes is how she keeps up so well.

But the pen does not move.

She stares at the board. The words look like they’re written in water. They slosh, drip, unform. Terms she knows she’s seen before — terms she prepared for — hang in the air like cruel riddles. Her usual trick, the pre-study ritual that let her always be five steps ahead, has failed her. Her lips part once, twice. No sound comes.

She tries to write something down. Anything.

Her hand trembles. The line she draws across the page has no meaning, no relation to anything that’s being said. Her brain is a fogged-up window, and every new concept just steams it more.

“Did everyone understand just fine?”

The professor’s voice cuts through the air. It’s not even accusatory. Just a genuine check-in. But to her, it lands like a spotlight, a siren.

She wants to raise her hand.

How she wants to raise her hand.

But she doesn’t even know what she’d ask.

It’s not one sentence she missed. It’s not one point she misunderstood. It's everything. It’s like someone reached into her mind and unplugged the part that made her competent. Her mental footing is gone. There is no ground. No direction.

She swallows, hard. Her face is hot. Is she blushing? Is she sweating?

She looks at the board again and blinks. The words won’t settle. They keep dancing out of reach, taunting her.

Across the aisle, someone scribbles something fast and confident. The sound of their pen slicing across the paper makes her nauseous.

She shrinks a little in her chair. Keeps her head low. Hopes the professor doesn’t call her today. Hopes the others don’t notice her silence.

She feels... absent. Disconnected from herself.

As if, for today, Záfiro never walked into the classroom at all.

She feels like she is asleep, but her eyes are open.

The professor keeps talking — perhaps. Or not. Sound is no longer linear. The classroom blurs at the edges, light flickering strangely against her lashes. Her body is upright, still, present. But her mind slips sideways. She is not here.

She is there.

She is small again. Eleven years old. Her legs barely touch the floor, her uniform skirt stiff and too big, shoes scuffed from running too hard at recess. She sits at her wooden desk, still sticky with someone else's dried glue, trying to focus, to count numbers in her head, to keep up.

And then—

“¡Zafiro! ¡Otra vez! ¡A la esquina con las orejas!” (”Záfiro! Again! To the corner with the donkey ears!”)

The classroom laughs before she stands.

The teacher grabs the same pair of paper donkey ears from the top drawer. They are bent at the tips now, grayed by the oil of many humiliations. Záfiro walks with slow, silent steps to the corner. Her face is burning. It always burns.

The ears are tied around her curls with an old elastic string. It snaps once against her cheek, but she does not flinch. Her heart is hammering in her chest — no, not hammering — pulling. The veins from her heart to her wrists feel tight, like threads yanking upwards. Her limbs are shaking, distant, unrecognizable, as if they belong to someone else.

Her cheeks are wet. The tears are hot. The sound of laughter and whispers slices through the haze.

"Mira qué estúpida, con razón la maestra le pone las orejas de burro." (”Look how stupid she is, that must be why the teacher always gives her the donkey ears.”)

She doesn't look at them. She can’t.

Instead, she picks a spot on the wall — a flake of green paint near the corner. She stares at it. Hard.

She learns to disappear into that spot. That flake becomes a tunnel, a passageway back to before.

Before the punishments.

Before the tears.

Back when her teacher in first grade gave her stickers for every page she read aloud.

Back when Mommy stroked her hair and whispered, “Mi niña brillante, mi estrella.”

Back when she wasn’t too much, too loud, too different.

Back when she was just a girl who wanted to be loved and believed she could be.

The ears become a routine. The corner becomes hers.

Eventually, the tears stop. The shaking stops. The laughter doesn’t. But it reaches her through layers now — like sound underwater.

She keeps looking at the paint chip on the wall.

She survives it like that. She survives all of it by going somewhere else.

And now, in the present day, sitting at her university desk, twenty years old with perfect lipstick and a page of nothing in front of her —

She realizes she never stopped doing it.

“I am not allowing this…this is not happening to me again. I will never go back to the corner, I will never go back to shrinking, and I am not letting anyone throw me off or make me feel like I do not belong.”

The class is over, but her mind is not back in its place.

So she walks.

She walks.

Past the university gates. Past the street vendors and their greasy paper bags of comfort. Past the avenue where the flowers spill from iron balconies and the tram grumbles by like an old complaint.

“And the award for Best Thesis in Comparative Epistemology goes to…”

She whispers it aloud to no one. To herself. To the wind. Her voice cracks with the dryness of someone who hasn't spoken in hours but has thought too much.

“Záfiro Reyes. With her groundbreaking work in the social dimensions of knowledge and post-colonial methodologies.”

Applause. Standing ovation. Flash of camera bulbs that don’t exist. Her hair is perfect. Her voice is strong. Her shoes don’t hurt.

Her mother is in the front row, crying for the right reasons.

She laughs to herself, half-ashamed. A laugh that sounds more like a hiccup. A bubble of air trying not to be a sob. She presses her lips shut and keeps walking and daydreaming

Eleven.

A different girl in different shoes. Barely laced sneakers, knees dirty from kneeling for too long.

She was in the corner again.

Paper donkey ears cutting into her scalp. The shame was still fresh then. Still too big to swallow.

So she dreamed.

In her head, she was a princess with a library for a castle. She ruled a kingdom where books bowed when she passed. The teacher? A troll. Her classmates? Silly villagers. The donkey ears? A magic crown that let her hear the language of dragons.

She would escape. One day. Someday. That’s what she told herself.

Every day, she built the escape route in her mind. Word by word.

Now.

“Doctor Záfiro Reyes,” she mutters, lifting her chin. “International lecturer. Acclaimed author. Dark-haired bombshell. Has at least one lover in each continent. Never eats instant noodles again.”

The fantasy warms her for a moment. Then burns.

She stops. Looks around.

Where is she?

No campus buildings in sight. No familiar trees. No students.

Just a long, narrow street winding back toward the city. A lonely cat sunning itself on a mailbox. A tired kiosk with a flickering neon light.

She checks her surroundings. Nearly a kilometer from the dorms.

Her stomach growls. Her head throbs.

The spell breaks.

She exhales, long and slow, like letting air out of a balloon she forgot she was holding. The kind of exhale that only happens after your mind lets go of a dream it had gripped too tightly.

She wraps her arms around herself, like she might fall apart if she doesn’t.

Then she begins walking back.

The fantasy might not be real.

But she is.

And she still has time.

The next morning, you wake up disoriented. Your limbs feel heavy, your throat dry. You remember dreams, but not what happened in them — just a faint impression of applause, of lights too bright, of something golden slipping through your fingers.

You’re still tying your shoes when your psycholinguistics professor, Di Martino, calls your name from the hallway.

“Záfiro. A moment, please.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s not going to change your entire life.

You follow him outside the classroom, clutching your notebook to your chest like a shield. You expect scolding, maybe — you’ve been zoning out again, haven’t you? Or maybe he’s going to tell you to take better care of yourself. You’re used to that one.

But he just adjusts his glasses and clears his throat.

“Have you heard of Professor Arturo?”

You blink.

“Not… formally.”

You almost say: I saw him once. From a window. I thought he was a ghost.

But you don’t say that.

“He’s beginning a study. Neurodevelopment, behavior, and education. The university’s sponsoring him. He asked me for a student assistant.”

He looks at you — really looks at you. Not like you’re a burden. Not like you’re odd. Like you might be… rare. Like he’s trying to recognize something half-forgotten.

“I gave him yours.”

There’s a long moment. You don’t know what to say.

Something in you — the eleven-year-old, maybe — wants to ask: Are you sure? Me? The girl with donkey ears? The one who forgets how to listen some days? The one who talks too fast and dreams too loud and walks too far?

But all you say is,

“Thank you, sir.”

He nods. Hands you a folded paper.

“Be in the psychology faculty lounge at 3 p.m. He’ll be expecting you.”

You walk back inside the classroom, but you don’t hear a word of the next lecture. You’re still holding the paper like it might catch fire. You reread the name: Professor Arturo Benedetti.

You picture him again. His face in the corridor. That milk-white streak at his temple. He looked like he didn’t belong here — not really.

But something in you doesn’t feel like it belongs, either.

Maybe that’s a beginning.

Maybe he’ll see it.

Arturo Luciani.

The name tastes like marble — clean, cold, precise. Like something carved, not written.

“Luciani,” she repeats silently. From lux — light.

It suits him. Not in the obvious way. Not like the sun. Like something older. Like lamplight in a church. Moonlight caught in stone.

She didn’t even know she had noticed so much until she starts to replay it. The image of him from the hallway. The impression of him, pressed onto her like a watermark.

Not tall, not really — average height, maybe. Most of the boys in campus have a few centimeters on him. They sprawl when they sit, take up too much space when they speak. He doesn't do that. He doesn't need to.

Professor Luciani stands like someone who knows the air already belongs to him. Like someone used to being watched.

And watched, he is. It's impossible not to.

There’s the hair, first — dark and too long to be proper, too thick not to curl. Not styled, not wild either. A single white streak rises above his right temple, like a brush dipped in milk had grazed him once and never again.

He has a face that should contradict itself. Soft, framed in long eyelashes that don’t belong on men. But then the stubble — dark, coarse, carved into his jaw like shadow. And that nose — long, curved, imperial. The kind sculptors used to copy on Caesar busts and claim it was nobility.

And yet… he looks nothing like Caesar. More like an angel made of clay.

Or a doll.

Or both.

There’s something crafted about him, delicate and terrible. A kind of masculinity that doesn’t threaten, only compels. That dares you to call it soft, just so it can out-stare you.

The glasses are round — not fashionable. The lenses flash when he moves, catching light like mirrors. But they don’t shield his eyes. Those eyes are something else. Deep brown, dark enough to be black, but not dead like some dark eyes can be.

Alive.

Not warm. Not cold.

Just — seeing.

He’s not charming. Not smiling. He never even looked inside the room. But she felt the gravity shift when he was near. Like the laws of the corridor had changed.

She doesn’t know anything about his work. But she wants to. Wants to deserve that kind of attention. She wants to be seen by someone like that and not feel small.

Or maybe she just wants to find out whether he's real.

She rereads the fax at least seven times.

Miss Záfiro Rodríguez,

Your assistance will be required Mondays and Thursdays from 10 to 15. Responsibilities include data transcription, literature sorting, schedule organization, and coordination with external collaborators. I trust your diligence will prove valuable to the project. We begin next Monday.

— Prof. Arturo Luciani

No flowery language. No excessive formality. No praise.

But he had remembered her name.

He remembered her.

She didn’t have to fight for it. Didn’t have to raise her hand, didn’t have to beg or justify or prove anything — he had already decided. That moment outside the classroom, the blur of his profile through the window, the disquiet he left in her — it wasn’t nothing. He had been looking for her.

She folds the fax. Then unfolds it. Reads it again.

There is a tremble in her. The kind that comes after long stillness. Like something inside had been asleep and now remembers how to move. She hasn’t told anyone. Not yet. It feels too… delicate. Like saying it out loud will make it disappear.

She walks around the room, the dorm too small for the feeling inside her. For years she has carried around her dictionaries, her notebooks, her precise lines and careful speech like armor. And now, just like that — someone saw it. Named it valuable.

He did.

Arturo Luciani. The name still echoes in her mouth like something sacred. She doesn’t know him. Not really. But she knows the feeling of him. The way her skin had burned when she realized she was staring. The way her throat locked when he looked at Professor Di Martino, not smiling, just listening, as if the world had to answer to him.

Záfiro knows herself. She’s obsessive. She reads too much into things. But she also knows she’s right. There is something in the way he moves — like marble with a pulse. Something mythic. Something real.

She’s been walking all day yesterday, trying to feel something again. Something real. And now it’s here.

The fax sits on her desk like proof.

She was hired.

Just like that.

His office smells faintly of tobacco, lemon polish, and some expensive cologne that doesn’t try too hard. Everything in the room looks like it belongs — the shelves with annotated volumes, the stiff-backed armchair, the heavy wooden desk that looks older than the building itself. It smells like authority. Like time. Like a man who owns both.

She sits, perfectly upright, at the small side desk he’s given her. Her dictionaries stacked in a neat column, her own pen, her own paper, her fingers curled delicately around the edge of the desk like she’s afraid to stain it with too much presence.

He’s across the room, flipping through a dense monograph in French. Every now and then, he hums — not out of pleasure, but thought. The sound of thinking, slow and shaped like a question. She watches him from the corner of her eye — that single white streak in his dark hair, like a slash of chalk. His lashes curl against the lenses of his round glasses. A Roman nose, severe. Porcelain jawline, shadowed with a stubble that never quite becomes a beard. He looks like a sculpture with blood behind it.

She tries to work.

She's redacting the opening summary of a research outline he’s scribbled on a legal pad in half-legible handwriting. Neurodevelopment, behavioral plasticity, early literacy markers. She’s trying her best to keep it clinical, precise — but her thoughts run ahead. They start to lace in ideas he hasn’t written down. She’s cautious but… she dares a little. A small interpretive paragraph. A sharper conclusion.

Too much?

She’s halfway through erasing it when she hears his footsteps.

Then, silence behind her.

Then—

A hand on the back of her chair.

She freezes.

His body isn’t touching hers, not at all. But she can feel him — the closeness of him. The scent. The weight of his eyes. He leans down, reading silently behind her shoulder.

Ten seconds.

Ten entire seconds.

Each of them burns a century through her spine.

She remembers every mistake she’s ever made. Every word she’s ever fumbled. Her heart thuds so loudly she swears it moves the air. Her mouth goes dry. Her hands shake slightly over the typewriter.

Then, his voice — warm, low, Roman-coffee dark:

“Bene. I like it. Good idea.”

The words go off like applause inside her.

The butterflies in her stomach turn into full-blown bats. She smiles, but it’s tight — like something held together with ribbon and prayer. She barely breathes. She nods once.

“Thank you,” she says softly, voice catching.

She is not in love. That would be ridiculous.

She is something worse — she is validated.

She is chosen.

She has proof, now, that she is not an idiot with donkey ears. That maybe she’s not broken. That she sees things other people miss. That she deserves to be here. Because he said so.

He moves away, returning to his desk, utterly composed.

She stares at the page she wrote like it might start glowing.

She arrives early.

He hasn’t asked her to, but he always comes in at 9:15, and she likes the ten quiet minutes before. She sits, drinks her bitter espresso from a thermos, and prepares the documents before he even opens the door. Today, the moment he walks in — dark coat, white streak in his hair, air of composed gravity — her hands are already full of pages.

“Professor Luciani,” she says, standing a little too fast. “I added something—”

He pauses in the act of taking off his coat. Raises an eyebrow.

She hands him the stapled packet — typed, triple spaced, footnotes pristine.

“This isn’t official,” she says quickly, “but I figured it might help. Since we outlined the problem statement yesterday, I did a preliminary review of literature — mostly ethnographic studies, some early education data from Bologna and Puebla, and that comparative piece from the University of Edinburgh.”

He flips through it, slowly. The room is silent.

“Also…” she adds, heart in her throat, “I assumed we’ll be working with a qualitative approach? Since we’re dealing with classroom dynamics, behavioral context, and semantic development?”

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s reading.

(Or worse — he’s evaluating.)

She can feel her ears burning. The inside of her wrists prickling. What if she got it wrong? What if he thinks she’s trying too hard? What if he—

“Sì.” he says softly, nodding. “Molto bene.”

He sets the papers down carefully, as though they carry weight.

“You assumed correctly. And this—this is excellent. I wasn’t going to assign the literature review until next week.”

Something in her chest unclenches — and then immediately curls tighter. Because he’s looking at her, now. Not amused. Not surprised. Just… seeing her. The way you look at something you weren’t expecting to find, but fits perfectly once it’s there.

“You think quickly,” he says. “You listen quickly. Do you know that?”

She doesn't. She doesn’t know what to say. So she just looks down and nods, too fast.

He turns away, gently, like he doesn’t want to overwhelm her — but she’s the one overwhelmed.

Because it’s not just that he approved of the work. It’s that she read his mind, and he liked it.

She sits back down and smiles to herself, quietly. She taps the edge of the desk twice — her small ritual — and thinks:

Just wait. I’m only getting started.

She shouldn’t be this affected.

It’s just praise. It’s just a sentence.

“You assumed correctly… this is excellent.”

But her chest tightens like she’s hearing her name called after being ignored in a crowd.

She looks down at her notes to hide the blush that won’t go away. She pretends to adjust her papers. But really, she’s hiding from the wave of feeling crawling up her throat.

Because it wasn’t always like this.

Just last year.

She remembers handing a printed essay to another professor — clean, crisp, double the requested reading, annotated in three languages. The man skimmed it and smirked.

“Ah, la niña genio otra vez,” he had chuckled, loud enough for the others to hear. “Maybe next time just write what I asked for, not what you thought I should’ve asked.”

The class had laughed — not cruelly, just… collectively. The way people do when the tall blade of grass gets cut down.

She'd laughed too. But later, in the hallway, she folded that paper over and over until it disappeared into a jagged square. Then threw it in the bin.

She’d learned to stay quiet. To say the right thing in the right tone. Not too eager. Not too early. Don’t raise your hand. Don’t ask too many questions.

Even then, her voice would come out too fast. Too detailed. Too much.

And they’d look at her — professors, peers — like she’d just recited a Wikipedia page with no soul. Like she wasn’t a person, just a glitchy machine that couldn’t shut up.

But Arturo—

He’s not like them.

He listens without interrupting. He reads everything she gives him. He doesn’t tell her to slow down, or to simplify it, or to “save it for grad school.”

He says:

“You think quickly. You listen quickly.”

As if that were a strength.

As if he recognizes something in her.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he was like this once — young, overprepared, misunderstood, eyes too wide for the room he was in.

Maybe that’s why he asked for her name, specifically. Maybe he sees it. Maybe he’s the first one who sees it without twisting it.

That thought is dangerous. It makes her feel shaky and powerful at once.

She keeps her head down and takes notes while he outlines their next steps.

But part of her — the 11-year-old with paper donkey ears, the teenager with shredded essays, the university girl who learned to fold her words small —

that part of her just sits there, stunned, blinking at the feeling of being taken seriously.

And maybe even something more.

Afterwards she’s spiraling. Her walk didn’t help. Nothing helps. But she lets herself imagine, because that’s always worked. It’s quiet in her mind now. She builds something tender. Familiar. Safe.

They’re in his study. Late evening. He’s reading something — red pen in hand, expression unreadable — but he doesn’t raise an eyebrow when she speaks.

Záfiro offers her notes timidly "I, um… I made some revisions. They’re not official, I just thought—"

Arturo without looking up responds "You assumed. Again."

She tenses.

But then — the pen goes down. He looks at her.

Arturo adds, with a tender gentleness "And I’m glad you did."

She stares.

"You are?"

He stands. Walks over. Takes the pages from her hands, and she can barely breathe when their fingers touch. He’s reading now — she watches his eyes scan her writing — and for a moment, he smiles.

That smile is everything.

"This is excellent. You’ve seen the shape of the whole thing, already. You’re… ahead of me."

Her heart nearly bursts.

Záfiro whispers "I just wanted to be useful."

The older man hears it "You’re more than useful, Záfiro."

He puts a hand on her shoulder. The weight of it grounds her. His gaze doesn’t pierce — it holds.

"You were born for this."

She tries to say thank you but the words are gone. There’s no sarcasm, no mockery. Just warmth. Just truth.

Just him.

But often, reality surpasses fiction, is late ge’s tired. His office is silent. She’s there — just a few feet away, in that goddamn chair she’s made hers. Bent over a text, lip caught between her teeth, hair wild from thought. Sharp, focused. Brilliant. His.

She turns when he speaks. Not because he raises his voice. Just because she listens. Always listens.

Arturo lowers and calmly commands to her ear "Sit up straight, tesoro. You’re curling over again."

She blinks and obeys. Doesn’t ask why.

She never asks why.

He sets the coffee beside her. Her hand brushes his when she reaches for it —

She gasps, barely — he hears it —

He pretends not to notice. He always does.

Arturo watches her hands on the keyboard ****"You type like you're chasing something. Slow down. Let me read as you write."

She hesitates.

Záfiro softly "I wanted to surprise you."

Arturo moves behind her then leans close "I don't like surprises."

His hand brushes the back of her neck — fixing her collar, maybe. Just a flicker of contact. She goes still. So still.

He stares at the screen. Her draft is good. Too good.

He can barely focus.

She’s too warm. Too bright. Too his.

Arturo quiet, final "You're not here to impress me. You're here to obey. Understood?"

She breathes in. Not fear. Not shame.

Just hunger.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

"...Yes, Professor."

“Enough for today” he sates, final.

"I’m almost done with the transcript summary."

"I didn’t ask what you were doing. I said that’s enough."

She pauses. Looks up, a little startled — big brown eyes blinking at him, startled, obedient.

"...Sorry."

Arturo turns around and smiles to himself "No need to apologize. Just stretch. Breathe. Then come sit by the window. I want to go over the outline together."

She nods, already setting the pen down.

"I was thinking… if we move the anecdotal references forward, before the theoretical bridge, it might—"

The professor interrupts, not mean, not impatient "You’re thinking again without asking me first."

He says it gently. Not as a scold. As a reminder.

Then he steps behind her, tilts her chin up a bit, in his mind, he does so to make the message come across"I like that you think so fast. But I want you to tell me before you run ahead, capito?"

She swallows. Nods. Those eyes — lit with attention now, not just intellect.

"Yes, Professor."

"Good girl."

[cere-mon-ials]

2024 in what made me happy: a misc list

the broadcast schedules of cdrama. this year, for the first time, i finished a cdrama because i saw one gif set of wu jinyang telling wang xingyue that he was handsome in the pouring rain. after the double, i watched and loved love like the galaxy, watched and loved amidst a snowstorm of love. then, i began watching and loving blossom as it aired new episodes every single day. i love what this has done to my drama-watching routines because it's not as fickle as a binge drop and it's not as sedate as weekly drops.

no, but weekly drops too. especially, only murders in the building and running to reddit to see what all the hot new theories are. and, culinary class wars — that was a good month.

i refused to listen to podcasts, and it made some small room to listen to other, more useful, voices. i didn’t finish books i cared little for. i closed tabs and deleted bookmarks more often. i didn't attend any weddings, in an attempt to recover from the weddings i did attend in 2023 and the 2025 invitations currently dinging on my whatsapp.

got a job, hated it, found some courage to turn back on the excellent pay, and left it. got another job soon enough, one that now keeps me on my toes but isn't painful on my heels.

my mother's saree collection, and to the first year of my life when i got to wear them on the reg.

learning chinese and refining my urdu. i can now recall maybe 15 chinese characters without fumbling and read a faiz poem slowly, with a pencil and in a quiet room. it's great because it's so difficult.

saife hassan, whose direction of zard patton ka bunn has (a) seized me back into pakistani drama (b) given me meenu and nofil's tender, sweet romance (c) brought back feelings that i thought dead and wouldn't want to articulate in this space.

the ambition in as byatt's possession, which crept into my dreams to remind me that i am slacking and in cixin liu's three-body problem, which crept into my nightmares to remind me that the grand architecture held in the entirety of my imagination is a speck in the universe. i can't tell you if i loved or even enjoyed either book but i don't think it matters. i have reserved the remaining two books of liu's trilogy for 2025.

steaming white rice with a spoonful of ghee and a smattering of salt, the most delicious appetizer to any meal.

last year, after avoiding them because they were always priced higher, i began buying poetry books. this growing bedside stack has been my solace and i love reaching for a random page to find something i needed to read in that moment. i began this year with my dearest heaney and i intend to end it with cavafy.

the discipline of a simple skincare routine, which i am not always good at keeping up with and my skin isn't all that better either but i am trying.

syd & carmy & richie & tina & marcus & chef terry & everyone else in the bear.

the soundtrack of lovely runner kept me company on some of the longest commutes and shut out loud arguments in the ladies compartment. the soundtrack of love like the galaxy felt like the soundtrack of my life for about three months this year. the soundtrack of the last samurai came out of nowhere to aid me during difficult work sessions. i am always in search of appropriate times to blast the soundtrack of gully boy, the weeknd's my dear melancholy, and frou frou's details. there's no lack of appropriate times to blast a rahman album.

driving, i guess. i resisted for as long as i could because i am a public transportation person but i do not live in a city that is conducive for it. i do feel a strange sense of accomplishment at learning this skill.

the classics that i missed when they were being defined as such: i loved moonstruck's ridiculous commitment to being perfect because of its loudness and not despite it. sandra and keanu really did something special with speed (i know!!!) and i was beyond thrilled to experience that kind of textured action filmmaking. michael clayton and the pelican brief were wonderful watches as smaller, quieter, revelatory films where stars get to be actors. lee mi-sook in an affair changed me at a molecular level.

i fell in love all over again with short films and documentaries: loved sean wang's silly and heartfelt nǎi nai & wài pó, loved maryam takafory's touching irani bag. i rewatched amit dutta's nainsukh a full decade after i first watched it in college and i am yet to figure out how he did it.

monsoons, which i didn't get to experience this year but about which i read a miscellaneous ton in search of a doctoral thesis topic for whenever i choose the take the plunge. i am never not thinking about those winds and those rains from my childhood and the limited future i can imagine for myself.

my k-pop listening has suffered because my favourites are serving in the military but i held on thanks to the loving embrace of enhypen. i watched their online concerts with utmost pleasure. best performances: enhypen. best album: ateez's golden hour, part 2. best music video: stray kids' chk chk boom.

hozier singing i think i'll take my whiskey neat / my coffee black and my bed at three / you're too sweet for me.

so much hozier, london grammar, rahman, the hindi cinema by the decade playlists on spotify, and terrible tiktok music that unfortunately sound fab in the car music system.

my loved ones and all of you, who are better than me in every way that counts.

[soleilnewspaper]

James Fleamont Potter 𐂂 °⋆.

A collection of headcannons about Bambi :)

 𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:

"Summer Night City - ABBA" 

01:27 ━━●──────  03:34

            ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻    

Background 𖤓°⋆

His mother Euphemia, affectionately known as Effie came from a large wizarding family in Pakistan, born the youngest daughter of seven. During her later years at Hogwarts, she began working under the matron as an apprentice which aided her in securing a job as a healer of the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's after Hogwarts.

His father, Fleamont was born into a wealthy yet small wizarding family, growing up as an only child. Fleamont achieved excellent grades for his O.W.LS giving him the opportunity to many career options however he decided to explore his love for potions. Using his family heritage, Fleamont brought a shop in Diagon Alley and began his potions business straight out of Hogwarts.

The two both attended Hogwarts but didn’t meet until after they had both graduated due to their age gap. Fleamont had accidently injured himself while trying out one of his new potion recipes and Euphemia, a newly employed healer had taken the night shift. He fell in love with the way she carried herself and waited patiently until her shift was over to take her out for a coffee.

Fleamont and Effie despite both originating from pureblood wizarding families they actively stood up for both muggle born and muggle rights in the Wizarding World. Alongside this they further took on activism by advocating for the well treatment of magical creatures.

Both of Jame’s parents shared aspirations for having multiple children. Euphemia having come from a large family combined with Fleamont's own wishes for siblings as an only child, lead them to want multiple children. However, the couple struggled for years to finally fall pregnant in Effie’s 50s and Fleamont’s 60s. They had assumed they were unable to have children but then they were given a miracle. His birth was difficult and left Euphemia barren and had an extended recovering period.

Despite this James was still their miracle so they decided to pour all their love into him and spoiled him rotten.

James was raised to treat everyone with kindness and respect. His mother taught him how to be a gentleman which made her often scold him when she heard about his patronising of Lily in his early Hogwarts Years.  

His love of Quidditch comes from his mother as she played on the Gryffindor team throughout her Hogwarts Years. From a young age, his mother had him on a broom soaring through the sky.

James would play in the meadow near his house during the spring and bring flowers for his mother which she liked to press and would often make bookmarks with her dried flowers. Euphemia kept every gift that James had made her. James didn’t learn this until after his parents had died and he was cleaning up their house with the marauders.

Fleamont used to take James to his potions store when he was younger because James loved watching his father work.

James is a mama’s boy through and through. 

Even in his teen years if James has a nightmare while at home he will cry into mother’s shoulder. She will comfort him the same way she did when he was a little boy.

James grew up as a bilingual child speaking both Urdu and English in his household. Due to this, like many bilingual children, his speech was delayed. Both his parents cried when he said his first word because they had been worried about his delayed communication milestones. As a toddler he would mix up the two languages confusing his father and Euphemia had to translate for him.

However, after starting Hogwarts he was surrounded by English, majority British, so he spoke less of his mother’s tongue resulting in him forgetting some of it. Every few summers he tells himself he’ll learn urdu properly, and every few summers, he forgets about this resolution entirely. After Euphemia died he relearned the language in time for her funeral.

Bollywood movies and dvds were a staple in the Potter house.

Fleamont liked to watch old dvds for nostalgia’s sake, and as a result, James grew up watching them as well.

Physical Appearance 𖤓°⋆

His big growth spurt in maturity happened after winter break of 5th year.

Sirius and him are practically the same height, with only an inch or two difference.

His skin takes on a wheatish tone, his skin almost like the sun radiates. Manifesting the colour tone from yellow to light brown with warm undertones.

James’s eyes are the type of eyes which make you feel safe and warm inside.

Possesses comforting brown iries like the colour of aged roots alongside the green of the springtime bubs make his eyes resemble a hazel tree. The hues of green in his eyes remind him of his time spent in his childhood running on the forest floor among gentle flowers.

He has a prominent Adam’s apple.

Curls adorn his face in a shade of black with hues of brown adding a natural highlight to his hair.

According to cannon

“James was a tall, thin man who wore glasses, with hazel eyes and untidy black hair that stuck up at the back.” 

Personality 𖤓°⋆

Constantly ruffing or running his hands through his hair.

This leads to the neglecting of making sure he was keeping his glasses on securely while flying, and they'd fall off.

James can and will sleep through almost anything.

Much to the annoyance of the maunders, James is a very loud snorer.

More often than most you will find Prongs happily eating leaves and grass on full moons.

James was so in love with Lily he never bothered to plan what to do if she ever accepted his offer. So, when she did, he became a stuttering mess.

He was incredibly smart but at the same time the token dumbass

Something changed in James when his beaten and bruised brother walked into his home on that rainy Christmas Eve.

When he returned to school the following term everyone thought he was trying to impress Lily after she called him ‘an arrogant wanker’. In truth he had changed for Sirius’s sake.

Nothing comes before his friends

This man is the most loving one you will ever meet

Not only that but he loved hard and deeply, more so than anyone

James is very much a mother-hen. The marauders cannot avoid his fussing, making sure they’re alright well-fed and watered. Almost like they’re his houseplants.

Fleamont drilled tidy habits into Jame’s mind leaving him somewhat of a neat freak. Every month he’s doing deep cleaning because of the dirtiness of sharing a room with three other teenage boys.

Personal space does not exist, he is extremely touchy. It's his love language.

On the surface he likes to pretend everything comes easy to him but secretly he still must work hard to get good grades even if it’s at the last minute. He thinks it makes him cooler if he keeps a certain level of nonchalance but 50% of the time, he’s faking it till he makes it. 

 He feels everything deeply. When he loves, it’s like a tidal wave of emotion, he feels like he would go to the moon for the person. 

Notes and Trivia 𖤓°⋆

His boggart is each of his friends crying alone, his biggest fear was not being able to help the people he loves when they need him most 

Before Sirius and Remus start dating, James would carry Remus to the hospital wing after particularly rough full moons

All snuggles are initiated by him

He holds Remus’s hand after a rough moon

He’s the matchmaker of Hogwarts

Jumped at the chance to spend time with Lily when she asked him to help her get Dorcas and Marlene together

Tried to call Sirius snuffles before they came up with padfoot 

He knows Lily’s cycle better than she does

So, when that time of the month comes, he’s the most dotting boyfriend you ever did see

Surprise hugs are his speciality

He is the best transfiguration student that McGonagall ever taught 

He ruffles his friend’s hair,

kisses them on the check, and holds their hands to make them smile or when they’re upset

His father gifted him a calligraphy set for his fourteenth birthday which was the start of his love for writing letters

James always has his camera with him and has collections dedicated to all his friends

He is also a mother-hen with the younger Gryffindor students especially when he’s head boy.

He felt lonely growing up as an only child, but his wish was fulfilled when his parents practically adopted Sirius.

Dividers: @the scandalorian

Remus ver, Sirius ver

@h3arts4strs This is for you babes >3

[hadeth]

عَنْ أَبِي هُرَيْرَةَ، قَالَ قَالَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صلى الله عليه وسلم ‏ "‏ مَنْ قَالَ حِينَ يُصْبِحُ وَحِينَ يُمْسِي سُبْحَانَ اللَّهِ وَبِحَمْدِهِ مِائَةَ مَرَّةٍ ‏.‏ لَمْ يَأْتِ أَحَدٌ يَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ بِأَفْضَلَ مِمَّا جَاءَ بِهِ إِلاَّ أَحَدٌ قَالَ م��ثْلَ مَا قَالَ أَوْ زَادَ عَلَيْهِ ‏"‏ ‏.‏ صحيح مسلم حديث ٢٦٩٢

Abu Huraira reported Allah's Messenger (peace be upon him) as saying: He who recites in the morning and in the evening (these words):" Hallowed be Allah and all praise is due to Him" one hundred times, he would not bring on the Day of Resurrection anything excellent than this except one who utters these words or utters more than these words." Sahih Muslim 2692 In-book reference : Book 48, Hadith 39

هذا من أذكار الصباح والمساء العظيمة، أن يقول المسلم في صباح كل يوم ومسائه: «سبحان الله وبحمده» مائة مرة، جمعٌ بين التسبيح والتحميد. والتسبيح: تنزيه لله وتقديس وتبرئة له من كل ما لا يليق به سبحانه وتعالى مما ينافي كماله وعظمته وجلاله، قال الله تعالى:{ سُبْحَانَ رَبِّكَ رَبِّ الْعِزَّةِ عَمَّا يَصِفُون }[الصافات:180] ، وقال تعالى:{ قَالُواْ اتَّخَذَ اللّهُ وَلَدًا سُبْحَانَهُ }[يونس:68]، والحمد: هو إثبات الكمال لله سبحانه.

 وقوله «سبحان الله وبحمده» أي: أسبِّح الله حال كوني حامدًا له؛ فهو تسبيحٌ مع إثبات الكمال لله سبحانه . قوله: «لم يأت أحد يوم القيامة بأفضل مما جاء به إلا أحدٌ قال مثل ما قال أو زاد عليه»؛ هذا فضلٌ عظيم ، وليس معنى قوله «وزاد عليه» أن يقول: سبحان الله وبحمده مائة وعشر مرات مثلا، بل تُعد المائة كما جاءت في الحديث، والزيادة تكون بأنواع الأذكار الأخرى المطلقة والمقيدة.

فهذا فيه التأكيد على أهمية العناية بهذا التسبيح في الصباح مائة مرة وفي المساء مائة مرة، والشارع له حكمة في هذا العدد، فيعدها المرء مائة كما ورد، وإذا ختم المائة وأكملها ولا يزال يرغب في التسبيح والتهليل والذكر؛ فالباب مفتوح للذكر المُطلق، لأن هناك ذكر مُطلق وذكر مُقيَّد، فالمقيَّد يؤتى به مقيّدًا كما جاء بالعدد الذي جاء، والذكر المطلق لا يحدُّ بعدد.

وهذا الذكر له أهميته؛ من جهة عظيم الموعود المترتب يوم القيامة على المحافظة عليه، ولأن التسبيح نُصَّ عليه في القرآن في مواضع على أهمية العناية به في الصباح والمساء، وقد مر معنا جملةً طيبة من هذه الآيات التي فيها الأمر تعيينًا وتحديدًا بالتسبيح في الصباح والمساء، مما يدل على علو شأنه ورفيع قدره وعظيم ثوابه عند الله سبحانه وتعالى.

ومِن فضائل التسبيح بهذا العدد: ما أخبر به النبيُّ صلى الله عليه وسلم ؛ أنَّ مَن قال «سبحان الله وبحمده» في يومٍ مائة مرّة حُطَّت عنه ذنوبُه ولو كثُرت. ففي الصحيح من حديث أبي هريرة رضي الله عنه أنَّ النبيَّ صلى الله عليه وسلم قال: ((مَن قال «سبحان الله وبحمده» في يوم مائة مرّة حُطَّت خطاياه وإن كانت مِثلَ زَبَدِ البحر)). أحاديث الأذكار والأدعية 35 - أذكار طرفي النهار شرح البدر

Hadith Translation/ Explanation : English French Spanish Turkish Urdu Indonesian Bosnian Russian Bengali Chinese Persian Tagalog Indian Vietnamese Sinhalese Kurdish Hausa Portuguese Malayalam Telugu Swahili Tamil Burmese Thai German Japanese Pashto Assamese Albanian : https://hadeethenc.com/en/browse/hadith/5516

[darknightnightwolf768]

My Space Riders Team- Lost Royals.

Credit Of This Artwork Belongs To Me. The Au Belongs To The Artist Mastermind Herself, @onyxonline! Please Follow Her, She's Amazing.

This Is One Of The Various Space Riders Groups That Are In The Galaxy Right Now Trying To Stop The Prototype, His Cult Army & The Red Smoke Mist, Currently They're On A Long-term Secret Undercover Mission As High Rank Cultists To Collect Info For The Space Riders, They Report Whenever They Can. They're All Good Friends.

Introductions From Left To Right:

● Captain Alaska Nightwolf: Alaska Is A Young 23 Yr Old Wolf Who's Japanese, One Of The Youngest Captains To Ever Achieve The Captain Rank. She's Casper's Girlfriend. She's A Cold, Quiet & Introvert Wolf Who Loves Being By Herself. Her Leadership, Compassion & Skills Help Her Become A Captain. Alaska Is Flexible, Has Moon Powers And Mastered Them, She Rarely Shows Her Happy Side After The Cultist Army Destroy Her Royal Planet Leaving Her As The Only Survivor.

● Casper Foxwolf: Casper Is A Young 23 Yr Old Foxwolf, Second In Command & Alaska's Boyfriend. He's Italian. He's An Energetic, Confident & Extrovert Foxwolf Who Loves To Be Social. Casper Is A Smart & Fast Wolf Who Can Float Without Wings, Has Fire & Sun Powers. He Hides His Happiness Ever Since His Planet Was Destroyed By The Cultist Army, Leaving Him As The Only Survivor.

● Cleo Sterling: Cleo Is The Youngest Of The Crew As 20 Yrs Old & Is Chinese. Lead Medic Of The Crew, Dance Fights On Missions, Myrleen's Girlfriend. She's An Ambivert, Sweet, Quiet & Energetic Bird. She Has Chameleon Powers To Blend In, Invisibility Powers, Telepathy To Read Minds & Has A Love Scent To Track Love Between People. Cleo Was The Only Survivor Of Her Royal Planet After The Cultist Army Destroyed It.

● Myrleen Wren: Myrleen Is A Young Confident, Extrovert & Skilled 21 Yr Old Urdu (Pakistan) Hawk. Cleo's Girlfriend. She's Go On Missions Regularly With Alaska & Casper. Myleen Has Excellent Vision, Sharp Claws & Wings. She Gives Confidence, Encouragement & Health Skills To Other People. Myrleen's The Only Survivor Of Her Royal Planet Which Was Destroyed By The Cultist Army.

● Jasper Squeaky: Jasper Is A 25 Yr Old French Hamster Who Runs Communications Along With His Boyfriend, Kelphie, Also A Therapist For The Team. Jasper Is An Ambivert, Energetic & Kinda Active Hamster. Jasper Has Geokinesis (Control Rocks), Florakinesis (Controls Plants) & An Manipulative Singing Voice That Mind Controls All Of The Cultists Even The Prototype & The Seraphim. Jasper Used To Be Cold But Became Secretly Happy After His Royal Planet Was Destroyed By The Cultist Army Making Him The Only Survivor.

● Kelphie Órónáin: Kelphie Is The Oldest Of The Crew, A Smart, Introvert, Calm & Obedient 26 Yr Old Seal. Kelphie Runs Communications Along With His Boyfriend, Jasper. Also A Medic Along With Cleo. Kelphie Is German, Has Hydrokinesis (Controls Water), Aerokinesis (Controls Air/Wind) & Can Float Even On Water. Kelphie Was The Only Survivor Of His Royal Planet Which Was Destroyed By The Cultist Army.

[wrvtchedhearts]

ZAKIR SETHUPATHI - the poet

Stats --

FULL NAME: Zakir Aamir Sethupathi

AGE & DATE OF BIRTH: 28 -- January 8th

OCCUPATION: rapper, translator, interpreter

ASSOCIATE OF DEAD HAND

GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis-man, he/him

SEXUALITY: Bisexual, Biromantic

LANGUAGES:  mother tongue: Hindi, Urdu fluent: Arabic, Spanish, English, Russian, Punjabi, Gujarati conversational: Japanese, Cantonese learning: Portuguese, Mandarin, Bahasa Malay

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single ( crushing on Anchali )

FC: arpan kumar chandel aka King

Biography --

Zakir was sixteen when he moved from New Delhi to New York City hoping to find a richer more full-filling life there. He hoped to become a famous rapper. He grew up the oldest son of a Muslim and Hindu couple, with little prospect in life other than continue his father's business. His uncle - a friend of his father rather than his actual uncle - told him stories of America, of New York City, and the American Dream.

He got into crime because he needed funds and connections to gain his fame. He's known for making songs in which he fluently meshes languages and meanings together, rapping under the alias Baagee. However, a lot of his time is spent translating for Dead Hand or using his understanding of languages to decipher coded messages.

He's been releasing songs steadily during the past five years, and has been an official associate of Dead Hand for three years.

Timeline

Headcanons --

He's a polyglot; he speaks multiple languages and easily picks up new ones. Currently he's learning Portuguese, Mandarin & Bahasa Malay. He's however always interested in learning more.

He addresses anyone his age with either habibi/habibti ( ‘my dear’ or 'my love’ in Arabic ) or bhai/bhen ( 'brother’/'sister' in Hindi / Indic language ), and anyone older than him as auntie or uncle. Does this consistently and with respect.

Despite his mastery of languages, Zakir still has a distinct accent when speaking in Russian, English or Spanish.

He produces his own music.

He's a romantic, friendly and charming, and a little afraid of violence. Will always portray the role of a diplomat in a conflict.

Zakir was raised in a Muslim and Hindu household, though neither him nor his siblings got much of a choice which religion they wanted to follow. As a result he still follows a lot of rules from Islam and participates in all its religious days, including Ramadan.

He doesn't drink or smoke - though he on occasion uses the drugs available at El Anhelo, and has his way to say why those aren't as bad.

He has an augmentation in his eyes, installed just before he moved to the United States by a street engineer. Because it was a prototype, he's had to get it checked out several times. It essentially works as a video camera: he can zoom in, zoom out, rewind, slow down, and speed up. As well as choose to save certain moments to his phone to view later. Because his eyes are more sensitive now, he wears sunglasses or tinted glasses almost all the time.

wanted and established connection can be found here.

Slang --

Some slang Zakir might use and its meaning:

Yaar: friend/buddy/dude, addressing someone.

Arre yaar: addressing someone while expressing disappointment, surprise, or frustration.

Mashallah: 'God has willed it'

Inshallah: 'if God wills'

Wallah: 'I swear', said very often, presume Zakir never lies when he says this, as it's a sin.

Yallah/Chalo/Vamonos: Let's go!

Alhamdulillah: 'Praise to God'

Subhanallah: 'Glory to God'

Māśūqa: sweetheart, used for Anchali

Chai: Zakir never says tea

Jhakaas: Awesome!

Mast: excellent or fantastic

Bhai __ hai?: he uses this in restaurants mostly when he wants something quickly.

Theek hai: ok or it's okay

[aboutanancientenquiry]

Meena Kumari in “Chalte chalte yunhi koi” (“Pakeezah”, 1972)

Meena Kumari (1933-1972), one of the greatest Indian actresses of the last century, in an iconic scene and song from the classic Indian movie Pakeezah (The Pure One-1972, written, directed, and produced by Kamal Amrohi). 

Meena Kumari plays in this movie Sahibjaan, a tawaif. The tawaifs were courtesans who catered to the nobility of the Indian Subcontinent in the Mughal and post-Mughal eras and were trained in music, danse, theater, and Urdu literature. An orphan, Sahibjaan lives since her childhood in a kotha (brothel), but she wants to escape from her fate.

According to the website of the University of Iowa ( https://indiancinema.sites.uiowa.edu/pakeezah ):

““I’ve seen your feet; they’re very lovely. Don’t set them down on the earth—they’ll get soiled.” This metaphorical warning-note, penned by a romantic stranger and left between the toes of a sleeping woman in a railway compartment, forms a much-underscored motif in this classic courtesan film—the final collaboration between the great actress and dancer Meena Kumari and her former husband, actor and director Kamal Amrohi. Like MOTHER INDIA, this film coexists with its own legend involving the offscreen lives of the director and star, who planned it together in the late 1950s but whose marriage broke up around the time that filming began in 1964. Kumari (who was also a talented Urdu poet under the pen name Naaz) then purportedly became an alcoholic, but eventually came back to complete the film shortly before her premature death in 1972; aficionados may try their luck at identifying—from Kumari’s pained and sometimes mask-like face—which scenes were shot when. The central theme of the film is the struggle for respectability of a tawai’if, an Indo-Islamic courtesan trained in poetry, music, and dance—a glamorous “public woman” whose career was to be an elegant companion (and potential lover) to affluent men, but for whom a “respectable” marriage and home was out of the question. Her beautiful feet—apart from being an erotic fetish—represent her mastery of the art of North Indian classical dance or Kathak, which tawai’if’s preserved and nurtured for several centuries. The “earth” that such feet must perforce touch, however, is ruled by patriarchal society with its crippling double-standards, which decreed that respectable women (who lived in parda or seclusion) could seldom be interesting to men, and that interesting women were seldom respectable. All courtesan fiction struggles with this divide, which forms a principal theme of one of the earliest and most famous Urdu novels, Mirza Mohammed Hadi Ruswa’s UMRAO JAN ADA (1905; itself later filmed several times; see notes on UMRAO JAAN). PAKEEZAH offers another variation on the theme.”

See also about Pakeezah the paper of Richard Allen and Ira Brashkar Pakeezah: Dreamscape of Desire, on https://www.academia.edu/36264030/Pakeezah_Dreamscape_of_Desire

In the iconic scene of this video Sahibjaan/Meena Kumari sings and dances for the “villain” of the movie, an aristocrat (Nawab) named Zafar Ali Khan (played by Kamal Kapoor), who wishes to own her. The ambiguities and dynamics of the situation and of the relationship between the two are depicted in excellent way in this scene, which takes place at the Gulabi Mahal (Pink Palace) of Luchnow. According to the paper of Allen and Brashkar:

“The Gulabi Mahal (the Pink Palace) at Lucknow evokes a more rarified atmosphere. In Amrohi’s imagination, the space of the kotha is here fused with the idea of a Greek temple where the central colonnaded performance space doubles as a space of worship to the divine feminine, and discrete spaces are orchestrated in a theatrical hierarchy from the outer court with its fountains at the entrance to the inner sanctum sanctorum, which houses the bedroom of the courtesan, essentially off limits to all but the chosen client, and separated from the main performance space by a lighted causeway between reflecting pools of water.The Pink Palace is a sublime temple of femininity, whose fountains, atriums, reflecting pools form a microcosm of artifice that rivals that of the natural world. Indeed, even the moon appears artful in this landscape and the saturated deep blue sky, a studied backcloth to the whole.”

But, as the same article continues a bit further, the Pink Palace is also a prison for Sahibjaan:

“Meanwhile, for Sahibjaan whose desire for self-fulfillment has been awakened, the Pink Palace becomes a prison. In a metaphor that recurs in the film, and echoes throughout the genre, she is likened to a bird in a gilded cage from which she yearns to escape...

...The quality and texture of her performances for him [the Nawab] are now markedly different from her earlier ones. Gone is the vivacity and vibrancy of an Inhin logon ne or a Thade rahiyo as she mournfully sings the haunting Chalte Chalte, which articulates her desire for freedom and happiness.Yet it also returns us to the pathos of her entrapment in a manner that evokes the equation of the courtesan and the flickering flame that opens the film. At the conclusion of the performance, as she sings Yeh chiraag bujh rahein hain / Mere saath jalte jalte (These lamps are fading / As they burn with me), she hears the screech of a train whistle. It is impossible initially to discern whether it is somewhere physically off-screen or within her mind.The camera cranes upward from the floor to the red chandelier, recalling the red aalta of her feet.The lights darken as the escalating screech of the train whistle resounds through the performance space, taking over the song and abruptly bringing the dance to an end. When the camera cranes down again, the dancers have disappeared from the floor.The camera then tracks forward towards the fountains that abruptly stop playing as the whistling ends. It is as if the space in which she dwells, her erstwhile tomb, is now cut to the measure of her desire. She rushes to the balcony to see the train she has seen before, but this time it is motionless, silhouetted against the sky, almost as if waiting for her to come to her balcony before it can leave.Though real, the train appears as if in a vision, so detached is the spectacle from the space she inhabits.What is finally required for Sahibjaan to escape her sealed world is a transformation of environment and character of a magnitude that challenges the tone in which the film has hitherto been cast.”

The lyrics of Chalte chalte yuhni koi were written by the Urdu poet Kaifi Azmi (1919-2002) and its music was composed years before the release of Pakeezah by Ghulam Mohammed (1903-1968). Although Meena Kumari was also a singer, the voice in the song is of the great Indian singer Lata Mangeshkar (1929-2022).

Unfortunately I couldn’t do anything with the advertisements at the end of the video.

I have found on the net the following transliteration and translation of the lyrics of Chalte chalte yuhni koi:

Chalte chalte, chalte chalte    While walking, while walking

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha    I met someone by chance

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha  I met someone by chance

Sare raah chalte chalte   Walking around the path

Sare raah chalte chalte    Walking around the path

Wahin thamke reh gayi hai  Right there it stood still

Wahin thamke reh gayi hai   Right there it stood still

Meri raat dhalte dhalte    This night of mine, which is fading away

Meri raat dhalte dhalte     This night of mine, which is fading away

Joh kahi gayi na mujhse      What I was unable to say

Joh kahi gayi na mujhse     What I was unable to say

Woh zamaana keh raha hai      The world is saying that

Woh zamaana keh raha hai    The world is saying that

Ke fasana                                A story

Ke fasana ban gayi hai     A story has been created

Ke fasana ban gayi hai      A story has been created

Meri baat chalte chalte      From those words of mine

Meri baat chalte chalte   From those words of mine

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha    I met someone by chance

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha    I met someone by chance

Sare raah chalte chalte      Walking around the path

Sare raah chalte chalte      Walking around the path

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha    I met someone by chance

Sare raah                               Around the path

Chalte chalte, chalte chalte     While walking, while walking

Sare raah                                Around the path

Chalte chalte, chalte chalte       While walking, while walking

Chalte chalte, chalte chalte          While walking, while walking

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha            I met someone by chance

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha            I met someone by chance

Shab-e-intezaar aakhir             The night of waiting

Shab-e-intezaar aakhir              The night of waiting

Kabhi hogi mukhtasar bhi            Will after all shorten soon

Kabhi hogi mukhtasar bhi           Will after all shorten soon

Yeh chirag                                    These lamps

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai              These lamps are dying

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai               These lamps are dying

Mere saath jalte jalte                 As they burn alongside me

Mere saath jalte jalte                 As they burn alongside me

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai              These lamps are dying

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai                These lamps are dying

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai               These lamps are dying

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai                These lamps are dying

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai                 These lamps are dying

Yeh chirag bujh rahe hai               These lamps are dying

Mere saath jalte jalte                   As they burn alongside me

Mere saath jalte jalte                  As they burn alongside me

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha                   I met someone by chance

Yun hi koi mil gaya tha                I met someone by chance

Sare raah chalte chalte                Walking around the path

[lafzbheegehain]

Watch Legendary love story ghazal song Lafz Bheege Hain

Sufiscore celebrates an epic Indian love story, an ‘amour eternal’ on the new release Lafz Bheege Hain (“Words Drenched in Tears”). The album features lyrics from the esteemed contemporary poet, Ajay Sahaab with beautifully sung melodies from lead vocalist Pratibha Singh Baghel. The songs on Lafz Bheege Hain follow the story of unrequited love involving two eminent writers from India’s social justice-oriented Progressive Writers Movement, Punjabi Amrita Pritam (1919-2005) and Sahir Ludhianvi (1921-1980). Pritam, a novelist, essayist and poet, discusses her unrequited love for Ludhianvi, the poet and film lyricist, in her 1977 autobiography ‘Rasidi Ticket’ (a.k.a. The Revenue Stamp).

“There is a saying in India that if you want to express love, you resort to Urdu,” declares poet Ajay Sahaab. Sahaab drew on his lifelong passion for Urdu to evoke a familiar “tear-drenched” story that has almost acquired the status of a legend or folk tale.

Lafz Bheege Hain consists of five songs, modern in sound and conception, yet following the traditional form of the ghazal: a poem with rhyming couplets in prescribed patterns, usually sung in Urdu, the “love language” par excellence of the subcontinent. This great love story between Amrita Pritam and Sahir Ludhianvi has been depicted in literature and film — and in that spirit, director Parasher Baruah has created a sequence of videos to accompany all of the ghazals of Lafz Bheege Hain, featuring famed actors Prachi Desai and Som Chattopadhyay in the leading roles.

The emotions summoned by this love story”, says singer Pratibha Singh Baghel, “are held in common throughout the world. Those feelings of love and separation and sadness are the same everywhere. The poetry and compositions of Lafz Bheege Hain are for everybody who can relate to this.” Desai strikes a similarly universal chord: “I don’t know where we all find our strength, but after some of the biggest losses we ever have, we somehow make it through. It’s a hopeful message for anyone watching these videos or listening to this music.”

To capture these nuanced sentiments, composer Rajesh Singh drew upon what are known in Hindustani classical music as “evening ragas,” scales and tonalities associated with the time of day, he says, “when the solitude is very intense, and the melancholy and sadness comes throbbing upon us.” From these evening ragas come the beautiful melodies of Singh’s imagination. The rhythms are hypnotic; the lush, flowing chord progressions are informed by Western harmony but applied in such a way as to underline the ragas’ traditional character. “As a composer I had to find a correct mood and balanced sound to express the melancholy and divinity of pain portrayed in these ghazals,” adds Singh. “I observed that the pain of separation expressed by the poet here has no bitterness, and there is a subtle acceptance of separation due to social circumstances. Hence the notes had to be carefully woven not to sound depressing or negative.

Arranger and producer Paras Nath played a crucial role in bringing Singh’s compositions to life with rich and varied instrumentation and sonic character. “Because of Paras’ contribution,” says Pratibha Singh Baghel, “I was able to deliver the way that I did. So a lot of credit for this project goes to him.” Building upon Singh’s vision for each composition, Paras Nath reports trying “to enhance the feel of the ghazal. In every song I used something different.”

Cello, acoustic guitars, violin, viola and keyboards enter into the mix of Lafz Bheege Hain as well as Hindustani bansuri flute, the fretless sarod and the bowed sarangi. “Each instrument has its own character,” Paras Nath observes. “I didn’t want a loud arrangement,and I was careful not to overshadow the singing and the lyrics.”

Along with her extensive accomplishments in Indian musical theater and Bollywood playback singing, Pratibha Singh Baghel has devoted herself to the art of classical Hindustani music in a forward-looking, internationally minded modern vein. Lafz Bheege Hain is a vital part of that effort. To the poet Sahaab, the goal is to “revive the classicity of the ghazal,” bringing the traditional form into vibrant contact with Western elements before a worldwide audience. “In a very humble way but with energy,” says Sahaab, “we are trying to convey emotions so that modern generations can feel the intensity of words, music, poetry, composition and instruments.

“For me the songs on Lafz Bheege Hain are part of a single work of cinema,” says Parasher. “I wanted to narrate certain aspects of the story and portray universal themes of love and longing. I approached the cinematography with an idea of recreating the 1950s and ’60s, a personal homage to the heyday of Indian cinema when romance was celebrated in all its emotions, blending poetry with visual storytelling. Choosing to shoot in colonial Pondicherry and Mumbai, our choice of locations, production design and styling helped in this a lot.” For Prachi Desai, the alluring beauty of the audio tracks generated all the inspiration and excitement she needed: “When I first listened to Lafz Bheege Hain, time stopped,” she recalls. “I knew I had to be a part of this. I’m glad that this was my first ghazal ever.”

Lafz Bheege Hain

[newsinsight4u]

Best Apps for Students in Pakistan: Boosting Productivity and Learning

Introduction:

With the rapid advancement of technology, smartphones have become an integral part of our lives, offering countless applications designed to make our daily tasks easier and more efficient. For students in Pakistan, there are a plethora of apps available that can enhance their learning experience, boost productivity, and simplify various educational tasks. In this article, we will explore some of the best apps for students in Pakistan, providing a comprehensive list of tools that can help them excel academically.

Khan Academy

Khan Academy is a globally renowned online learning platform that offers a wide range of courses and educational resources. From mathematics and science to humanities and economics, Khan Academy provides interactive lessons and practice exercises for students of all ages. The app covers various subjects aligned with the Pakistani curriculum, making it an ideal choice for students looking to reinforce their knowledge and prepare for exams.

Evernote 

Evernote is a versatile note-taking app that enables students to capture and organize their ideas, lecture notes, and research materials in one place. With features like text recognition, voice memos, and file attachments, it facilitates seamless note-taking and ensures that important information is always at hand. Students can create notebooks for each subject, add tags for easy categorization, and even synchronize their notes across multiple devices.

Duolingo

Learning a new language can broaden horizons and open up new opportunities. Duolingo is a popular language learning app that offers courses in various languages, including Urdu, English, and other foreign languages. Through gamified lessons, interactive exercises, and personalized learning paths, Duolingo makes language acquisition engaging and enjoyable.

Forest 

Maintaining focus and avoiding distractions can be challenging for students. Forest is a unique productivity app that helps students stay focused by gamifying the process. Users plant a virtual tree and set a timer for a specified period, during which they must resist the urge to use their phones. If successful, the tree grows, but if they exit the app, the tree withers. This visually appealing concept encourages students to stay committed and develop better study habits.

MyStudyLife

MyStudyLife is an all-in-one study planner app designed to keep students organized and on track with their assignments, exams, and class schedules. It allows users to input their courses, create to-do lists, set reminders, and even sync data with other devices. With its intuitive interface and comprehensive features, MyStudyLife serves as a reliable companion for students to manage their academic commitments effectively.

Grammarly 

Effective written communication is crucial for academic success. Grammarly is a powerful writing assistant app that helps students improve their writing skills. It provides real-time grammar and spelling checks, suggests vocabulary enhancements, and offers insights on sentence structure and style. Whether writing essays, reports, or emails, Grammarly ensures that students' written work is clear, concise, and error-free.

NOON Academy

NOON Academy is an online tutoring app that offers personalized educational services to students in Pakistan. It provides live classes with qualified teachers who cover a wide range of subjects, including mathematics, science, English, and more. The app also offers exam preparation courses, interactive quizzes, and progress tracking features to help students monitor their performance. With NOON Academy, students can receive additional guidance and support to supplement their classroom learning.

Conclusion:

In today's digital age, leveraging technology to enhance learning and productivity is paramount for students in Pakistan. The apps mentioned above offer valuable tools and resources to support students in their educational journey. From online learning platforms like Khan Academy and NOON Academy to productivity apps like Forest and study planners like MyStudyLife, these applications cater to various aspects of a student's academic life. By utilizing these apps, students can streamline their tasks, improve their learning efficiency, and excel in their studies. Embrace the power of technology and make the most of these apps to unlock your true potential as a student in Pakistan.

[pixowlskillhub]

Exploring Lal Kitab Courses Online: A Path to Astrological Mastery

In today’s fast-paced world, more and more people are turning to ancient wisdom for guidance, peace, and self-discovery. One such powerful and mystical branch of astrology is Lal Kitab—a unique blend of Vedic and Persian astrology known for its accurate predictions and simple remedies.

In the dynamic world of online learning, Pixowl Skill Hub, an e‑learning initiative by Pixowl Productions, has launched an immersive lal kitab course online offering a unique blend of structured lessons and live mentorship. This course is more than just learning astrology—it’s a journey into a powerful spiritual science that combines divine insight with practical action. Whether you want to solve life problems, guide others, or deepen your spiritual knowledge, this course can be a transformative experience.

What is Lal Kitab?

Lal Kitab, literally meaning “Red Book,” is a collection of five Urdu language books on astrology and palmistry. Unlike traditional Vedic astrology, Lal Kitab emphasizes practical solutions and easy-to-follow remedies known as “totkas” or “upayas.” These remedies are simple yet powerful, designed to correct planetary imbalances and improve life’s outcomes without elaborate rituals.

What You Can Learn

Online Lal Kitab courses cover a wide range of topics, including:

Introduction to Lal Kitab: Understanding its origins and significance.

Planetary Influences: How various facets of life are impacted by planets.

Remedies and Predictions: Practical solutions for mitigating negative planetary effects.

Advanced Techniques: Deep dives into karmic influences and astrological calculations.

Final Take: Should You Enroll?

If you’re eager for a hands-on, interactive learning experience guided by an experienced astrologer, Pixowl Skill Hub offers an excellent opportunity to enroll in Lal Kitab courses through its expert-led. These courses are designed for practical, real-life application and focus on mastering the powerful remedies of astrology. As the course continues to expand, you can expect a comprehensive syllabus, personalized mentorship, and the potential for industry-recognized certification—all in one engaging learning experience.

Take the step today and discover the magic of Lal Kitab from your home. The red book may just hold the answers you’ve been searching for!

Visit us at pixowlskillhub.com/ for more information!

[digitalabhishekgupta]

Learn, Express, Perform – Join the Top Music Classes in Mumbai at Vaishali Made Music Academy

Introduction: Find Your Voice in the City of Dreams

Mumbai hums with rhythm and creativity, and if music lives in your heart, it’s time to bring it to life. Vaishali Made Music Academy offers some of the most vibrant, soulful, and professional music classes in Mumbai, where every student is nurtured to become an artist in their own right.

Whether you’re stepping into music for the first time or returning after years, this academy promises structured training, compassionate mentorship, and endless inspiration.

Why Vaishali Made Music Academy Stands Out Among Music Classes in Mumbai

When searching for music classes in a competitive city like Mumbai, it’s important to choose more than just convenience. Vaishali Made Music Academy brings:

Direct mentorship from playback singer and Sa Re Ga Ma Pa winner Vaishali Made

A rich variety of beginner-to-advanced courses

A student-first environment rooted in Indian musical culture

Flexibility for kids, working adults, and seniors alike

It’s a place that celebrates every voice, whether you sing for joy or for the spotlight.

About the Mentor: Vaishali Made’s Journey from Stage to Studio

From winning the prestigious Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Challenge 2009 to singing for films across India, Vaishali Made’s journey is one of excellence. Today, she shares her knowledge, warmth, and discipline with students at her namesake academy.

Her teaching style combines technical expertise with heart-led coaching, ensuring students learn not just to sing but to feel and connect with their music.

Explore the Academy’s Signature Music Courses in Mumbai

With thoughtfully designed courses and a focus on personalized growth, here’s what students can choose from:

Vocal Course: From classical ragas to modern Bollywood vocals, learn breathwork, voice control, and expressive delivery.

Instrumental Course: Master tabla, guitar, keyboard, and harmonium with interactive, hands-on learning.

Karaoke Course: For those who love singing along to tracks, this course boosts pitch control and stage confidence.

Ghazal Course: Embrace poetic storytelling and classical finesse through Urdu ghazals and emotional training.

All programs are conducted in small groups with ample personal feedback and performance prep.

Open to All Ages – Music Classes in Mumbai for Everyone

No matter your age, you’ll find a course that fits:

Kids (5+): Learn rhythm and melody with joyful, age-appropriate methods

Teens: Build strong vocal or instrumental foundations and creative confidence

Working Professionals: Flexible timings and therapeutic engagement with music

Seniors: Enjoy peaceful, guided sessions for relaxation and happiness

Whether it’s a childhood dream or a newly sparked interest, this is the place to begin.

What Sets These Music Classes Apart in Mumbai

At Vaishali Made Music Academy, the approach blends technique with heart:

One-on-one feedback in small batches

Individual voice development and skill progression

Emphasis on interpretation, not just accuracy

Music theory, listening skills, and stage readiness

The teaching format ensures students grow with joy, discipline, and confidence.

Prime Location for Music Lovers Across Mumbai

📍 Address: Office No 12 And 13 HDIL, Harmony Mall, New Link Rd, Sejal Park, Colony No 1, Bhagat Singh II, Goregaon West, Mumbai, Maharashtra 400104

The academy is centrally located and well connected by train, auto, and road—ideal for learners from Andheri, Jogeshwari, Malad, and Borivali.

Get Directions

Why Students Love Vaishali Made Music Academy

Honest and supportive feedback from real artists

Performance opportunities and personalized coaching

Affordable fees and high-quality learning

Positive, encouraging learning environment for all

For anyone seeking music classes in Mumbai with heart, quality, and inspiration—this is your home.

Enroll Today – Your Musical Journey Begins Here

Ready to unlock your talent?

📞 Call: 084518 37036

🌐 Visit Website

Drop in for a trial class or consultation today!

Let us help you find the right course and schedule for your goals.

Conclusion: Let Music Shape Your Story

Great music comes not only from sound—but from guidance, emotion, and consistent practice. At Vaishali Made Music Academy, we help you discover your voice, define your style, and celebrate your individuality.

Looking for the most enriching, transformative music classes in Mumbai?

This is your sign. This is your stage.

[best-perfume]

ScentsNStories Umeed Perfume 50ML

ScentsNStories Umeed Perfume 50ML in Pakistan ScentsNStories Umeed Perfume 50ML in the world of perfumery, ScentsNStories has carved a niche for itself with its unique and captivating fragrances. Among its diverse offerings, the Umeed Perfume 50ML stands out as a beacon of hope and elegance. This article delves deep into the essence of Umeed, exploring its origins, composition, and the emotional journey it promises to its wearers. Our goal is to provide an in-depth review that not only informs but also ranks high in Google searches for those looking for a signature scent that embodies optimism and sophistication.

ScentsNStories Umeed Perfume 50ML

The Essence of Umeed: A Fragrance Story Umeed, meaning “hope” in Urdu, is a perfume designed to evoke a sense of optimism and positivity. The name itself is a testament to the uplifting nature of this fragrance. ScentsNStories has meticulously crafted Umeed to be more than just a scent; it is an olfactory experience that inspires and uplifts.

Composition and Notes The artistry behind Umeed lies in its intricate blend of notes, each chosen to create a harmonious and uplifting fragrance. The perfume opens with a burst of citrus and floral notes, setting a bright and refreshing tone. As it settles, the heart reveals a delicate balance of rose and jasmine, two flowers known for their rich, romantic, and calming properties. The base notes, featuring sandalwood, amber, and musk, provide a warm and lasting finish that lingers, leaving a memorable impression.

Top Notes: Citrus, Bergamot, Lemon

Heart Notes: Rose, Jasmine, Lily of the Valley

Base Notes: Sandalwood, Amber, Musk

This combination ensures that Umeed is versatile enough for both day and night wear, suitable for any occasion where one desires to feel hopeful and elegant.

The Craftsmanship Behind Umeed ScentsNStories has a reputation for high-quality, long-lasting perfumes, and Umeed is no exception. The brand prides itself on using the finest ingredients and adhering to rigorous quality standards. Each bottle of Umeed is crafted with precision, ensuring that every spray delivers a consistent and delightful fragrance.

Longevity and Sillage One of the critical aspects of a high-quality perfume is its longevity and sillage. Umeed excels in both areas. With just a few sprays, the fragrance can last throughout the day, gradually revealing its layers as time progresses. The sillage, or the trail the perfume leaves behind, is moderate, making it noticeable without being overpowering. This balance makes Umeed perfect for personal enjoyment as well as receiving compliments from those around you.

Packaging: Elegance in a Bottle The presentation of Umeed is as captivating as its scent. The 50ML bottle is designed with elegance and simplicity in mind. The clean lines and minimalist design reflect the purity and clarity of the fragrance within. The bottle’s transparent nature allows the golden hue of the perfume to shine through, symbolizing the light and hope that Umeed represents.

The Experience of Unboxing Unboxing Umeed is an experience in itself. The packaging is thoughtfully designed to enhance the anticipation and delight of revealing the perfume. The box is adorned with subtle yet elegant details, providing a hint of the sophistication inside. As you open the box and hold the bottle, you feel a sense of luxury and quality that is synonymous with ScentsNStories.

Who Should Wear Umeed? Umeed is a versatile fragrance that suits a wide range of individuals. Its blend of fresh, floral, and warm notes makes it appropriate for various settings and occasions. Whether you are heading to a business meeting, a casual outing, or a formal event, Umeed adapts seamlessly to your environment.

Target Audience Professionals: The elegance and sophistication of Umeed make it an excellent choice for professionals looking to make a confident and positive impression.

Romantics: The floral heart notes of rose and jasmine appeal to those with a romantic disposition, offering a touch of classic charm.

Optimists: True to its name, Umeed is perfect for individuals who exude positivity and hope, matching their inner light with an equally uplifting scent.

The Emotional Journey Wearing Umeed is more than just applying a fragrance; it’s embarking on an emotional journey. The initial burst of citrus provides an invigorating start to your day, filling you with energy and enthusiasm. As the day progresses, the heart notes of rose and jasmine offer a calming and reassuring presence, reminding you of the beauty and positivity in life. Finally, the warm base notes of sandalwood, amber, and musk provide a comforting and grounding finish, wrapping you in a sense of serenity and contentment.

Testimonials: Real Stories of Umeed Many wearers of Umeed have shared their experiences, highlighting how this fragrance has become an integral part of their daily lives. From boosting confidence in professional settings to enhancing personal moments, Umeed has garnered a loyal following. These testimonials are a testament to the emotional connection that ScentsNStories has successfully created through this perfume.

Conclusion In a world where a signature scent can significantly impact one’s mood and presence, ScentsNStories Umeed Perfume 50ML in Pakistan stands out as a fragrance of hope and elegance. Its carefully crafted composition, high-quality ingredients, and elegant packaging make it a worthy addition to any perfume collection. Whether you are a seasoned perfume enthusiast or someone looking for a new fragrance to uplift your spirits, Umeed promises an experience that is both memorable and inspiring.