
Mehreen Arshi is a Pakistani-born, Australia-raised writer, researcher, and reader based in Canberra. After fifteen years in scientific research and writing, she turned to fiction to explore family, identity, belonging, cultural expectation, and the private desires that shape a life.

She is the author of *I carry your heart*, a family romance set between Pakistan, Australia, and London. Her second novel, currently in progress, follows the long shadow of the 1947 Partition of India and Pakistan.


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Pakistani-born, Australia-raised writer based in Canberra.

Mehreen Arshi


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


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.