Faraz Parvez

  🌐✨ BIG ANNOUNCEMENT ✨🌐 All 4 of my blogs are now united under one digital home: 👉 www.TheMindScope.net 📚 farazparvez1.blogspot.com 🔮 mysticwisdomhub.blogspot.com 💻 themindsope.blogspot.com 🎓 DrArshadAfza1.blogspot.com Now enjoy fiction, literature, mysticism, spirituality, tech, health, innovation & education — all in ONE place. Step into my complete universe of knowledge : ⭐ TheMindScope.net ⭐ — Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal

✨ Introducing TheMindScope.net ✨ My official digital home — where literature, spirituality, education, and modern tech meet. Four blogs. One universe of knowledge. A gateway to insight, clarity, and personal growth. 🌐 Visit now: www.TheMindScope.net Enter my world of wisdom, reflection, and transformation. — Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal

  🕯️ The House That Remembers+2 By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) I. The Arrival Lahore in July was a furnace. The air stood still, thick with dust and humidity, and even the shadows seemed to sweat. Ali stood before the rusting iron gates of the old haveli his late uncle had left him. It loomed like a forgotten monument in the narrow lanes of Androon Lahore , its walls bruised by time, its windows covered in thick lattices that concealed whatever secrets lay within. Ali was thirty-two, a journalist by profession, cynical by training, and a man of facts. He had returned from Karachi not out of affection for his uncle, whom he barely knew, but because the lawyer’s call had been blunt: “You are the sole heir. The property is yours. Do as you please.” The property. That word clanged in Ali’s mind. He saw not bricks and mortar but opportunity—maybe he wo...

The House That Remembers By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) 1. The Bargain When Sajjad and Nargis first saw the colonial-era bungalow in Lahore’s Gulberg area, it felt like a blessing. White walls with moss creeping up the corners, thick wooden doors carved with faded floral patterns, high ceilings with slow-spinning fans — it looked like something out of an old film. The rent was absurdly low for its location. Sajjad’s friend Ahmed, who arranged the deal, only shrugged. "The owner lives abroad. He just wants someone in the house. It’s been empty for years." They moved in with their two children — Hamza, twelve, and little Sana, six. For the first week, everything was perfect. The house smelled faintly of sandalwood, the kind of scent you couldn’t buy anymore. The floors were cool underfoot, and the garden bloomed wildly with hibiscus and marigol...

The Wedding Guest Who Never Came By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA It was the grandest wedding Karachi had seen that year — fairy lights strung across the Clifton beach lawn, a stage covered in fresh roses, a buffet stretching endlessly under white canopies. And yet, for Sana, the bride, the evening was incomplete. She kept glancing toward the entrance, scanning each new arrival. Guests assumed she was nervous, or overwhelmed by the occasion. Only she knew the truth — she was looking for one person. Zayan. They had met four years earlier in a bookshop on Zamzama, reaching for the same copy of The Forty Rules of Love . He had smiled, let her take the book, and somehow stayed in her life ever since — not as a lover, not exactly, but as someone who always seemed to be there when she needed him most. He was the one who walked her home when her car broke down at midnight. The one who sent her recording...

  Letters That Arrived Too Late By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA The first letter came on a quiet Thursday afternoon in Lahore. The winter light was fading, turning the old city into a painting of dust and gold. Amina had been returning from her teaching job, her head full of unfinished lesson plans, when the postman handed her a thick ivory envelope. It had no return address. Only her name — written in an elegant, looping hand that felt strangely familiar. She tore it open absentmindedly, expecting a bill or an invitation. But the words inside made her sit down on the stairs before even closing the gate. "I have loved you for years, Amina. Loved the way you tilt your head when listening, the way you bite your lip when hiding a laugh. I know your hands smell faintly of books and sandalwood soap. I know your heart lives between poetry and silence." She froze. No one had ever written to he...

Two Drabbles for a Changing World By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA A drabble is a complete story told in exactly 100 words — no more, no less. It is the art of telling a universe in the space of a breath. Today, I give you two such worlds. 1. The Envelope The envelope sat on Fatima’s desk for three days. No return address. No seal. On the fourth day, she opened it. Inside: a single photograph of her standing at the edge of the Clifton beach — but it was dated ten years in the future. She was smiling in the picture, holding hands with someone she had never met. The sea behind them was calm, the sky golden. She taped the photo to her wall. And every weekend, she went to the beach, waiting for the stranger who would make that smile real. 2. The Last Bus Arif boarded the last bus of the night in Islamabad. There were no other passengers, only the driver — who never looked back. The bus move...

Ten Vignettes from a Restless Subcontinent By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA The vignette is a brief flame of a story — it flares, dazzles, and fades before you can name the colour of its light. In the lanes of the Subcontinent, where the past lingers like the scent of old rain and the future hums like wires above crowded bazaars, a thousand stories breathe in every street corner. Today, dear reader, I bring you ten of them . They may be fleeting, but each holds the weight of a novel. 1. The Man at the Railway Bench He wore a white kurta, his beard soaked from the drizzle. The train had left hours ago, yet he sat unmoving. When asked, he said, “I’m waiting for the 1972 express. My wife is on it.” The station master did not tell him that train had been discontinued decades ago. 2. Mangoes in Winter Shazia opened her fridge in Karachi and gasped — mangoes, fresh and golden, lay there. A note rea...

  The Widow Who Lived in the Mirror By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA In the narrow lanes of Lahore’s Mochi Gate , where the houses leaned toward each other like old gossips whispering over steaming cups of chai, there stood a crumbling haveli that everyone avoided after sunset. The windows were always shut. The courtyard always damp. And behind a rusted iron gate covered in jasmine vines, there lived Bibi Rukhsana , a widow who no one had seen in daylight for decades. Children said she was a ghost. Adults said she was cursed. But the truth was stranger — Bibi Rukhsana lived in a mirror . The Mirror in the Haveli The tale began long before most of the city was born. Rukhsana was once a celebrated beauty, married into wealth, her husband a silk trader with ships sailing to Muscat and Zanzibar. One evening, on a trip to Delhi, he returned with a gift — a full-length, Venetian mirror framed in ...

  The Grave That Moves at Night By Faraz Parvez (Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal — Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA) In the far-flung outskirts of Lahore, beyond the crumbling brick walls and the lazy canals where buffaloes swam in the heat, there stood a graveyard the elders called Maqbara-e-Sukoon . “Graveyard of Peace,” they called it — though no one had felt peaceful there in over fifty years. It was said that one grave in Maqbara-e-Sukoon did not stay in its place. By day, it looked like any other — a simple mound of earth, a weather-worn headstone with no name, only the word “Ajeeb” ( strange ) carved crudely into it. But at night, villagers claimed it shifted. Sometimes to the left. Sometimes to the far right of the graveyard. Sometimes it disappeared entirely, only to return by dawn. The elders swore this was no illusion — footprints would appear around it in the morning, as if someone had been pacing. The Dare One hot July evenin...

  🩸 “The Jinn in the Lantern” By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) Part I: The Inheritance In the old walled city of Multan , known for its saints, graves, and cursed air, lived Rehan , a 28-year-old software engineer from Lahore. When his maternal grandmother passed away, he was the only one willing to visit her derelict haveli to claim her belongings. The family had long whispered about that place — that it was haunted, cursed, protected by something older than the jinn themselves. Rehan didn’t believe in tales. He believed in electricity, logic, and clean code. He reached the haveli just before Maghrib. The smell of dust, dried roses, and rusted metal greeted him. In the center of the drawing room stood a single item his grandmother had left for him: A bronze lantern , centuries old. Attached was a parchment: “Do not light it.” Naturally, he lit...

🧠 “The Man Who Forgot His Name” By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) Part I: The Awakening It began on a Thursday — the most forgettable day of the week. Dr. Umar Fawad opened his eyes in his sea-facing apartment in Clifton, Karachi. The sheets were unfamiliar. The room too bright. There was a woman in the kitchen humming an Urdu lullaby he couldn’t name. She walked into the room holding a mug. “Your espresso. Two sugars, like always.” Umar blinked. “Who are you?” Her face stiffened. “Umar, stop joking.” He wasn’t. He walked to the bathroom. The mirror showed a tired man in his early 40s. Deep hazel eyes. Slight greying on the temples. Hands trembling. He examined his wallet: ID card: Dr. Umar Fawad — Consultant Psychiatrist, MindLab Institute. CNIC, driver's license, even credit cards — all confirmed it. But the name meant nothing. Not a flicker of...

  🎭 Absurd One-Act Play #2 "The Interview for Nothing" By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) 💡 What is an Absurd Play? Absurdist plays reflect the strangeness and irrationality of existence , challenging logic and order. Inspired by the likes of Beckett and Ionesco, such plays embrace chaos, circular dialogue, and metaphysical confusion to explore life’s deeper absurdities. 🕰️ Setting: A soundproof, windowless corporate interview room in an unknown Pakistani city. A digital clock on the wall blinks “00:00” eternally. A blinking sign reads: “Applicants must know what they are applying for. No clarifications will be provided.” 🎭 Characters: The Applicant (Man in a Suit With No Resume) The Interview Panel (Three Identical People with Different Voices) The Peon Who Replaces People Randomly HR Robot With a Broken Smile A Revolving Door...

  🎭 Absurd One-Act Play #1 "The Queue That Never Ends" By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) 💡 What is an Absurd Play? For our readers: an absurd play is a theatrical form that defies conventional storytelling. It presents a world that appears illogical, circular, or meaningless — yet holds a mirror to the human condition. Think of life’s most repetitive frustrations and unanswered questions — now imagine them as theater. 🕰️ Setting: A dimly-lit corridor in Lahore’s mythical “Ministry of Unfinished Affairs.” A worn-out sign reads: “Please Wait. Change Is Under Review.” 🎭 Characters: Old Man with a Broken File Young Woman with a Vanishing Token Government Clerk Who Never Blinks Silent Child Who Has Aged Waiting The Queue (yes, the line itself speaks) 📜 Plot Summary: People stand in an endless queue. They've forgotten what the...

  🕯️ Voices from the Eighth Floor A Psychological Thriller Set in Islamabad By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) I. The New Beginning After her bitter divorce, Amna , a 32-year-old journalist, moved into a high-rise apartment in Islamabad’s Blue Area. Tower 7, Eighth Floor, Unit 803. Clean, modern, and eerily quiet. Just what she needed to rebuild. But from the very first night, something felt… wrong. A whisper outside her bedroom. A faint knock when no one was there. The light in the bathroom flickering exactly at 2:13 a.m. daily. She blamed her imagination. Stress. Trauma. Anything — until her neighbor across the hall, Dr. Adeel , approached her. “Have you started hearing them yet?” he asked, eyes hollow. II. The Vanishing Tenant She learned that her flat had been empty for five years. The previous tenant? A young woman named Nashwa , also divor...

  🕯️ The Guest Who Knew Too Much A Psychological Thriller Set in Lahore By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) I. Gulberg, Lahore — Where Luxury Hides Shadows Zoya and Faris were the perfect couple. Young, successful, beautiful. Their Instagram told the world that much. Nestled in a leafy lane of Gulberg, their modern, marble-floored villa was as much an achievement as it was a statement. Recently married, they turned part of their spacious home into an Airbnb suite — “to add a stream of passive income,” as Faris proudly declared. They received guests from Karachi, Dubai, even Sweden. All left five-star reviews. Until Mr. Kamal checked in. A man in his late 40s, he arrived with a duffel bag and a laptop. Polite. Reserved. But… too observant. He requested no housekeeping. Ate in silence. Stared too long at the wedding photos on the hallway wall. II. The...

  🌧️ The Last Monsoon Meeting A Psychological Thriller Short Story | By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) 🕯️ “Some reunions are not meant to heal wounds. They come to reopen them.” It was the first rain of July in Islamabad. A private reunion had been planned in a dilapidated but grand old house in Sector F-6, once owned by the late industrialist Bashir Sahab. His grandson, Zayaan , a quiet screenwriter from Karachi, had returned to the capital after 17 years. Invitations were sent to five people . All of them were once childhood friends —now strangers joined by a single, shared past they refused to talk about. None of them knew why they were invited. 🎭 The Cast of Shadows Zayaan – The quiet host. Traumatized by the death of his twin brother in 2008. Now obsessively writing a screenplay about a murder nobody believes happened. Sameer – Now a ...

🌒 The Forgotten Passenger A Psychological Thriller Short Story | By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) 🚆 "People get on. People get off. But sometimes... someone vanishes in between." It was supposed to be an ordinary journey. The Lahore-Karachi express had just departed from the platform, humming with late-night murmurs, the scent of rain-soaked earth trailing behind. Among the passengers was a young woman in a blue shawl—seated by the window in Compartment B-17. Quiet, polite, and barely noticeable. Three hours later, as the train pulled into the Rohri junction, the seat was empty. She was gone. No one had seen her leave. The door was locked. Her bag was still there, untouched. Her ID was missing. Panic broke out. Was she kidnapped? Did she jump? Did she ever exist? 👴 Enter: Inspector Haider Karim (Retired) Among the passengers was Inspect...

  The Judge's Envelope By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) Chapter 1: The Whisper Before Dawn Karachi woke up that morning with the usual din of rickshaws, hawkers, and hurried commuters. But inside Courtroom No. 4 of the City Sessions Court, the air was unusually thick. Judge Sarfaraz Mirza sat erect, his seasoned eyes scanning the courtroom through his thin-rimmed glasses. For twenty-five years, he had ruled his bench with iron discipline and an unswerving commitment to justice. Today was different. The trial of real estate tycoon Feroze Baig had the entire city watching. Baig was accused of illegal land acquisitions, forced displacements, and orchestrating a fire that had killed seven slum dwellers. ACP Hania Asif , the fearless investigating officer, sat with her case file clasped tightly. She had been mentored by Judge Sarfaraz years ago and admired ...

  . Echoes in the Safe House By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) Prologue A thick fog curled over the hills of Murree like a lingering secret. The safe house stood still — worn-out, isolated, and buried in snow — much like the truths it was meant to contain. Tonight, it would witness betrayal, madness, and the final exhale of silence. Chapter 1: The Vanishing When Colonel (R) Azhar Qureshi didn’t show up for his weekly call with Rameen, she felt the unease in her gut twist like a dagger. Rameen, a seasoned investigative journalist based in Karachi, had always been at odds with her father. He was stoic, fiercely patriotic, and secretive — trained in Pakistan’s deep intelligence services. She, on the other hand, stood for press freedom and accountability. Their calls were formal, mostly polite. But never missed. When she arrived at his Islamabad farmhou...