book reviews
Reviews of books by relationship gurus, dating experts, and cautionary tale-tellers.
“The Last Candle”
The power went out just as the storm reached its height. Thunder rattled the windows, lightning split the sky, and suddenly the house plunged into absolute darkness. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of rain lashing against the roof and wind howling through the cracks of the old wooden doors. Sara froze where she stood. She hated storms—not just because of the noise or the fear of the unknown, but because storms carried memories she had spent years trying to bury. Her hands searched blindly across the cluttered table until her fingers brushed against the smooth wax of a candle. It was the last one left in the house, a short stub of white that had already been used on nights like this. She found the box of matches nearby and struck one with trembling fingers. The flame leapt to life, small and fragile, before she lit the candle. At once, a soft golden glow spread across the living room, pushing the shadows back just far enough to give her comfort. Sara sat down near it, hugging her knees to her chest. She exhaled shakily. She was alone in the house—alone in the city, it often felt. She remembered another storm years ago. She had been ten, sitting in the same living room when her mother packed a suitcase and left into the rain. Sara had sat there crying, holding a candle in her hand, begging her mother not to leave. But the door had slammed shut, and she never came back. From that night on, storms meant loss. Storms meant endings. Her father had done his best to fill the emptiness that followed. He used to say, “Light is never just light, Sara. It’s memory. It’s hope. That’s why we keep candles around—because even the smallest flame can guide you home.” Now even her father was gone. He had passed away last spring, and the house that once felt alive with his laughter and warmth had become unbearably silent. The candle flickered gently, and Sara stared at it as though it were alive. The flame bent and swayed with the wind sneaking through the windows, but it never gave up. She leaned closer, whispering, “You’re small, but you’re still here.” A part of her wondered if the candle’s stubborn glow was a reflection of her own life. She had let her dreams slip away over the years. She once wanted to write a book, maybe even travel, but instead she stayed. She worked a job that paid just enough to survive, kept to herself, and tried not to think about the things she had lost. But as she sat there, she realized she had been living like the house—quiet, dim, waiting for someone else to bring light back in. The storm raged on outside, louder than ever. Rain hammered the roof. The candle trembled in the wind’s breath, shrinking, nearly faltering. Sara’s heart jumped in panic as if she might lose something far greater than wax and flame. But then, just as quickly, the flame straightened and burned brighter. Tears blurred her eyes. She thought of her father again, his resilience, the way he always kept moving forward even after her mother left. He used to sit her down and say, “The world is full of storms, Sara. But you don’t fight them with strength—you fight them with light.” The words echoed in her chest now. Hours passed slowly. She wrapped a blanket around herself, but her gaze never left the candle. The living room walls seemed alive with shifting shadows, painted by the little flame. In those shadows, she saw pieces of her past: her father reading to her by lamplight, her mother’s laughter before life became heavy, her younger self writing stories by candlelight. At one point, exhaustion nearly pulled her under. Her eyes fluttered, her body heavy, but she forced herself to stay awake. The flame became her anchor, her reason to keep breathing steadily. Then, almost without realizing it, she noticed the storm easing. The thunder grew faint, the rain softened to a whisper. Slowly, pale morning light began to seep through the curtains. The storm had passed. And still, the candle burned. Sara rose to her feet, stretching stiff legs, and walked to the window. She drew the curtains back. The world outside looked different—washed clean by the rain, glistening with new life. The air smelled fresh, alive, as though even the earth had been waiting for this renewal. She looked back at the candle. Its flame wavered, steady as ever. A small laugh escaped her lips, mixed with a sob. For the first time in so long, she didn’t feel crushed by emptiness. She felt… lighter. Not because the grief was gone, but because she realized she could carry it differently now. She walked to the table and leaned close. With a gentle breath, she blew the candle out. A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward, leaving the room dim again. But this time, she didn’t feel afraid of the dark. Because the last candle hadn’t only survived the night—it had given her something back. It had reminded her that she was still here, still burning, and that even the smallest light could keep her moving forward. Sara smiled softly and whispered, “Thank you.” She didn’t mean the candle alone. She meant her father’s lessons, her own strength, the small sparks of hope she thought had died but hadn’t. The storm was gone. And in its quiet aftermath, she finally felt ready to begin again.
By AHAD Barki about a year ago in Humans
I Let AI Plan My Entire Week — Here’s What Happened
Introduction: Handing Over My Life to AI Like most people in 2025, I use AI almost daily—whether it’s asking ChatGPT for quick answers, using AI tools to edit text, or letting recommendation engines tell me what movie to watch. But one day, a crazy thought crossed my mind:
By Moqadas Kliwalabout a year ago in Humans
The Last Library of Humanity
M Mehran Eli walked slowly through the ruins of the city, the wind carrying with it the faint smell of dust and forgotten fire. His boots crunched against shards of glass that had once been windows to tall buildings. The world, he thought, had grown quieter than it ever should have been. He wasn’t alone. Humanity had not completely disappeared—though sometimes, it felt like it had. Small clusters of people still survived, scattered like seeds across barren soil. But survival had become a task of instinct: eat, drink, shelter, repeat. Few remembered what it meant to live beyond survival. Eli carried a canvas bag across his shoulder, heavy with items most people wouldn’t have bothered with. Where others hunted for canned food or spare tools, he searched for books. Pages torn, spines cracked, some nearly dissolved by rain—but to him, they were treasures. Words, he believed, were the last evidence of what humans once were. That morning, he stumbled upon something extraordinary. Behind the skeletal remains of a school, he found a basement door wedged half-open by rubble. It took him nearly an hour to pry it wider, squeezing himself through the narrow gap. Inside was darkness. He lit a match. The flame revealed rows upon rows of shelves, damp but intact. His breath caught in his throat. It was a library. The books were swollen with moisture, but thousands of them remained. Stories. Histories. Ideas. Dreams. It was as if he had stepped into the mind of humanity itself. He set the match in a metal tin and fed it bits of paper until a small flame danced. Light flickered across spines with faded titles: The Odyssey, A Brief History of Time, Collected Poems of Rumi, Medical Guides, Atlases. His fingers trembled as he touched them. For hours, Eli read. He turned brittle pages carefully, whispering words aloud just to hear them exist again. Each book was a voice of someone long gone, yet still speaking. Here was joy, here was sorrow, here was questioning. When night fell, he built a fire in a corner of the basement. He ate a small ration of dried beans and bread, then sat cross-legged with a book of poetry. He read verses about love and loss, and for the first time in months, he felt less alone. But the world outside was never patient. The next morning, as sunlight filtered through cracks in the ceiling, Eli heard footsteps above. Heavy, deliberate. He froze. Voices followed. A group—scavengers, most likely. They were dangerous not because they were evil, but because hunger made people cruel. Books meant nothing to them. If they found the library, they would burn it for warmth. Eli quickly stuffed three books into his bag: one on medicine, one on farming, and one filled with poems. Knowledge for the body, knowledge for survival, knowledge for the soul. Then he smothered the fire and pressed himself into the shadows. The footsteps grew louder. Dust fell as the intruders pried open the basement door. Torchlight cut through the darkness. “Look at this,” one of them muttered. “More junk.” Another kicked a book, laughing. “Paper doesn’t feed you.” They didn’t notice Eli, pressed silently against the far wall. For a moment, he feared they would start tearing the shelves down for firewood. But luck—or perhaps mercy—intervened. “There’s nothing here worth taking,” the leader growled. “Move on.” One by one, the scavengers left. Their footsteps faded until the silence returned. Eli didn’t move for nearly an hour, waiting, listening. Only when he was sure they were gone did he rise, his muscles aching. He looked around at the rows of books, untouched, waiting. “I’ll come back,” he whispered, as if promising the library itself. For the next several months, Eli did return. He made careful trips, each time taking a few books with him and hiding them in safer places. Sometimes he traded knowledge for food: how to treat wounds, how to plant seeds, how to build shelters. People thought he was strange, but they listened. Slowly, in small ways, communities began to grow again. What mattered most, however, were the poems. At night, when people gathered around small fires, Eli would read verses aloud. Stories of love, of courage, of mistakes, of dreams. Faces softened in the glow, eyes widened, hearts remembered. The words reminded them that being human was more than surviving—it was feeling, imagining, connecting. Years passed. The city continued to crumble, but around it, villages rose. Children grew up hearing not only instructions on how to live, but songs, myths, and poems. Eli grew older, his beard turning white, but his voice stayed steady. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, a child asked him, “Why do you care so much about old books?” Eli smiled. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Because books are people,” he said. “Every page is someone reaching out across time, saying I was here, and I felt what you feel now. Without them, we forget who we are.” The boy thought about that for a long moment, then nodded. And in that moment, Eli knew humanity still had a chance. Not because of the tools they built, or the shelters they raised, but because they remembered the voices of those who came before. The library remained hidden in its basement, untouched by fire or greed. It was no longer just a collection of books—it was a seed. And in that seed, humanity began again.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Humans
When the World Fell Silent, I Found My Voice
Excerpt (Short Intro): For years, I carried a silence that no one else could hear. Behind every smile was a storm I never let escape. This is the story of the night everything changed—the night I learned that speaking up can save a life, even your own.
By Roohullah Roohani about a year ago in Humans
“The Forgotten Straightforward Man” . AI-Generated.
No one knew exactly when Master Ilyas came to this neighborhood or when he rented the small room, but everyone knew he was a refugee from Ambala because he spoke the dialect of that region. Master Ilyas lived in a rented room. The boys of the neighborhood would come to him to learn counting, numbers, and writing on the board. He had a quail and a rooster. The quails were kept in cages, but the rooster always stood a little distance from his door. Master Ilyas had fixed a brass ring on one of the rooster’s legs, tied a strong string to it, and nailed the other end of the string to the threshold of his room. The people of Mohsin’s neighborhood respected Master Ilyas. Whenever they passed by his door, they greeted him with “Assalamu Alaikum.” Master Ji seemed to do some other work too, but no one really knew what it was. Perhaps he worked as a clerk in the vegetable market, or maybe in a dyeing factory, or in some distant neighborhood. His life was a mystery, but everyone knew that he survived on a meager income. In truth, Master Sahib was a very straightforward man. He did not know how to keep pace with the times. His appearance was such that it did not attract sympathy, and his speech was so plain that people never believed him. He never lied, never manipulated, never exaggerated, never boasted, and never frightened anyone. His honesty was so blunt and uncompromising that people found it uncomfortable. He seemed less like a man and more like a burden on the world. Because of this, he had no friends. The people of the neighborhood respected him only from a distance, with greetings and formal kindness. One winter evening, the landlord came and scolded Master Ilyas harshly. He threatened that if the rent of the last six months—one hundred and eighty rupees—was not paid within three days, he would throw his belongings out. Master Ji was terrified, because he had only fifty rupees, tied in a thread in his pocket. The landlord angrily threw the money on the ground, in front of the rooster, and said: “Go away! I don’t want this. Bring me the full one hundred and eighty!” When the landlord left, Master Ilyas picked up the money and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He sat on his small cot, grief-stricken. For the first time, he felt such sorrow that it tied his chest, yet no tears came to his eyes. As promised, the landlord soon picked up his belongings and threw them out. He placed Master Sahib’s cot under the transformer and piled the rest of his things nearby. Then, locking the room with a new Chinese lock, he rode away on his scooter. The next morning, Master Ilyas went to Sheikh Karim Nawaz’s mansion and asked him for a loan of two hundred rupees. Sheikh Sahib, however, dismissed him as a good but foolish man. Later, he went to Ismail Bajaz’s shop and reduced his request to one hundred and fifty rupees, but Ismail too apologized. Master Sahib went from place to place, but in those days of inflation, no one had anything to lend. On the eighth night of sleeping under the transformer, Master Ilyas went to a homeopathic doctor. After checking him, the doctor said, “Master Sahib, you have pneumonia. I can give you some medicine, but you should also see a proper doctor.” Master Ji left the clinic, drank a glass of hot milk from Jabbar Halwai’s shop, and again asked him for a loan of two hundred rupees. Jabbar, knowing no one would lend to such a poor and helpless man, laughed. It was a rare laugh for Jabbar, but to him the request seemed absurd. For three days in a row, Master Ilyas sat on his small cot with his head covered by a blanket. When neighbors passed by, they greeted him: “Why, Master, the sun is setting?” And he would reply in a muffled voice, “Yes, it was a little cold.” On the fourth day, at the time of the Fajr call to prayer, Master Ilyas quietly passed away. The entire neighborhood of Mohsin Mohalla was stunned. By breakfast, silence and grief wrapped the streets. A bowl of kangani was given to his quails, and a bowl of flour to his rooster. Sheikh Karim Nawaz came out of his mansion and sat under the transformer. Soon, people gathered. Two hundred rupees were sent with Saeed and Bilal to arrange the grave. Three hundred rupees were given to Babu Jalal to buy camphor, rose water, and flowers for the burial. Jabbar Halwai even brought a piece of fresh sweet for the mourners. Together, the people of Mohsin Mohalla collected eight hundred and eleven rupees for Master Sahib’s funeral. --- Moral of the Story: Society often forgets the most honest and straightforward people while they live, yet remembers them with respect only after they are gone. True kindness is not in showing respect at the grave, but in standing by the needy while they are alive.
By Ihtisham Ulhaqabout a year ago in Humans
A Complete Guide to Living a Balanced and Healthy Life
What Is Health? Health is more than just the absence of illness; it is a state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being. The World Health Organization (WHO) emphasizes that good health allows individuals to live productive, fulfilling lives. It impacts every aspect of our daily existence—from energy levels and mood to productivity and longevity. In today’s fast-paced world, taking care of your health has become more important than ever.
By salamguideabout a year ago in Humans
The Princess of Tisul: The Woman Who Slept Beneath the Earth. Top Story - August 2025.
The Princess of Tisul The incident I am about to share with you… you will probably never find in any official record. Why? Because the Russian government never acknowledged that it ever took place.
By Leah Brookeabout a year ago in Humans
The Light Within
Start writing.In a quiet village nestled between emerald hills and winding rivers, lived a man named Arman. He wasn’t famous, wealthy, or powerful, but everyone who met him remembered him. There was something about his presence—calm, warm, and unshakably kind—that made people feel better just by being around him. Arman lived a simple life. He ran a small repair shop where he fixed everything from broken radios to old bicycles. But it wasn't just his hands that worked wonders; it was his heart. Every person who walked into his shop left not only with a fixed item but also with renewed hope. People often wondered how he remained so positive. Life hadn’t always been easy for Arman. He had lost his parents young, struggled through years of poverty, and faced betrayal from close friends. Yet, he chose to see each trial as a teacher. One day, a young boy named Sami came into the shop holding a shattered clock. His eyes were filled with frustration. “My father gave me this before he left. It’s broken. Everything breaks,” he muttered. Arman took the clock gently. “Sometimes,” he said, examining the pieces, “things need to fall apart to show us how they truly work. And sometimes, we can rebuild them even stronger.” The boy watched as Arman worked patiently. He didn’t rush. He didn’t complain. He smiled, focused, and fixed each gear with care. Within an hour, the clock was ticking again. “But how do you stay so... happy?” Sami asked, eyes wide. Arman looked up and smiled. “I’m not always happy. But I always choose to see the light—even when it’s hidden.” That phrase stayed with Sami. Years passed, and Arman continued to touch lives quietly. He volunteered at the local school, helped neighbors without being asked, and stood up for the right thing—even when it cost him. When the village council tried to shut down a local shelter claiming it was “too much trouble,” Arman was the first to speak out. “These people are not trouble—they are tired. They need support, not shame,” he said firmly. His words sparked a conversation that led to the shelter staying open. Arman didn’t speak loudly, but when he did, people listened. His actions were his voice—clear, compassionate, and correct. Then, one winter, Arman fell ill. The village held its breath. For once, the man who gave so much needed help himself. To everyone’s surprise, people from all corners of the village came forward—fixing his shop, bringing meals, sitting by his bedside. Children drew cards. The elderly offered prayers. Even strangers, hearing his story, came to offer support. When he recovered months later, Arman was overwhelmed. “I never expected this,” he whispered to Sami, now a teenager. “You gave this to us,” Sami said. “Your light taught us to shine too.” Arman looked out at the sunrise, golden light spilling over the hills. “The world doesn’t need perfect people,” he said softly. “It needs those willing to be kind, even when it’s hard. Honest, even when it’s costly. Positive, even when the world is dark.” He paused and placed a hand over his heart. “Because the real light—the one that never fades—comes from within.” --- Arman never sought recognition, but his story lived on long after he was gone. Not in statues or books, but in the daily choices of those who knew him—choosing kindness over cruelty, truth over convenience, and light over despair. And so, in that quiet village, the man who lived simply left behind something extraordinary: a legacy of goodness, built not on grand deeds, but on small, consistent acts of light. ..
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Humans
