By Desiree’ Francis / Sapan News

In a quiet yet modern corner of Dubai, in a home fragrant with karak chai and dhoklas and the recurring sound of Coke Studio Music playing on Youtube, lives a woman who has defied every expectation the world had set for her. Me. Pakistani. Tamilian. Married to an Indian. Gujrati. A quiet miracle of contradictions but a mother above all else.

I was born in Karachi, raised with the poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Tina Sani’s ghazals and the passed down ache of a generation that learned both pride and pain from Partition. A place where every street corner holds a memory, where cricket is a religion and mangoes are a season-long celebration. I never imagined that one day, I would raise a child fathered by a man from a country my schoolbooks painted with caution — India.

But here we are.

A twist of fate, a marriage across borders, and a home built in peacetime but raised in the shadow of history — that’s the story I rarely tell, but always live.

Our daughter, Ileana Ann, was born in Dubai. However, now, at two years old. She’s being taught to know the anthem of India better than “Dil Dil Pakistan”. Just beginning to string together words, tottering between rooms with a giggle that sounds the same in any language. Born with a passport that bears the tricolor — yet half her heartbeat echoes from across the Wagah border.

Ileana doesn’t yet know what borders are. Her world is small — it fits within the curve of my arms. Her identity, still unformed, lies somewhere between the poetry of Faiz and Taarek Mehta Ka Ulta Chashma in Hindi on television. She says “Mama” with the sweetness of Karachi, and “Dadda” with the accent of a Gujju.

I watch our daughter closely — with pride, with love, and sometimes, with a pang that I hide behind a kiss on the forehead.

I am raising her the only way I know — with Pakistani values of respect, restraint, and reverence stitched into every prayer, every spoonful of food, every softly spoken “Grace” before a meal. My home may be Indian in numbers, but its soul carries echoes of Pakistan — where hospitality is sacred and heartbreaks have their own hospitality.

When Ileana claps at the TV during India’s Independence Day parade, I clap with her. I don’t want to dim her joy. But deep inside, a small voice asks, Will she ever know the green in her blood?

I’m not bitter — just quietly aware. Aware that the world will see Ileana as Indian — only Indian. That when she excels in life, when she recites her first poem or waves her first flag, the applause will go to India. As it should. But it will also sting a little — because woven into every word she will ever speak is the music of a mother who still whispers stories of Karachi’s Quaid Mazar and Sea View at bedtime.

My greatest fear isn’t that my daughter will grow up Indian. It’s that she will one day have to choose. Between a mother who speaks of another homeland, and a country that taught her to stand at attention for another anthem. I know deep in the quiet chambers of my heart that one day my daughter will grow into a force of her own. I imagine her doing great things in life. Maybe on a stage, or maybe behind a desk, or standing at the frontlines of something brave and meaningful. And when she does, when the world applauds her, when India claims her as its proud daughter, I will smile through misty eyes and clap the loudest. Because greatness, after all, is every mother’s dream — no matter the flag.

I really won’t mind if India takes the credit. I’ll be her biggest cheerleader when she makes India proud, even if the headlines never mention the fact that I was the one who folded resilience into her nap-time, who whispered courage into her innocent ears. My love isn’t hungry for recognition — it only hopes for remembrance. So, every night, as I watch Ileana sleep, I pray: May she never have to choose between her Mother and Mother India. May her roots not become ropes pulling her apart!

Because what I am really planting is something neither side of the border has quite mastered — peace. Not the kind signed on paper, but the kind built one cradle-song at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, one day when Ileana grows up and someone asks her what makes her who she is, she’ll say:

“I am the daughter of a Pakistani mother and my motherland India. And I didn’t have to choose. “That’s the punch.

Not in protest — but in peace.

Not in victory — but in balance.

Not in choosing sides — but in embracing them.

Read: Breakfast in Lahore, Lunch in Amritsar, & Dinner in Bangalore

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Desiree’ Francis is a former Pakistani journalist, radio presenter, and peace advocate based in Dubai. She spearheaded the “Aman Ki Asha – Indo-Pak Peace Song” and the DJ Dez Show outreach, using music and intercommunity engagement to promote friendship between Indians and Pakistanis in the United Arab Emirates.

Lead image: ​​Wedding photo of radio presenter and peace advocate, Desiree Francis, and her two-year-old daughter, Ileana Ann. Photo supplied.

Courtesy: Sapan News

The post Between the Borders and Blessings first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

High above the glittering silence of the North Pole—where the wind whistles like a tired old flute and the snow sparkles like sugar dust on a dream—two Arctic terns stood on a gently swaying iceberg. Their names? Tikki and Noko.

Tikki was wild-hearted and wonderfully peculiar. He once tried to create feather gel from fermented fish oil, claiming it would revolutionize bird fashion. Noko, on the other wing, was contemplative and calm, a quiet map-lover who read cloud patterns like poetry and preferred stars over stories.

The sky was their only home, their playground, their compass. They had flown farther than most birds dared and dreamed even deeper. But lately, something in the wind had changed.

One morning, Tikki landed beside Noko, feathers ruffled and eyes stormy.

“They’re fighting again,” he said, voice barely louder than the wind.

Noko looked up from a frost-bitten weather chart. “Humans?”

Tikki nodded. “Borders. Maps. Flags. Even the sky isn’t safe anymore. I nearly flew into a drone yesterday—it had a camera.”

Noko sighed, soft as snowfall. “The sky is wide. How can anyone put a fence around the wind?”

“They’re trying,” Tikki whispered.

That night, atop an abandoned satellite dish, listening to the static hum of human ambition, they heard sirens howl and bombs fall in distant lands.

“We should do something,” said Noko.

“Like what?”

“Show them. Show them that the sky belongs to no one… and to everyone.”

Tikki looked up. The stars blinked in quiet agreement.

“Let’s fly,” he said, wings half open. “From the top of the world to the bottom, and back again. Across cities, deserts, oceans, festivals, war zones, and peace gardens. Let’s understand how humans live, love, and lose. Maybe then…”

“…we’ll learn whether peace is just a feathered dream,” Noko finished, “or something real they build with their hearts.”

And so, with kelp-thread pouches strapped to their backs and sky-colored courage in their bones, the two birds took off—awkward, determined, and beautifully unprepared—for the greatest journey ever attempted by anyone with wings and a heart full of questions.

A Year and a Half in the Sky — Wings Across the World

Their journey began with a graceful leap from their iceberg home, turning into a chaotic tumble thanks to a slippery seal. Tikki and Noko, curious birds, spread their wings and set off on a year-long flight across the globe, witnessing life’s vivid tapestry unfold beneath them.

In Canada, autumn sets forests ablaze with fiery reds and golds. They watched a grandmother knit on her porch, a sleepy cat resting on her lap, and marveled at the quiet beauty. An eagle mistook them for odd snowflakes and chased them briefly.

Over Greenland’s ice cliffs, fishermen braved icy waters, and a boy’s flute song echoed near resting seals, captivating the birds with melodies carved from glaciers.

Across the United States, they dodged taxis and pigeons wearing bagels like necklaces in New York City. They found solace in Central Park, watching an old man feed birds with whispered stories only they could understand.

They flew westward over the Grand Canyon, Yosemite’s waterfalls, and Alaskan glaciers groaning with centuries of wisdom.

Over the Panama Canal, they marveled at metal ships inching through green mountains — a strange river carved by ambition. “Man split the continent,” a toucan remarked from a mango tree, “but the frogs still sing together on both sides.” In Panama, they watched sloths smile slowly from treetops and iguanas sunbathe on ruins older than flags.

They flew westward to Cuba, where the music in the air was thick enough to ride. Street pigeons danced to the beat of drums and told tales of revolution, resilience, and endless rhythm. “Freedom feels different here,” one bird mused, “like a song half-sung but still soaring.”

In Latin America, Mexico’s Day of the Dead candles flickered in alleyways, Peru’s Machu Picchu was cloaked in mist, and Brazil exploded with carnival rhythms where Tikki twirled mid-air.

They soared over the sacred Amazon rainforest, home to scarlet macaws and distant tribal canoes. Chile’s Atacama Desert cracked under the sun, while Peruvian women wove ancient stories into fabric. Bolivian children offered flowers not for sorrow but love.

In the sub-Antarctic islands, penguins dressed like kings, elephant seals bellowed mighty duels, and albatrosses whispered sky secrets. An old albatross said, “The farther you fly from people, the closer you come to truth.”

Braving furious seas, they reached Antarctica’s white silence. Emperor penguins taught patience, snow petrels drifted like whispers, and a humpback whale’s breath echoed beneath frozen skies.

Crossing into Africa, they saw women in Ethiopia singing strength as they carried water, children in South Sudan smiling through hardship, Nigerian rooftops echoing with drums, and a Sahara boy sharing water first with his camel—a simple act of kindness.

Somewhere in Africa, elephants lumbered through sun-cracked savannas with the dignity of gods.

They paused by Lake Victoria, where herons stood still as statues and flamingos painted the water pink. “The lake feeds us,” said a spoonbill, “but now the fish are fewer, and plastic flows like water.”

In Congo’s rainforests, mothers tied prayers to branches for missing sons, while Rwanda’s former enemies worked side by side in banana fields, showing that forgiveness frees rather than forgets.

By the time Tikki and Noko flew over Egypt, they had forgotten what it meant to be surprised. But then came the Nile — not a river, but a ribbon of time itself. It shimmered like a silver snake under the sun, winding through civilizations and tombs, whispering secrets to those who dared to listen.

Tikki dipped his wing toward the pyramids.

“Stone triangles?” he scoffed.

“Time pyramids,” corrected Noko, watching camels plod like punctuation marks in the sand.

A boy nearby drew an ibis in the dust. “Look,” whispered Tikki, “they still remember us.”

Europe revealed beauty and scars: Russia’s frozen landscapes, Ukraine’s sunflower fields stained by war, the UK’s foggy graveyards, Germany’s Holocaust memorials, Italy’s opera, Spain’s flamenco.

They hovered over green fields near the Black Forest, in Germany, where they watched humans gather around festive markets in winter, sipping warm drinks, while storks stood silently in snowy meadows. They listened to a robin perched on a vineyard fence, who sang about ancient castles, golden grapes, and a river called the Rhine that once carried both merchants and warriors.

Over France, they saw orderly rows of lavender swaying under a honey-colored sky. In Italy, the siblings glided past church spires and sun-drenched piazzas, picking up phrases from sparrows chatting over gelato crumbs: “Some birds never leave this square. They say everything they need is here — warmth, bread, and a place to perch.”

In the Swiss Alps, they marveled at the silence. Ice and rock, so still, so eternal. Yet even here, mountain crows muttered about disappearing glaciers and warmer winds. Sweden was sleepy with snow. Elks blinked at them, chewing as if they knew secrets of ancient trees.

Crossing into Eastern Europe, they paused at Lake Baikal, where the water was so clear, it felt like flying over glass. “Deepest lake in the world,” a proud Siberian gull told them, “and oldest too. Beneath its surface, time swims like a silver fish.” There, they slept in the crook of a birch tree and dreamed of underwater worlds.

In Asia, Pakistan’s wedding drums thundered, a bride’s hair caught a feather from Tikki’s tail—a sign of luck. India’s Holi festival painted the sky in rainbows; Kashmir’s meadows held soldiers and a boy playing quietly. Nepal’s Himalayas spun prayer wheels of peace.

Afghanistan’s resilience shone through a girl reading in a bullet-marked tent school. Iran whispered poetry through its domes. Iraq’s ruins bore flowers—hope planted in madness.

Uzbekistan’s children played under ancient madrasas. In Kazakhstan, eagle hunters soared beside dancing families. China’s neon cities blinked; Japan’s cherry blossoms floated like confetti.

In Mongolia, horses raced through endless plains like heartbeat and breath, unbridled and holy. A child with windburnt cheeks whispered to his mare before mounting her bareback. “He rides like he’s part of the wind,” Tikki whispered.

In Palestine and Israel, prayers were divided by walls. Gaza’s children played football beside broken buildings; one child drew wings on a wall, making Tikki cry.

From the skies, they followed the dry bed of the Indus, once a mighty mother river. Now, the cracked earth groaned beneath their shadows. Villagers stared at the sky as if it owed them an apology. Tikki wept quietly.

“Where did the water go?” he asked.

Noko didn’t answer. He just stared at the river’s bones.

Across the border, the Ganges carried both prayers and corpses — the living and the dead floating in uneasy harmony. Funeral fires whispered to stars while children bathed in the same water, giggling as if death were just another wave.

In Mumbai, the Dhobi Ghat stretched like a monochrome garden: shirts, saris, uniforms, sheets—hung like silent poems written by soaked hands. Below, men pounded fabric like drums. Tikki almost got caught in a sari. “Laundry ballet!” he yelled mid-air.

Then came Sindh — warm as memory.

They found charpais/khat under peepal/ pippar trees, grandmothers/fathers offering ajrak and Sindhi topi to strangers, and boys with mango juice stains on their shirts laughing at clouds. They were invited, fed crumbs of roti and goat cheese and fish by hands that had little but shared everything.

“Hospitality,” said Noko, “is a kind of sky.”

They soared across seas where whales hummed operas and steel vessels moved like lumbering giants. Tikki counted flags. “Why so many?” he wondered. “Aren’t we all going somewhere?”

In blue beaches off the Maldives, turtles and stingrays danced under coral cathedrals. In Indonesia, monkeys stole phones and bananas. Tikki almost lost a tail feather to one with sticky fingers.

Their wings carried them south through the India ocean, where the sky buzzed with monsoon joy. Then, over the jewel-toned waters of the Indian Ocean, they touched down on Madagascar. A hoopoe with an extravagant crown welcomed them, chuckling, “Here, forests sing in dialects you’ve never heard — lemur lullabies, baobab whispers.” They tasted the scent of vanilla and watched chameleons blink slowly at the sky.

In the Pacific, Fiji’s lullabies were sung to the sea, and a woman’s whispered “For love beyond tides” made the birds weep.

One long glide across the sea brought them to Papua New Guinea, where parrots wore paint brighter than any sunset. “Our humans here still dance with feathers,” a cockatoo informed them, “and talk to spirits older than language.” The terns nodded, unsure if it was myth or memory.

And then in Australia, kangaroos box-danced under moonlight while koalas snored like monks. One kangaroo asked Tikki for his feathers. “To impress a girl,” he said. Tikki declined but winked. Tasmania’s misty wilderness brought ancient forests and Aboriginal elders who sang to the sky, reminding them that flying and staying both carry sacred memory.

New Zealand brought shy kiwis, the bird, and the fruit. Mist hugged volcanic peaks like an old friend. They saw a Māori haka performed on a school field. The children danced like thunder.

In wide lands, they flew over quilted earth — rice paddies that shimmered like jade, golden wheat waving like greetings, sugarcane standing tall, cotton soft as clouds, mangoes, oranges, apples, melons, cherries, and guavas dotting orchards like children’s dreams.

They hovered over temples, mosques, synagogues, churches, gurdwaras, monasteries — where hands lifted not in division but in yearning. Bells rang, azans echoed, incense spiraled. Faiths differed, but longing was the same.

They saw humans drunk — some from sorrow, some from cheap liquor. And others are wide awake — holding IV bags, inventing cures, teaching children, kissing beloveds, praying for just one more day. Tikki and Noko circled hospitals and funeral homes, weddings, and protests.

On the banks of a quiet river in Multan, a Sufi dervish spun barefoot, singing verses older than war. “In the end,” he said to a blind dog by his side, “love is what remains.”

They dipped their wings over Malta, the ancient crossroads of the Mediterranean, where limestone cities rose from the sea like forgotten fortresses. Swifts welcomed them, saying, “We’ve nested in stone older than memory. Every migration writes a footnote in history here.”

In Tunisia, they skimmed over golden sands and date palms. A desert lark told them, “Here, the stars still speak — but the city lights are learning to shout louder.” In Morocco, they flew past markets scented with saffron and leather, watching falcons in the sky and carpets beneath.

In the olive groves of Greece and Tunisia, they rested among twisting branches, where a local dove shared olives and gossip: “Do you know? In some countries, humans prize these trees like sacred elders. In others, they tear them up for highways. One place calls it heritage; another calls it progress.”

Everywhere they went, they noticed this strange pattern. What was sacred in one land was forbidden in another. In one country, birds were caged as pets. In the next, that same bird was protected by law. They saw humans smoking something freely in one city square, then watched another be jailed for the same leaf across a border. They puzzled over markets where some animals were delicacies, and in others, holy. “So much depends on where your feet — or wings — touch the ground,” one stork said thoughtfully in Greece.

Passing through the Suez Canal, the human-made thread between two seas, the terns lingered on the breeze. “This is where oceans meet,” said a seagull from Alexandria, “but currents clash — just like people.”

High above the world, the terns often talked. But they also listened.

They listened to a weary crane in Ethiopia who whispered of drying wetlands and long migrations made longer by drought. To a cheerful finch in Barcelona, proud of how the city plants flowers just for bees and birds. To a skeptical crow in Berlin, who said, “Ah, but watch how easily humans forget.”

And yet, the terns also saw beauty beyond measure — forests healing, rivers protected, little girls feeding pigeons with open palms. They witnessed hope in the flutter of butterfly wings and in fields where children planted trees taller than themselves.

They passed celebrities and presidents — arguing over chai, scratching itches, swatting flies, picking noses, farting mid-speech, peeing behind trees, checking their reflections in spoons, laughing like children, and crying when no one watched.

“So much power,” said Tikki, “but still so… birdlike.”

Noko nodded. “The feathers fall off everyone eventually.”

They saw farmers planting seeds while coughing from pesticides. Mothers were going without food so their children could eat. Children dreaming of becoming astronauts, even when their classrooms had no roof.

They watched two old men play chess in a bombed-out library in Syria. A girl on a skateboard in Palestine jumps over rubble and lands on hope.

They saw kindness in markets, cruelty in silence, resistance in music, and peace written on walls no one read anymore.

And each evening, they perched on electric wires or rusted towers and watched the sun spill gold across the horizon. In the morning, they rose with the light and rode it like a hymn.

After a year and a half, they returned — feathers worn, eyes wiser, hearts heavier.

Back to the Arctic.

Tikki sat on the edge of their favorite glacier and whispered, “The world is terrifying and tender.”

Noko added, “And so alive.”

They had seen what humans did with the world — burned it, blessed it, broke it, kissed it. And still, the world turned.

Above them, the aurora danced like the memory of all the stories they’d seen. Tikki tucked his head beneath his wing. Noko looked up one last time.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “they’ll learn.”

Maybe.

As they arced south again, circling the Earth like ink on parchment, the two Arctic terns carried all these stories in their wings. Their journey was far from over, but already, they had seen more than most hearts ever hold.

Throughout their flight, Tikki and Noko saw injustice—stolen lands, hoarded water, lies sold as truth—but also justice—neighbors rebuilding, judges freeing the wrongly accused.

They found kindness—children sharing food with stray dogs, women leaving water for birds, teens helping the blind cross busy roads.

Sharing the Sky- The Sky That Belonged to No One

Word spread fast in the Arctic that Tikki and Noko had seen the world. Young birds gathered every morning, wide-eyed.

“Did you really see penguins in bow ties?” “Did a camel sneeze on you?” “Is it true humans build walls between themselves?”

Tikki told stories with dramatic wing flaps. Noko corrected timelines and added quiet truths.

They taught the young birds:

• To fly not just high, but wide.
• To observe without judging.
• To understand that the world is full of opposites living together: sorrow and song, war and weddings, winter and warmth.

Tikki built a nest-theatre and called it SkyTalks. Noko printed maps on ice (which melted quickly, but the idea was noble).

Eventually, they were invited to join the Grand Migration Council.

Their recommendation?

“Let every young bird get lost once. It’s the only way to find meaning. And always, always come home—not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours.”

The Arctic echoed with laughter, tears, stories, and new dreams.

Two birds had flown across the world.

And in doing so, had given their home something priceless — perspective.

They returned, not with anger but with the story.

They sang across continents—not just to other birds, but to dreamers, children, poets, gardeners, even tired guards at border posts.

Their song had no lyrics. Just wind, wingbeats, and memory.

Somewhere in Gaza, a child looked up and saw Tikki circling—and smiled.

In Ukraine, a boy sketched birds while sirens cried.

In Colombia, a grandmother tied a white ribbon on a tree, and Tikki landed beside it.

In Kashmir, a soldier lowered his gun when he saw two birds flying side by side.

Maybe nothing changed.

Maybe everything did.

But whenever someone looked up, they remembered:

The sky has no border.

No passport.

No flag.

Just flight.

Just freedom.

Tikki and Noko were never seen in cages.

They belonged to the sky.

And the sky belonged to them.

Final Message: A Feathered Hope

To those who read this—if two tiny birds can fly across oceans and mountains to understand the world, perhaps we too can cross our fears, prejudices, and indifference.

May we be more like rivers and arctic terns.

Ever flowing. Always returning. Never forgetting.

Read: The Overcoat and the Silence

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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.

The post The Wings Without Borders first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

There is something uniquely poetic about long road journeys. They allow thoughts to stretch as landscapes unfold, giving travelers time to observe not just the world outside the window but also the conversations within their hearts. On the morning of May 13, 2025, I found myself at the beginning of such a journey—boarding a FlixBus from Stockholm, Sweden to Oslo, Norway, accompanied by my friend Riaz Hussain Kangoo.

The weather was delightfully pleasant—cool enough to refresh, warm enough to comfort. Our purpose was as much emotional as it was geographical: to reunite with our dear friends Abdul Ghaffar Soomro, Noor Ul Amin Samoo, and Sher Muhammad Nonari, who had been traveling across Europe—Italy, Switzerland, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark, Malmö Sweden, and now, for the final leg, Norway. Initially, we had planned to meet somewhere in Central Europe, but our schedules didn’t align. So, Oslo it was—their last stop before returning to Karachi, Sindh.

When the bus did not appear at the scheduled time, a ripple of anxiety passed through us, but it arrived with a 15-minute delay, typical for long-distance travel. Once on board, we were quickly immersed in the quiet buzz of fellow travelers. People from different parts of the world occupied the seats. Directly behind us sat a young Indian couple caught in a low-voiced yet unmistakably passionate debate—so characteristically South Asian that it made us smile knowingly.

The bus driver, a composed woman in her forties, began the drive, which would take more than seven hours. But patience is a companion on such journeys. The changing Swedish scenery outside was breathtaking—lakes reflecting skies like liquid mirrors, tall pine trees whispering old stories, yellow mustard fields glowing like gold against deep green, and traditional red wooden houses dotting the countryside like delicate brushstrokes.

Our route included short stops at several cities: Västerås, Örebro, Karlskoga, and Karlstad. At Karlstad, the driver switched—another friendly soul taking us closer to our destination. One constant through the trip was Riaz’s company—his laughter, thoughts, and insightful perspectives made the hours glide past.

At the Swedish-Norwegian border, there was no ceremonial passport check, just a subtle drop in the bus speed to around 30 kilometers per hour. It was a symbolic moment—crossing from one Scandinavian nation to another seamlessly, a testament to the invisible bridges of trust and policy in this part of the world.

By evening, we rolled into Oslo Bus Terminal. The city greeted us with the same granary structures and architectural rhythm as Stockholm—perhaps only the flags had changed. There, at the terminal, our friends greeted us warmly. Hugs, smiles, and laughter poured forth. Ada Abdul Ghaffar, Ada Noor Ul Amin, and Mr. Abdul Qayoom—a respected Pakistani from Badin, Sindh, living in Oslo—were waiting for us.

We headed to the centrally located Anker Hotel, our temporary home in Oslo. After a swift check-in and a refreshing shower, we were off again—this time to Mr. Abdul Qayoom’s residence in Asker, a green and peaceful suburb outside the city.

The evening at Asker was rich with storytelling. The topics circled around their experiences through Europe—the places that mesmerized them, the exhaustion of non-stop travels, and the longing to return to places that had touched their hearts. It was evident they had seen much but perhaps wished they had seen less, with more depth. It’s the paradox of travel—you want to see everything, but often, the best parts are felt when you slow down.

Dinner was a highlight. Mr. Abdul Qayoom prepared traditional Norwegian-style salmon, and it was absolutely delectable. Conversations continued over the meal and spilled into a delightful round of karak doodh pati—the signature ending to every memorable desi evening. Before leaving, we were offered a ride to the train station in Asker. Onboard the train back to Oslo, we chatted with the conductor—a Kashmiri man—which added yet another layer of familiarity to our journey.

Oslo still basked in daylight when we arrived back. We walked towards Jernbanetorget—the central public square outside Oslo Central Station. The correct spelling, often confused, is “Jernbanetorget,” which literally translates to “The Railway Square.” It’s a bustling area, alive with the rhythm of the city. There, we posed with the iconic lion statue—a favorite photo spot for tourists and locals alike.

Nearby, a beautiful fountain cascaded gently into its basin. The water sparkled under the golden twilight, surrounded by artistic stonework and benches where travelers took a breath from their urban explorations. We paused there too, capturing moments and moods with our cameras and hearts.

Our final walk for the night was toward the Oslo Opera House. It was like walking into a scene from a movie—sunset coloring the sky in brushstrokes of orange, pink, and indigo. The Opera House, with its sharp, modern architecture rising from the water, was a marvel. People lounged on its sloped surfaces; boats bobbed in the nearby harbor; tourists photographed, lovers embraced, and children ran freely. We joined in, enjoying the serenity and cracking Sindhi jokes that echoed with laughter under the wide northern sky.

Later, back at Anker Hotel, the night stretched a little longer. The hotel had a generous tea and coffee setup for guests, and we made the most of it—occupying a cozy corner where our conversations could flow. We revisited the past, imagined the future, and laughed over shared memories.

Our conversation soon turned to our beloved northern areas of Pakistan. Ada Noor and Bha Abdul Ghaffar shared detailed anecdotes from their travels—snow-capped peaks, friendly locals, and the feeling of belonging to nature. Noor also spoke fondly of his adventures in Singapore, Thailand, and Malaysia, revealing how each culture had taught him something unique.

Eventually, we decided to sleep and meet again for breakfast. The morning of May 14 began with the same joy. This time, it was Ada Sher Muhammad Nonari’s turn to share his stories, particularly his work-related experiences in Islamabad. His words painted the capital city with hues of challenge, opportunity, and insight.

The breakfast area filled quickly. We met a young man from Thailand working at the hotel. When he heard me speak Swedish, he smiled and asked if I lived in Sweden. I said yes. He said, “I could tell by the way you speak Swedish.” That unexpected recognition felt like a small badge of cultural adaptation. He told us he had also lived in Stockholm but moved to Oslo due to the housing crisis. He missed Stockholm but was making the most of his life in Norway. Ada Noor Ul Amin exchanged a few lines in Thai with him, which warmed the interaction even more.

As we finished breakfast, Mr. Abdul Qayoom arrived to help our friends with their airport drop-off. It was time to say goodbye. We hugged, smiled, and promised to meet again—somewhere, someday.

Riaz and I checked out a little later and roamed the town one last time. We returned to Jernbanetorget for more photos with the lion—this time in daylight. Then we strolled along Karl Johans gate, the main pedestrian shopping street in Oslo. It stretches from the central station to the Royal Palace and is filled with charming cafes, shops, and performers. We absorbed the street’s rhythm, browsed souvenirs, and reflected on the simplicity and sophistication of Norwegian urban life.

Finally, it was time to board our FlixBus back to Stockholm. This time, it was on schedule. As the bus rolled out of Oslo, we sat quietly, no longer strangers to the road or each other’s thoughts.

Returning home, we all carried more than photos or keepsakes. We carried on conversations, reflections, and a refreshed understanding of life. Travel is never just about going somewhere—it’s about becoming someone. It teaches you what textbooks cannot: how to value silence, how to question systems, how to spot the beauty in small things.

We compared cultures, questioned governance, wondered what made some nations happy, and how systems could work better back home. These aren’t just observations—they’re seeds of change, watered by the miles we traverse.

To those reading: encourage your youth to travel. Let them collect stories, not just things. Let them return not with bags, but with broader minds, deeper empathy, and richer hearts.

Read: A Rain-Kissed Day in Öregrund

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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.

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