
Writer, researcher, founder and mom. I live and work in Canberra.


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Mehreen Arshi


On Monday, 9 February, I am scrolling through Instagram. Writing tips. Book recommendations. Home interiors. The algorithm doing what it does best, keeping life curated and comfortable.

Then I see it.

A policeman strides toward a civilian pinned to the ground. Punches land. Another officer joins. Then another. The blows keep coming.

For a moment, I assume the footage is from overseas. A sharp déjà vu takes hold, an echo of a young man kicked in the head in the UK while his mother watched, of a man dying with a knee pressed into his neck in Minneapolis. Surely this is from somewhere we have grown accustomed to seeing such things.

But it is not. It is Sydney. It is from the protest over the arrival of the Israeli President, Isaac Herzog.

The shock lands differently when it is home.

When the federal election results came in, much of the country exhaled. We had voted to prevent a Trumpian turn. We reassured ourselves that Australia does not harbour extreme politics, that ours is a multicultural society held together by tolerance, diversity and social cohesion. Our institutions, we told ourselves, are steady. We are not like that.

The footage from 9 February shattered that reassurance. Not because it showed police aggression; that, sadly, is not new. But because of the truth it forced to the surface: authoritarian impulses do not require a far-right banner. They do not need a particular party in power. They do not wait for a strongman. They require only institutions willing to act without restraint, and narratives willing to frame that restraint as necessary. This can happen under any government. It just did, under ours.

Racism, Islamophobia and reactive hostility did not suddenly surface in those punches. They have been embedded in our political culture, sometimes subtly, sometimes thinly veiled, always waiting for activation. What we witnessed was not an aberration. It was a permission structure finally made visible.

But the violence is only the beginning. What follows it is more dangerous: the normalisation.

Within hours, a familiar machinery was at work. The footage was declared out of context. The protest was labelled a disturbance of peace, a provocation designed to bait police response. This is exactly the justification an aggressor gives: *they made me do it.* The force was not excessive, we were told. It was necessary. It was proportionate. It was protection.

Protection for whom?

This is the narrative architecture that should alarm us. A peaceful protest is recast as disorder. Uniformed violence is re-framed as crowd control. Restrictions on gatherings and demonstrations tighten, and each time, the language of safety is deployed to make the tightening feel reasonable. It does not arrive as a dramatic crackdown. It arrives as common sense. And that is precisely what makes it effective.

We absorb this framing. It trickles from figures of authority, is amplified by news media and talk shows with enormous reach, and settles into the way we understand what happened. Gradually, what was shocking becomes expected. What was unacceptable becomes debatable. The window shifts, and we barely notice it moving.

I notice it moving in myself.

The images have settled in me. I know that the next time I see a police officer, I will not see only authority. I will see possibility. If I am pulled over for not stopping at the line for exactly three seconds, something will tighten, not because of my mistake, but because of fear. Fear of racial profiling. Fear of a disproportionate response. That reflex does not come from paranoia. It comes from precedent.

I am not alone in this. For those of us who watched the footage and saw ourselves in the body on the ground, something shifted. For some, it confirmed a long-held suspicion that belonging in this country has always been conditional. For others, it produced a new unease, a quiet recalibration of how safe we actually are. And for those who already harboured bias, the footage and the justifications that followed offered something else entirely: validation. Their instincts were no longer fringe. They were institutional.

This is how a society fractures. Not in a single rupture, but in the slow, continuous work of reinforcement. Prejudice solidifies in some. Anxiety deepens in others. And the distance between the two grows wider with every broadcast, every dismissal, every official reassurance that what we saw was not what we saw.

*This is the quiet damage.*

The most dangerous shift is not the individual punch. It is the normalisation of it. It is the narrative that prepares us to accept it. It is the subtle redefinition of who is fully protected and who is merely tolerated.

Many of us left our birth countries and now call Australia home. We fled autocracy, believing we were moving toward something better. The footage from 9 February did not just show police officers beating a man on the ground. It showed us the distance between the country we believed in and the one we may actually live in.

We say Australia advances. We say our homeland is fair. The question is whether fairness advances with it, or has quietly become selective.


Wherever we are headed, it is not towards fair.

Advance Australia, Fair?


Writing a book comes in stages. The first is conceiving the world, the narrative, and the reason for writing it. I toil morning and night until the punching of the keyboard becomes a familiar sound, like a steady heartbeat, and the scribbling on paper continues late into the night. I sit at my desk at odd hours, making soul-crunching choices about characters I’ve doted on for years; plotting, drafting, discarding, rewriting, loving and hating the process in equal parts.

Inspiration can strike anywhere. It can descend while stirring the pot, watering the hydrangeas, or washing the day off my face. It may come as a moment of clarity, the solution to a stubborn plot twist, or the spark of a new turn in the story.

Then comes the immersion, when the pouring of thoughts, phrases, and scenes unravel me into frenzy. I abandon mundane tasks or leave a conversation mid-sentence to capture a scurrying thought, one that, if not caught at once, flees into the deepest folds of my brain, never to resurface.

And beneath it all is the heavy editing: the ache of mulling over each sentence, the effort to make the reader feel something. Why must I make the reader sense every drop of sweat dripping off the underarms, or the terror that roots a character in place, or the yearning for a lover’s caress along the arm and into the crook of the elbow? Because I know these details create a pool of imagination in which readers immerse themselves and feel the weight of story.

When all this is done, comes the dressing up of the work. It is for the critique of beta readers, feedback givers, and literary agents. This is when I steel myself to offer up that carved-out piece of my soul that is my book for “constructive criticism,” bracing for the deluge of comments and rejections that follow once I step, trembling, into the icy pool of judgment.

Between creation and final finesse lies a stage few talk about. It is what keeps me up in those hours of the night when even the ghosts take an intermission. It is murky territory that can make or break an artist, a place where questions wait with gaping mouths, ready to swallow my sanity whole.

This is where I abandon the fear of how the carved-out part of my soul will be received, to face a new terror: what if no one wants to look at the precious piece of my soul at all? Now begin the onslaught of questions. “Why would someone read my story? Should I mould it to attract an agent, adjust the setting, add a cultural trope, make it more ‘relatable’?”

If I do not tread carefully, I can slip and compromise the very core of my work. It is easy to spend days and nights crafting something, only to question, at the end, its reason for existence. As a writer, I have become extremely wary of this murky territory. I have struggled and been thrown around by these waves that dictate how the work should be changed to satisfy the subjective needs of the industry. That I should change my narrative to something more palatable or even expected of me, or choose a setting that is more relatable, familiar to my adopted Australian land. Maybe I should include a cultural trope to make it more relatable to those around me. Is it because this would make my work easier to pitch to an agent? Validate it because others can relate to it instead of challenging the bounds of their knowledge?

As a writer from diverse background, am I writing just to chase an agent or to bring a unique new perspective on a part of the world lesser known? Bogged down by these questions, I lose sight that my job is not to appeal to a demographic, be appealing to an agent, or to write only what is relevant today and about familiar territories. In short, my ethnicity should not define the bounds of my work.

These are issues I grapple with day in and day out. After a long and hard look at my own fears and insecurities (however real they may be in the publishing world) I have come to realise that these fears should not define my work as an artist. They should not scare me into fitting a mould, nor alter the bounds of my creativity. Most importantly, these questions should not shape my narrative into someone else’s idea of what it should be.

A story is a story. It lets me enter the realm of imagination, fantasy, and speculation. It also transports me into realities seldom experienced by the majority. I should not question whether the reality I depict in the book, unfamiliar for many, will be accepted by the reader. That is not the purpose. I can remain aware of the reader, letting my work connect and resonate without bending the story to fulfill expectations or be agreeable to a specific narrative.

I must trust the work itself despite these doubts, letting it stand as a reflection of my vision rather than anyone else’s expectation. So I return to the desk, to the familiar rhythm of keys and the late-night scribbling. The doubts do not vanish. They simply learn to sit beside me, quieter now, as I write.

In the end, the work that emerges is not someone else’s idea of how my narrative must feel, sound, or read. It is simply an invitation for the reader to explore and face the uncomfortable truths of life comfortably.


The Madness and Mercy of Writing a Book


Manju stared at the balloons that were her feet. All the water seemed to have pooled at the lower extremity. Beside her, Anil was still snoring. Manju felt relieved. He was a little bearable when he was sleeping, marginally. She pushed both her hands onto the sagging mattress, avoiding the spots where any small movement made the bed screech and betray its age, then lugged her huge body out of bed. The room was a mixture of smells: tobacco, unwashed bodies and underpaid labour. The only time it smelled different was when Anil took to the neighbouring towns to sell his baskets. Then the room smelt of coconut oil, incense and jasmine.

Manju opened the window and stuck her head out. The tomatoes she had planted were ready for picking. She must get to them before the crows. They hung around waiting for the harvest to ripen. They feasted on her efforts, like Anil feasted on her soul.

Twelve Marigold bushes sprawled across the back wall. The flowers lightly bounced in the morning breeze, their faces touching each other, smiling at her like little angels. Manju looked out the window at the Marigolds every morning. It was a ritual. She sprinkled them with tears everyday. Heat hung around all year in Odisha.

Manju tore her eyes away from the merry marigolds and slowly crossed the short distance to the wooden box on the opposite side of the room. The space seemed to stretch for miles these days. Or maybe her body was so heavy that it took the effort of all her being to put one foot in front of the other. She chose a small bindi and stood in-front of the mirror. At thirty-nine, the skin of her neck had started to wrinkle. Her hair had thinned. The nails always chipped closer to base where it hurt the most. She closed the box of bindis. Such a large box to hold three tiny ones. It was much fuller at the time of her marriage. It held all the gold jewels that her father had bought for her marriage by selling his farm. It was when the sound of her bangles and their laughter used to fill the room, when Anil used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and run his fingers up her arm. He would touch her little earlobe. It would tickle her. Now the heavy silver hoops in her ears, her only possession, pulled them down so far that a few more days might cut the lobes in two halves.

Fits of coughing poured in from the only other room behind the thin wall. Anil’s father clung to life. They started preparing for his cremation five years ago when the fits came, left Ba’s lungs rattling and the local doctor give them a dismal warning. Now he was bleeding into his eighty-ninth year. Anil liked to say his pocket bled faster than his father’s lungs. But it was really Manju’s box of jewels that had become lighter and emptier over those years.

Manju fixed the red shawl on her head and put coconut oil on her giant belly. That was another ritual. One that made no difference. The marks on her belly were so wide they now merged with each other. She poured some more oil into her palms and rubbed them in circular motion around her overstretched midsection. The dark fuzz from the belly button to her navel seemed fuzzier and darker this time.

‘It’s a boy you carry.’ Anil’s amma had examined the belly with her shrewd, fox-like eyes. ‘Mind you, don’t anger the gods this time.’

Gods didn’t care. She had gone to the temple the first five times and prayed. But the gods didn’t hear the whispers on her pleading lips. The sixth time she only went in the last week. The prayers still went unheard. She stopped going after that.

‘Gods don’t hear me.’ She told amma. Amma would spit on the wall outside her room, streaking it with stains from the stuffed beetle leaves she chewed. She would curse Manju and place extra garlands of flowers on the black Gau Mata that stood tied up and mooing in the corner of the courtyard. Amma would join both hands in prayer, bow and beg the Gau Mata to bless them. Gau Mata would chew on the fresh hay, moving her jaws from side to side, barely able to keep the flies away that encircled her head.

Anil now slept on his back, mouth open, with spit pooling at the corner of his lips. Drool from his mouth left white streaks all the way down to his lower jaw. Manju choked back the acids and stepped outside. She clutched at her lower back. Her body was deteriorating. Her bones had started to protest. Anil said women’s bodies were designed for this. They were used to expanding and bouncing back. Outside, Gau Mata stared helplessly, with the day-old garlands around her neck now withered and stale.

The first birth was hard; the girl got stuck, and had to be dragged out with forceps, tearing Manju. The second one took a little less time. By the time she was thirty, her body had gone through the ordeal of childbirth eight times. And now she had been cursed with a new foetus just months after Anil burying their twelfth girl. Her body had barely recovered. Manju closed the door behind her. By the time she gets back from the temple, the house will be filled with Amma’s curses, Ba’s coughing, and Mata’s mooing. The loudest presence in their small house was her silence.

This time, the day she knew a new life had planted itself once more in her worn-out womb, she got to work. She sweltered in the heat. Dragged bags of soil. Suffered through the pungency of dung cakes. Manju diligently planted marigolds and jasmine, then threaded them into garlands to take to the gods. She went to the temple every week. She prayed and pleaded. The twelve little souls fluttered around her, unseen, waiting in peace to see if their mother’s prayers would be answered, or if another soul would join them soon. The marigolds grew and smiled at her every morning.

That evening she was serving Anil his meal when her water burst and drenched her legs. It was time for Anil to prepare for the birth. He took out the pick and the shovel from the shed behind the Gau Mata, then went around to the back of the house. There was one spot left in the row of the marigold bushes. There he dug fresh earth. He readied the soil, just in case. He was a poor man. He had to make hard decisions, but he made them easily.

The women from the neighbourhood had gathered, holding favours from the temple. They blew spells of good wishes on Manju’s room; their calloused hands clasped together, bodies rocking back and forth to appease the gods, hoping they may lift the curse from this house. Inside the room, the midwife crouched on the floor and held Manju’s legs apart. There was a head. Anil had prepared the death bed outside. He now stood with mud on his creased brow, watching and waiting for the rest of the body to see if it had the right parts. He was sure he would have to make use of the freshly dug spot in the row of the marigold bushes. Just like he had the last twelve times. Anil always allowed the girls a few minutes in the world before placing them in the ground and covering their tiny bodies with rich soil, while they breathed. The bushes Manju planted thrived, nourished by the flesh and the bones of the angels, breathing for them.

But Manju’s prayers were the most powerful; she had begged and begged for her release from this torment. She had prayed until the words shook the earth and shattered the skies to reach the heavens above. Her body convulsed. Blood raced through her veins; her heart unable to cope with its fury. The veins in her forehead and temple turned ink blue. Anil gave a raucous laugh and took the little boy in his arms. He looked at Manju’s now useless body. The insides of her legs were painted with the blood of her labor. Her body shook violently against the injustice of this world one last time before her tortured soul wrangled free from its threadbare shell. It joined the other twelve souls that circled above Anil, his amma, his dying father, and the other empty shells of celebrating villagers. The gods had taken mercy and granted her last wish. Manju’s soul joined the circle of angels, fluttering and welcoming her, bursting with joy at re-joining with their mother. The twelve little souls and Manju joined hands and flew under the starry night to their freedom. Below their wings, with tears of joy streaming down his dust-caked cheeks, Anil held the little crying boy and danced.


A short story of grief, life, humanity and the lack of it.

A Dance On Her Grave


My latest book pick was Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr. After previously reading his novel All the Light We Cannot See, I was excited to begin my journey into Cloud Cuckoo Land.

The story unfolds across three different time periods. It begins with Konstance, a fourteen-year-old girl attempting to decipher an ancient script. Earth is no longer habitable, and she finds herself aboard an interstellar ship with a select group of individuals from different generations. They are hurtling through space, headed toward Beta Oph2, a newly discovered planet.

In the mid-1400s, Omeir is born with a cleft lip and is considered an ill-fated soul, forcing his family to relocate and live in seclusion. Anna, an orphan, struggles with everyday tasks but possesses an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a deep commitment to preserving an ancient text. Her destiny intertwines with Omeir’s as Constantinople comes under siege.

In present-day Idaho, Zeno Ninis, a Korean War veteran, directs a play based on an ancient story with a small group of fifth graders at the public library. Simultaneously, seventeen-year-old Seymour, an autistic boy, plans an attack on the neighbouring property, an act that could endanger everyone inside the library. These three timelines are interconnected through an ancient book detailing the journey of Aethon, a man who transforms into a donkey, then a fish, then a crow, before ultimately regaining his human form. His quest for Cloud Cuckoo Land is woven into the fabric of each timeline.

Doerr adeptly manages the passage of time by offering subtle reminders to the reader, such as “Twelve-year-old Omeir is sitting…”. This technique seamlessly propels the story forward, preventing confusion while emphasizing character growth and narrative development. It helps readers navigate the three distinct timelines and track each character’s movement within them. My only critique is that the pacing occasionally slows due to Doerr’s expansive storytelling, resulting in a lengthy read.

That said, Doerr’s portrayal of a child on the autism spectrum is both realistic and compelling. Cloud Cuckoo Land progresses across its three timelines as various characters encounter the ancient text, maintaining cohesion throughout. As each character journeys through time, the message gradually becomes clear. The story symbolically encourages taking chances in life while preserving what we already possess, a message that ultimately ties the timelines together and resonates deeply with each character.

This book delivers a powerful reminder: rather than escaping the harsh realities of life, we should embrace what we have. While we may seek paradise in the clouds above, the world we inhabit is the paradise we need to cherish.


Cloud Cuckoo Land

Cloud Cuckoo Land is a novel that connects characters across centuries through their love of a story and a yearning for a hopeful future.

Cloud Cuckoo Land - A review


A controversial author of his time, well known for shaking sections of the Muslim population to their deeply embedded religious roots with The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie also penned Midnight’s Children, a tale so intricately woven that not a single stitch feels misplaced in the fabric of its narrative. One can disagree with a person’s ideology and opinions without losing respect for their craft. It was this very thought that prompted me to read Midnight’s Children.

It is an epic tale that encapsulates the events before and after the Partition of the Indian subcontinent into Pakistan and India, a division that sliced the land along ideological and religious lines. The protagonist, Saleem Sinai, is born at midnight on August 15, 1947, at the exact moment of his nation’s birth. Saleem believes that his fate, along with that of the other children born in that midnight hour, is inseparably tied to the destiny of the nation; they are destined for greatness. It is a story of how Saleem and Mother India grow together, how their lives progress despite being repeatedly shaken, and how they struggle against what appears to be a predetermined fate.

Rushdie paints an emotionally and thematically vivid picture, showcasing his command over all five senses, expertly woven into the prose. The flying spittle juice, the humming of Mian Abdullah, the leitmotif “whatsitsname” of Reverend Mother, the stains of blood and mercurochrome, all drop the reader directly into the setting and immediately familiarise them with the characters. When we read of crawling mountains, blue skies, and frozen lakes, we know we are in Kashmir. Rushdie proves himself adept at assigning distinct physical attributes to nearly every character. These peculiar traits not only cement the characters in the reader’s mind but also sketch their personalities. The mere mention of a “centre parting of hair” signals Methwold; “powerful knees” invariably refer to Shiva; the “rhymeless and wordless poet” is Nadir, the impotent lover. There seem to be as many characters as pages, yet the consistent references to physical characteristics keep the narrative cohesive, sparing the reader from flipping back and forth. The imagery is so sharply etched that one keeps pace without confusion.

This book is a fine example of magical realism. The tone is established early on, the ancient boatman Tai, said to be hundreds of years old; the blind man who is an avid admirer of art. These implausibilities are introduced so naturally that we never question Saleem’s telepathic link with the other midnight’s children, his extraordinary nose that can detect not only smells but fears and emotions, or even the detail that, as a baby, he never blinks.

This novel stands as a reminder that we do not read merely to follow a story. We read for the passion of language, for expression, for the privilege of witnessing an author’s creative liberty. It is an art to take familiar words and arrange them in such a fresh order that they continue to sing long after the final page is turned.


Midnight's Children

An intricately woven tale of India's partition, rich in magical realism and metaphors, that examines historical events through the life of its protagonist, Saleem Sinai, while also reflecting the author's evident biases.

Midnight's children - A review


What if you were unhappy with your life and were given a second chance? Or a third? And another after that? What if you had the opportunity to undo all of your life’s regrets, big and small? Where does one finally draw the line and say, “Yes, I am content”?

What does it take to live a happy life? For some, it is fame; for others, health, wealth, knowledge, children, or adventure. None of these aspirations come into play without perspective, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” In a nutshell, this is the message conveyed in The Midnight Library by English author Matt Haig.

The protagonist, Nora Seed, has seemingly grown up in the shadow of her brother, striving and failing to live up to her father’s expectations. She is hopeless in love and directionless in her career, despite once aspiring to be a musician, a glaciologist, a swimming champion, or a professor. Drowning in despair, she overdoses in an attempt to end what feels like an unbearable existence and instead finds herself in limbo; the Midnight Library. Guided by her old school librarian, she navigates the alternate paths her life could have taken, undoing regrets one by one.

This is a simple read, as is its message, though simplicity does not lessen its impact. The book compels us to re-evaluate what truly matters. We are so consumed with achieving greatness, with being the best, that we often overlook what is already in front of us, the small, quiet details that bring meaning to our lives. We forget to live.

Often, we only recognise the value of simple things when they are on the verge of being taken away, or when mortality stares us in the face. When the end feels near, it becomes painfully clear that happiness lies not in chasing what we lack, but in shaping and appreciating what we already have. Nora’s journeys reveal that every choice creates a chain reaction of endless possibilities, yet there is no such thing as a perfect life. In her persistent search for validation and love, she repeatedly learns that hope and love are life’s true driving forces. But love does not necessarily begin with companionship; it begins within. If you cannot value yourself, you cannot expect others to see worth in you that you refuse to acknowledge.

The novel is written in an uncomplicated, accessible style. There are no dense metaphors or elaborate literary devices to elevate the prose. Just as the author advocates for the simple things in life, he conveys his message in straightforward language. It is quietly thought-provoking. As the book suggests, “You do not have to understand life; you just have to live it.”


The Midnight Library

A reflective journey of a woman exploring alternate lives, emphasising self-love, appreciation of simple joys, and understanding that perfection is a myth.

The Midnight Library - A review


I thought it would be poetic to tie the end of 2021 to the beginning of 2022 by writing the first review of the new year about the last book I read in the departing one. It is a short review, fitting, given that the book itself is a compact yet powerful piece of art. Why a piece of art? Let’s circle back to that.

The Trial, written by Austrian author Franz Kafka in 1914–15 and published posthumously, tells the story of a man named Joseph K., who is accused of a crime unknown to him, and seemingly unknown to the authorities who arrest him. It follows the journey of a man doomed from the moment of accusation, even though the nature of his crime remains undisclosed and is never revealed to the reader.

At first, K. does not take his so-called arrest seriously. He remains free to live, work, and move about as he pleases. He continues his daily life, openly mocking the law and challenging the justice system in an attempt to refute what he considers baseless claims. However, when the gravity of his predicament is impressed upon him by others aware of his case, alarm begins to set in. Joseph K. then seeks help in an effort to dismiss the charges and clear his name, only to realise how inaccessible, impenetrable, and uninfluenceable the justice system truly is.

The irony that he remains ignorant of the charges against him, and that his situation worsens the more he attempts to challenge the court, unfolds through a series of conversations throughout the novel. Joseph K. becomes entirely consumed by his pursuit of acquittal, neglecting his everyday life. He is portrayed as a proud man, bordering on arrogance, viewing other defendants as inferior. Yet the construct of fear surrounding him is so powerful that it ultimately confines him. He spirals into uncertainty, obsessed with proving his innocence, and gradually becomes engulfed by the belief that his doom is inevitable. Any hope of acquittal is systematically eroded by the carefully crafted narratives of those he encounters and from whom he seeks assistance.

All of this unfolds while his body remains physically free. It is his mind that becomes imprisoned. This perhaps speaks to human nature itself: we often believe in our innocence yet struggle to prove it or challenge the world around us. Eventually, we internalise blame and live under the weight of unjust guilt.

I called this novel a piece of art because it is a striking display of descriptive writing. Kafka masterfully places the reader within the setting; the surroundings become almost tangible through his prose. The world he constructs feels oppressive, intricate, and inescapable. Would this expansive style appeal to the average modern reader? Perhaps not. His evocative language may have woven magic in the era in which it was written, but today it requires patience and an appreciation for literary depth.

A reader drawn in by Kafka’s formidable reputation might search for a conventional plot and, finding none, feel tempted to abandon the book. The dense descriptions and extended dialogues, populated by characters who appear unpredictably, can feel exhausting. Should you pick up this book? Yes. Because beneath its unconventional structure lies a profound meditation on human nature.

Kafka reminds us that we are outwardly free yet inwardly bound by our fears. These fears prevent us from taking leaps of faith, imprisoning us within our own insecurities when, in reality, endless possibilities lie before us. The prison is not external; it resides within the mind. When we should stand firm in self-belief, the need for validation often overtakes us. Instead of wrestling with our reality to bring about change, we surrender to the narratives others construct about us. In doing so, we risk paralysis, obstructing our path toward inner emancipation.



The Trial

A profound exploration of an individual's entanglement with an opaque justice system and the internal prisons of fear and validation, set in a vividly descriptive world.

The Trial - A review


#### Cease, cows, life is short.

This book had been on my list for the last two years, sitting patiently on my TBR pile. Somehow, it always found its way to the bottom, bearing the weight of other books that continually climbed higher in my reading priorities. Perhaps it was because of the general consensus that it is a complex read.

It is.

Now that that is out of the way, we can speak about a novel that is nothing short of a masterpiece. Written by Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez in 1967, One Hundred Years of Solitude spans multiple generations. It is set in the town of Macondo, a fictional place so removed from ordinary reality that people believe in flying carpets, marvel at the magic of magnets, and consider ice a wonder.

Why is this book a masterpiece? Márquez breathes life into magical realism, stretching the boundaries of imagination and language. He constructs a world in which extraordinary events unfold naturally, allowing him to explore the intricacies and contradictions of human nature in bold, inventive ways.

The beauty of this novel lies in its reliance on rich descriptive prose rather than dialogue. Conversation is sparse; atmosphere does the heavy lifting. If you are looking for a straightforward plot-driven story, I would suggest setting this book aside. But if you long to lose yourself in the enchantment of language, then immerse yourself in phrases such as “tying a colourful string of chatter together,” the “rumble of the termites as they carved the wood,” or “the snipping of the moths in the clothes closets.” The imagery is so vivid you can almost hear the quiet destruction unfolding. One of my favourite lines reads, “The world must be all fucked up, when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.” Márquez’s ability to animate the inanimate is perhaps his most powerful tool in making Macondo feel alive.

There are as many stories running through this novel as there are silences between them. At its core, it chronicles the journeys of multiple generations of a single family who coexist in profound solitude. Each carries the burden of life according to their own internal code, yet none remain untouched by the decisions of others. Their actions ripple forward, shaping and reshaping the destiny of future generations. This is captured in Márquez’s powerful metaphor of time as a circle. The family’s defining traits are unconsciously inherited, transcribed across generations, making it nearly impossible to break the cycle. History repeats itself with quiet inevitability.

There are too many characters to do justice to them all, but a few demand mention.

José Arcadio Buendía, with his unquenchable thirst for innovation, is gradually driven into madness, yet he is the visionary who sets Macondo into motion. His wife, Úrsula, possesses an unwavering need to hold her family together, even in the face of relentless calamity. Through Úrsula, Márquez makes a subtle yet powerful observation: understanding others does not come merely from seeing them. It arises from careful observation, from attentiveness, from the silent act of truly watching.

Amaranta is a formidable presence, nurturing hatred alongside the tender love she once felt as a young girl. She dedicates herself to resentment, tending to it as one might tend a fragile plant, only to extinguish her own chances at happiness when they threaten to bloom. Her rival, Rebeca, seems to cling to life for decades in defiance, as though sustained by stubbornness alone. Then there is Fernanda, whose misery has become so deeply ingrained that it no longer registers as suffering. “Rain didn’t bother her; it had been raining all her life.” She moves through life performing her duties meticulously, avoiding the confrontation of her own despair, refusing to drown in it by pretending it does not exist.

The array of complex characters makes it nearly impossible to capture them all within a brief reflection. Yet what remains most striking is the execution of the novel’s conclusion. It powerfully reinforces the cyclical nature of time, the sense that history moves in circles unless, as Márquez suggests, “it stumbles and has an accident, in which case it can splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in a room.”


One Hundred Years of Solitude

A vivid, dialogue-scarce narrative, illustrating the cyclical nature of time and generational impacts within a family, brought to life through rich descriptions and complex characters.

One Hundred Years of Solitude - A review


Five Dunbar boys living in Sydney, with a dead mother, Penelope, and a runaway father, Michael Dunbar, referred to as “the murderer.” This is the opening premise of Bridge of Clay by Australian author Markus Zusak.

I had previously read The Book Thief, and when the first book you read by an author strikes a chord, the next one inevitably faces a high bar. This time, however, it was the other way around. For me, Bridge of Clay surpasses The Book Thief. Perhaps it is because it explores love and family in such an unconventional and intimate way.

I must admit, Zusak is not one of my favourite authors. I sometimes find his repetition of sentiments through short, fragmented sentences distracting. He also tends to foreshadow events, not revealing them entirely, but drawing out the build-up in a way that can feel prolonged.

That said, what I truly love about this novel is the development of the five brothers. It is fascinating to see how growing up under the same circumstances produces such distinct personalities: Matthew, the responsible one; Henry, rowdy and unpredictable; Rory, the fighter; Clay, sensitive and introspective; and Tommy, the youngest, who gets away with keeping an assortment of pets with quirky names and stranger habits. Their chemistry is raw and authentic. It is visible in the way they beat each other up yet would unquestionably die for one another.

The resilience with which they raise themselves in the absence of their parents is chaotic and clumsy, even on their best days. Yet the strength of their bond is unmistakable. When Clay leaves to live with his father, the brothers feel deeply betrayed. Upon his return, Matthew feels “so damn good to see him,” but masks it. He “couldn’t show how much he didn’t want to hit him; he had to look willing and sure” before beating him up, after which Rory carries Clay back into the house. There is no pretence in this family; their emotions sit close to the surface, even when disguised as violence.

It is also worth pausing to appreciate Zusak’s skill with metaphor. Some of his imagery is breathtaking. When describing their mother’s illness, Matthew says, “Death was leaning close, an arm draped over the fridge.” Speaking of her treatments, he writes that “she was opened up and shut back tight, like a car on the side of the highway.” The very title, Bridge of Clay, is symbolic. Clay builds a bridge; both literally and metaphorically, attempting to mend the divide between his father and his brothers. Why this bridge must be built, and why it must be built by Clay alongside the very man the others consider a traitor, forms the emotional core of the story. It forces us to reconsider the weight of the word “murderer,” especially when Matthew says, “He killed us. What we were is dead.”

The recurring reference to their father as “the murderer” is particularly intriguing, because before Penelope’s death he appears devoted. This plays into Zusak’s tendency to foreshadow without fully revealing. It leaves the reader questioning what could have fractured such a beautifully chaotic family so completely. The extended revisiting of past events, though at times lengthy, becomes necessary to understand the significance of Clay and Michael’s roles in Penelope’s story.

By the time you reach the climax and the truth is finally laid bare, it becomes easier to forgive the drawn-out storytelling. A wave of emotion settles in, grief, anger, compassion, and you feel the burden of truth yourself. The novel leaves you contemplating the lengths to which a person might go to shield their loved ones from the harsh realities of life.


Bridge of Clay

Delve into the lives of five brothers navigating loss and betrayal, interweaving raw emotion, metaphors, and family bonds in a narrative that challenges perceptions of love and sacrifice.

Bridge of Clay - A review


I came across this title while browsing for something contemporary, wanting a break from heavier literature. This was one of those rare occasions when I didn’t read the blurb at the back to glimpse the world I was stepping into. It usually takes me about a sixth of a book to feel fully absorbed. With this one, just a few pages in, and I was lost in the marshlands of North Carolina.

The reason was simple. Simplicity. The author’s straightforward, matter-of-fact style gently draws the landscape and invites us to step inside it. At six years old, the protagonist, Catherine, known as Kya, firmly believes that “A ma don’t leave her kids. It ain’t in ‘em.” Little does she know that she will soon be abandoned by her mother, siblings, and eventually her father, left to fend for herself. By the age of seven, Kya is navigating a world riddled with prejudice, preconceived notions, and judgement.

Kya’s story is one of resilience and survival, of making the best of the worst circumstances. She is one of my favourite contemporary heroines: a girl who makes peace with what life hands her and perseveres, even when hope feels like a luxury beyond her reach.

Being a romantic at heart, I could not help but swoon when Tate, Kya’s first love, enters the story. Not because he is a knight in shining armour, but because he is simply present when no one else is. He reads her first words, becomes her friend, watches her grow into a woman. He gives her the possibility of a life beyond the marsh without overwhelming her fragile sense of security. Yet Tate is not without flaws. He stands at the edge of two worlds. Kya’s isolated existence and his own structured society, unsure how to reconcile them. He sees her innocence, yet also sees how the world treats someone like her. And at some point, he believes that to hold on to one world, he must let go of the other. He becomes “the coward inside who would not tell her goodbye,” and turns his back on her.

Chase, another of Kya’s lovers, represents something different, a man shaped entirely by society’s rules. He is curious enough to pursue the mysterious “Marsh Girl,” yet not courageous enough to fully claim her. He embodies the prejudice he cannot break free from.

The character building in this novel is subtle yet deeply affecting. Through simple words, the author conveys profound emotion. You feel Kya’s “lonely life hanging in her kitchen”, in the “tiny supply of onions in the vegetable basket,” in the “single plate drying in the rack.” As you come to understand her life, your heart aches at the injustice she endures, especially when confronted with the piercing question: “Why should the injured, the still bleeding, bear the onus of forgiveness?”

Kya’s inner conflict becomes painfully evident in moments like when Chase plays music, the only time she feels “he most had a soul.” That line does more than reveal her thoughts; it exposes the fragile human longing to be loved, even if it means accepting less than we deserve. Humans are as weak as they are strong, as flawed as they are magnificent. The true test lies in which side we choose when the balance tips.

This story portrays the idea that no one is purely good or entirely bad. Every individual carries the capacity for both; it is our choices that ultimately define us.

At its heart, this is a tale of internal struggle, of breaking societal norms, of surviving abandonment, of seeking love and acceptance. It is a story woven with love, mystery, murder, resilience, and justice. It keeps you turning pages until the very end, and just when you believe you have settled into certainty, it jolts you with the unexpected.

Where the Crawdads Sing

Set in the marshlands of North Carolina, follow Kya's journey of resilience, survival, and navigating societal prejudices, intertwined with complexities of love, mystery, and a pursuit of justice.

Where The Crawdads Sing - A review


This is the central premise of Animal Farm by George Orwell. The book opens on a farm where the animals gather for a meeting. Old Major, the boar, urges them to revolt against Mr. Jones. Humans, he argues, are unproductive and parasitic, yet they dominate the hardworking animals. The animals labour tirelessly while humans reap the rewards, offering little more than temporary shelter in return , and only for as long as the animals remain useful.

Taking Old Major’s words to heart, the animals overthrow Jones, drive him off the farm, and take control themselves, proclaiming that all animals are equal.

Thus begins Orwell’s satirical allegory, a story that exposes the follies of human behaviour, particularly within political systems rooted in communism. When the book was first published, it was met with hesitation due to its sharp critique of Soviet Communism. However, rather than focusing solely on its political implications, it is worth examining the broader patterns of human behaviour it reveals.

Two central figures emerge: Napoleon and Snowball, leaders with opposing ideologies and personalities, both eager to guide the farm despite the principle that all animals are equal. Their power struggle highlights the greed that often accompanies ambition. The pursuit of authority becomes more important than the ideals that sparked the revolution. Napoleon not only drives Snowball out with the help of his trained dogs but also appropriates his ideas, presenting them as his own. Throughout the novel, misfortunes are conveniently blamed on the exiled Snowball, a reflection of how leaders often retain power not by elevating themselves, but by discrediting others.

Orwell also illustrates how ordinary individuals become pawns in the maintenance of authority. The animals are constantly distracted, entangled in conspiracies, endless labour, and manufactured crises, all presented as necessary for their own improvement. This relentless cycle leaves little room for critical thought. Fear, peer pressure, and manipulation prevent them from questioning the gradual alteration of the commandments they once agreed upon. Most famously, the original maxim “All animals are equal” quietly evolves into “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”

Orwell masterfully portrays the fragile balance, or imbalance, of power. The true takeaway lies in recognising how easily ideals can be corrupted. In our pursuit of justice and equality, we risk becoming what we once resisted. As the chilling transformation suggests: “Four legs good, two legs better.”


Animal Farm

In our fight to seek justice, we inadvertently become what we try to avoid.

Animal Farm - A review


I was rather proudly mentioning that I had written a blog about storytelling during an afternoon tea when a friend suggested I put together a recommended reading list for children. What a brilliant idea. Not only had she handed me my next blog topic while my review of Animal Farm was still brewing, but she also transported me back to long summer afternoons spent with my nose buried in a book.

Popular with children today are titles like Captain Underpants, Dog Man, The Bad Guys, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Most of us are familiar with these, often smiling bravely as we suppress our inner literary purist and applaud our children’s efforts to “read.”

There is absolutely nothing wrong with these books. In fact, they are highly effective at drawing children into reading, especially in an age dominated by technology and shrinking attention spans. But if you would like to gently guide your child toward classics with a little more depth, perhaps it’s time for a trip to the riverbank.

Join the shy Mole and the clever, warm-hearted Water Rat. Climb into a boat and set off to rescue the ever-pompous Mr. Toad from yet another self-inflicted catastrophe in The Wind in the Willows. Follow Alice down the rabbit hole into the wonderfully bewildering world of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. My absolute all-time favourite is Anne of Green Gables, a coming-of-age story about an orphaned girl navigating the unfamiliar terrain of her newly adopted home. Anne’s spirited personality, daily adventures, and boundless imagination make her one of the most captivating heroines in children’s literature.

One of my accidental discoveries at a local library was a charming children’s book by J.R.R. Tolkien titled Mr. Bliss. It’s a delightfully quirky tale of mishaps that unfold when Mr. Bliss ventures out to buy a motor car.

Other timeless classics include Treasure Island, Where the Wild Things Are, The Little Prince, Heidi, The Secret Garden, A Wrinkle in Time, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and Where the Sidewalk Ends, to name just a few.

You might also dip your toes into beloved series such as The 13-Storey Treehouse, A Series of Unfortunate Events, and the Harry Potter collection, another personal favourite. Enid Blyton, a stalwart of children’s literature, gifted us treasures like The Magic Faraway Tree, The Enchanted Wood, The Famous Five series, and Naughty Amelia Jane, among many others.

Reading with your children is a magical journey, and a reminder that you are never too old to enjoy a children’s book yourself.

Rediscover the joy of children's literature alongside your kids.

On Children's Books


We all read for different reasons. Entertainment is an obvious one. Knowledge and personal growth are others. But what makes a book truly click?

When I read, I look for a story that will linger with me long after I’ve closed the cover. I want to be absorbed by it, lost in the language, immersed in the setting shaped by carefully chosen words. Words can make or break a story. The same plot, told in two different styles, can leave entirely different impressions on a reader. Half the magic lies in the story itself; the other half lies in the storytelling.

How did the author arrive at that particular line? How striking is that metaphor? How did they transform ink on paper into something I can feel in my chest? If the language of a narrative fails to captivate deeply, something is missing. The power of storytelling lies not only in what is told, but in how it is told.

That said, words are not the sole pillars upon which a story stands. Attention to detail and character development are just as crucial. We need to understand the characters, not merely their physical appearance, but their essence. Without a backstory, it becomes difficult to form an emotional connection with a protagonist. One of the most effective ways to build this connection is through observing how a character acts and reacts in ordinary situations. Their thoughts, their small opinions about everyday matters. These often reveal more than dramatic events ever could.

Understanding a character also deepens when we see them through the eyes of others. What do other characters think of them? Fear them? Admire? Resent? Without grasping who they are and why they behave as they do, it is difficult to empathise with them, or even to dislike them meaningfully.

Another essential element is emotional maturity within both the characters and the narrative. This is not about age, but about depth. When we read, we embark on a journey, not merely through time, but through transformation. That journey may chart the rise and fall of relationships, a coming-of-age evolution, or the consequences of a single pivotal event. Whether the arc leads toward growth or destruction, there must be movement. Stagnation weakens a story; development strengthens it.

These are just some of the elements I will be exploring in my reflections on each book I read, what made it resonate with me and what fell short. They are, of course, my personal impressions. You are welcome to disagree.


Intricate character development and attention to detail are crucial for readers to connect emotionally with the story.

Stories.

1 story.

A Dance On Her Grave