Cedar Telegram Vol. I, issue 4

Threads That Bind Us Telegram Issue IV

Message From The Team Dear Cedar Knights, Cedar Publication proudly presents the fourth edition of the Telegram for the year 2024-25.

Telegrams are a way to bring out your creativity.

Through the telegram, we provide the opportunity for students to express different opinions and experiences based on one single theme.

After receiving the most beautiful and thoughtprovoking pieces for this issue, we want to express our gratitude to everyone who submitted their work.

It has been a beautiful journey reading all the insightful submissions and we can’t wait for everyone to read these creative pieces.

We hope you continue to submit your prose, poetry, and artwork for the next editions.

Let the reading begin!

Editor-In-Chief Maryam Asif

About the Theme “Threads That Bind Us” reflects upon the connections and links between relationships, experiences, life events.

It talks about how people around us are bound by an invisible thread, and every time we unintentionally mimic our parents, or every time we share an inside joke with our friends, it is because they have a part in shaping us into who we are today.

This theme goes beyond the relationship with humanity; it includes experiences and life events that had an impact on our lives; it talks about places and food that is engraved within us and shapes our identity. It goes further to say that while we have free-will to become who we want to become. At the core of it all, there are strings that connect us and unintentionally bind us.

Read your peers’ works and reflect upon your own invisible threads. Everyone’s threads are different; in shape, in colour, in type, in quantity. Getting to know the threads that bind you is a way of getting to know yourself. Thank you all for sharing the threads that make you who you are.

The People Who Shape Us Muhammad Umer Dad Humans are social creatures by nature. Our species thrive on social connections, emotional support, and a sense of belonging. From the very beginning humans rely on social bonding for personal growth, entertainment, and identity development. The individuals we encounter, be it family, friends, or even strangers, play a vital role in shaping who we are and who we aspire to become. They are like strings tied around a finger, more often than not, they are there to support us and their presence makes us feel confident in our skin.

These strings tuck on us gently when we stray down the wrong paths, and lead us back to our core values.

These seemingly harmless strings can become shackles that cut into our flesh if they are not kept in check, leading to lifetime dependence and a constant source of pain. Still, a great deal of people are willing to tolerate unhappy jobs and competitive lifestyles. Having such people around us greatly influences us, and our talent and ‘potential’ are largely irrelevant, which causes a lot of unfulfilled potential.

If people around us immensely shape our lives then why do we still surround ourselves with such types of people?

Most people select their friends based on proximity rather than anything else; this is especially true during teenage years.

Due to this, we have tailored our minds to adapt to whatever situation and environment we find ourselves in. This leads to compromises and negligence towards the basics of human psychology: emotional connections. The people we have been surrounding ourselves with in the past, and definitely in our younger years, have laid down the foundation for our habits, and our views on the world. However, whether we like it or not, there is nothing we can do about it. What we can do, is actively search for people to surround ourselves with, that might help us achieve the goals we have in life now and in the future.

Fates of Threads Fatima Hashmi The hand which was once held by you, loosened by fate, slipped through ourselves, consumed us whole.

The thread you ever so gently tied, the connection which was made by fate, but the separation was written in destiny.

I let you go, I could feel it breaking already, the thread which you ever so gently tied, frayed by the unspoken words, the distance kept increasing, and so did my longing for you.

You didn’t feel my tears while I felt your thumping heart miles away, while I knew the knot was now going to break, destiny played its game.

Now that I think of it, we were meant to break apart, cursing the fate over us.

Like lighting, which has struck us loud and clear, yet, in my disbelief, I hold on to a memory of the ties that once bound us.

Interlinked Rabab Burhanuddin

I mince my garlic the same way I saw it being minced by my childhood friend. In the same order and with the same knife. I catch myself using certain words and phrases that people in my life used, to use even after they have left. You channel everyone who has ever been with you and everyone who will ever be. We remain more interlinked than we realise. Our roots sink in so deep but all we see are the spread-out branches at the top, dividing but flourishing. Some rotten. Some grow far and wide. But when we go back to our base, our roots, and our core, we realise how entangled we are, how connected we are, despite the divisions we created ourselves.

Someone is still listening to the music you showed them. Someone learned how to love from you. Someone has faith in your generation because of you. Someone passes on the same advice you gave them once. We are united amongst borders we don't recognise anymore.

Intertwined, sewn together Ayoosh Perchani

We were two birds, flying away from each other, looking for each other.

On the same track, running at a different pace.

Will I catch up, or will you race away some day, forging paths which leaves us astray?

Will we ever find each other in the same light as we used to be, With the blowing winds, trying to break us free.

Every piece of you still lives in me– A thread so fragile, yet lets us be more than just a memory, holding on to what we used to be.

As the stitches that were once woven so gently, unravel softly, Where the fabric once lay strong. .

Taha Ali

At first, it was something subtle, barely noticeable—a quiet connection that seemed almost insignificant. But over time, it has woven itself into the fabric of who we are.

It’s not loud or overt, but it's there, steady and present, visible in the small moments we share. Each look, each conversation, has added another layer, a silent understanding that has built upon itself. This thread, unspoken yet unbreakable, links our past, our present, and whatever lies ahead, forming something that feels like it has always been meant to be.

What it is about is something rather deeper.

It is not how it looks, but what it holds. It's made of things one cannot see: memories, silent moments, things that only we can comprehend. The moment we burst into laughter together or just sit in silence, the thread becomes even more palpable. What I cannot see and touch feels intangible, yet it weaves a connection between us that words cannot possibly explain.

She's like the thread itself—gentle, yet strong. In how she smiles, unobserved, when she's trying not to show excitement or when her eyes light up while discussing something she's passionate about; I observe those things because of our connection.

There's an understanding between us, a quiet bond that doesn't need to be spoken.

Sometimes life pulls you apart in other directions. You get busy with things and places. But even then, the thread doesn't break. If anything, it becomes stronger.

Every knot or challenge brought our way ties us together to bring us closer.

And even though we're disconnected, we are still connected in some ways.

Sometimes I think of this thread in those moments when I am alone and the world can seem so overwhelming. She too holds her end. It's made of every laugh we've shared, of every vulnerable moment. When I doubt myself, she's always there holding on. Not perfect, just a show-up-for-one-another kind of love. This thread is not perfect, but it's ours. It might fray, but it'll never break.

And no matter what, it'll always lead me back to her.

Forever Fell Apart As the cold seeped into her bones, the world blurred and the dim light flickered weakly. Her breaths grew shallow, the ache in her chest deepening as her heart faltered. Her body felt heavy, but her mind clung desperately to the memory of him.

She had always believed their lives were bound by an unbreakable thread; their love fated to endure. But fate had been merciless, severing that bond too soon, leaving her to hold his lifeless body and grasp at the frayed edges of what could never be. His absence weighed heavily on her. She remembered that feeling, that they were destined to be together and the grief she had felt as she held his lifeless body in her arms. A painful reminder of destiny’s indifference. She had pleaded for a way to stitch their lives back together, but silence was her only response.

Now, as her end approached, she felt that fragile thread tugging her toward something beyond the darkness. She reached out, hoping to follow it back to him as he had always found her. But there was nothing—only emptiness and loss.

In the hazy space between life and death, she saw him on a distant shore shrouded in mist. He reached for her, but the sorrow in his eyes told her that fate had woven them into separate patterns, never to touch again.

She whispered his name with her final breath, the thread between them snapping with quiet finality leaving her to fall into the darkness alone. There was no reunion, no one to catch her—only the dim memory of a love that once felt destined to defy the odds.

The world fell silent as her life unravelled. In that last moment, she saw fate for what it was—a cruel weaver that spun and cut without mercy, leaving behind only what might-have-been. Her final thought was one of deep, aching regret, a love that would never find its way home again.

Taha Ali The thread was once so strong, woven tight between our hands.

In silent moments, it felt like fate— A bond no one could understand.

We whispered promises, tied knots in words we'd never say.

Each stitch was meant to last forever, but forever slowly slipped away.

I felt it loosening, soft but sure, a quiet fray I couldn't mend.

You pulled away, and I held on, hoping time would let it bend.

The thread began to snap and tear, in places neither of us could see.

You spoke in silence, I answered in fear, as the space between us grew wide and free.

Once, it tethered heart to heart, but now it dangles, weak and thin.

The thread is there, but barely holding, worn by the battles we couldn't win.

I wonder if you feel it still, that fragile string we used to hold.

Or if you've let it fall completely, leaving me to clutch the cold.

The threads that bind us once were bright, now they lie in shadow’s cast.

A tangled web of might-have-beens, a ghost of something built to last.

Tangled In the Search Zarlish Farhan I’ve spent my whole life searching for threads to hold onto—a connection, a commitment, a promise. But none ever feel like the right one. Not thick enough or thin enough, not colourful enough, perhaps not textured enough. All of them slipping through the cracks of my fingers, and each time, I never truly feel at home. The search for something deeper continues, but nothing ever fits in this complex puzzle I have designed for myself.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve never truly felt at home with myself. Never settling onto my own skin, I run from my own flaws, hiding behind different masks of indifference and nonchalance. Yet, I'm always still searching for parts of me in others. If I hate myself so much, why am I dying to find a lookalike? Why do I hope someone will see all those things in me that I can't even bear to face myself?

Meeting others, I hope to find reflections of myself, to make sense of the things I cannot. But each mirror is a distraction and never the shade I'm seeking. And so the search continues, from one thread to the next. I find complexity, just out of reach. Too distant, too delicate. The knots loosen, the thread frays, unravels, breaks.

After all, what is to be expected of a thread? Too fragile, it will always snap. So maybe in the end, the only person who will truly ever get to know me is myself.

Maybe, I'll die a stranger to this world, waiting for someone who is never going to arrive.

But the weight of the possibilities still keeps me reaching even if the thread remains beyond my grasp. And so I keep searching and looking, tying knots with the broken pieces, in hopes that one day the right thread will finally reel me in, despite, despite, despite…

Karachi Syed Abdullah Amais

Amongst the hills and roses, Betwixt the moors and thorns, Like a tribe without its Moses, Or an oak without acorns.

Beneath a sky of haze, And upon a land blue, A city like a maze, With an air full of rue.

A city, orphaned, deserted, Betrayed, disowned, disliked, A city without a parent, A city with shattered lights.

Karachi: where I belong, Karachi: where I come from, I am bound to all its neighbourhoods, To its markets and uni dorms.

To distant seas I've been, In foreign lands I roam, But wheresoever I return to, The air of fear smells home.

Syed Khizer Bin Rafey

No matter how far I go I still feel a thread, Not a chain to hold me back, but a gentle pull instead.

Of all the places close to me and the people I hold dear, Of all the simple joys of the past, a life without fear.

And while time continues to flow like it always has, My heart still yearns for years which have long since passed.

I long for the purr of my childhood cat and my grandma's delicious cookies, Of all the things that do not remain now save in blissful memories.

And it is as if something binds me to them, Something stronger than any force possessed by mortal men.

Poets love to write about romantic love but seldom tell the stories, Of the beauty of how we share parts of our soul through memories.

How people I don't even talk to anymore still recall, Pieces of me that I don't remember at all.

With all these familiar strangers, I am entwined, Whomever I am today, it is by their influence defined.

And although we're estranged now, I shall always cherish: The threads that bind us, weaving stories that shall never perish.

Comfort Food

Muhammad Haris Khan Warsi

I hear the doorbell ring, and go to open the door. A boy runs past me, his hands rubbing his eyes, mouth half open and quivering. He crashes onto the sofa and puts his head under the pillow.

"Marco, what happened?" I asked. He doesn’t reply. I pulled the pillow out of his hands and noticed streaks of water at the corner of his eyes, running down to his lips, twisted downward.

"What happened?" I asked again, but still he didn’t reply. I got up, went to the kitchen, and reminisced about me and my Nani as I began cooking.

I had come home from a rough day at school. The teacher yelled at me for answering the question incorrectly and my school bully ate my lunch.

I ran to my Nani's arms and cried on her as she brushed my hair and kissed my head.

She sat me down on the table in her kitchen and I watched her cook. She grabbed a pot and set the water to boil, adding a generous amount of salt. When the water was ready, she opened a bag of fettuccine, and put it in the boiling water, constantly stirring it for some time. Once the pasta was done cooking, she drained it in a colander but reserved some of the water. Next, she added a spoonful of butter to the bowl and smashed it. Then, she added the past to the plate and began tossing it with two spoons. Finally, she added grated cheese alongside some of the pasta water and after a final mix, served it to me with a smile. I ate my food and forgot about my worries.

"Marco, I made pasta for you! Come to the table!" I yelled. He came, sat, and after the first bite, gulped it down and asked for seconds with a smile. Once he was done eating, he finally told me what bothered him.

He was playing football with his friends but they cheated against him and it upset him.

Hearing him talk his worries away made me realise that the same thread that was woven between me and my Nani was now extending to bind Marco and me together.

Alifya Imran You told me that the thread binding us was too strong to sever unlike our fragile bones. You promised that you wouldn't leave but would leave with me. Then why does your shadow drift past me like a stranger? But it's not your shadow, is it? My mind looks for you but you're gone. It's the shadow of my thoughts.

We were meant to be forever, like petals of a wilted rose—broken yet fallen together. Fallen, not to death, but to our fate. Then why do you lie beneath that casket? Why do you still smell of that sweet perfume, yet remain mute? Was the thread too fragile? I could've gotten another one if you had only asked.

Who will treasure this thread now? Will it be buried deep into the soil with your body and our past? Our life, your death, our time. Will it breathe dead life like you now?

If you had told me, I would've procured another thread. I would've cut my skin to make the thread of my veins, I would've fought. And perhaps you could've begged your lungs to not give up and your heart to not stop beating. Maybe you could've done that, just for me.

Then we could've lingered beneath the open sky for a little while more —you would've gazed at the stars and I would've gazed at you. We could've sat beneath the kaleidoscope of our dreams where you would've told me that you loved me, and I could've told you that I lived for you. Your hand in mine, our fingers would intertwine, bound together stronger than any thread ever. And then maybe, I could've stared at those light brown eyes for a little longer and imprinted that smile on the canvas of my heart. Maybe.

But now, I can't. Now, I lie with your ghost, cradling the fragments of our memories. Now, all there is left to cherish are the echoes of your laughter. In another life, perhaps, we would've been eternal. And in that life, death would not keep us apart.

Humaira Ahmed Pai

Now and then she wonders about that one thread of a relationship in her life that is no more. The same old memories of that one time keep repeating like a broken record that she wants to get rid of but doesn’t know how to. An invisible thread keeps her bound to her past which she believed was delightful but was just an illusion of her mind. It keeps her tethered to that one person whom she never truly knew, yet to whom she feels inexplicably attached. It is not made up of any tangible fibers but of abstract memories buried deep within her and the feelings only she knows.

Every so often, she feels like her memories are more alive than her and despite knowing she’s the only one holding on to the thread, she doesn’t know how to let go. Somehow, in the overwhelmingly grand scheme of life, that thread grounds her, it binds her to her past when she was untroubled and gleeful, but it also pains her as she faces the harsh realities she only began to understand when it’s too late.

And when it feels like the thread is suffocating her, no matter how much she tries to manipulate the string and break free, somehow, she just cannot let go and it agonises her to not know why she cannot escape the past despite her endeavours. She feels like she’s always in a battle with the thread even when there is no one on the other end holding on. Despite all her earnest efforts, she keeps ending up at square one where she wonders if and how she could ever win the push-and-pull fight against the thread and move forward. All that she wants is to not be bound by what was but rather embrace what is.

Tapestry of an Organ Amnah Khan

...and love is a warm, sweet mug of coffee, whipped with much attention until the colour becomes that of November's golden sunsets.

But eventually, it feels like the cold afterward—after the sunset and after the coffee finishes, equally as gut-wrenching as it was gratifying, because after a while, it ends, as all things do.

But if you drag a blade along the outline of my ribs and crack the skin open, see the beating heart there, gory and black from the blood around it, and yet when the organ is unlatched and the chambers and ventricles wide open, you will find remnants of everything that once resided there and an empty room with a perpetually lit candle, and etched walls and eulogized poetry and yellowed diary pages. You will find that the organ is not so much of an organ as a tomb. A cemetery of all that is gone and buried, so heavily filled with everything dead and yet still the only one so profoundly alive.

And you will see, when the blood rushes through the pulmonary artery towards the lungs, it dissolves in itself the oxygen from the lungs along with the crippling memories that the heart is too burdened with to keep, yet too attached with to let go. The blood will rush back into the pulmonary vein and to the heart again, pumping out the oxygenated crimson that is so fiercely infused with everything that has moulded the heart into what it is now (something that fits in the hand of others, with fingerprints and palm lines forever indenting the muscle). The hauntings of past so tangibly beautiful that when you dip your fingers in the blood that pools around you, the digits will come back golden.

I breathe pieces of everyone I've ever loved, and so I respire, along with the oxygen, all the love I've ever known.

The Threads Of Unwritten Endings Zunnurain Nadeem A poet, a lover, a ruthless king, a politician, a soldier—I've always wondered if it was a blessing or a curse to remember every life I've lived, every torment I've endured, and her, whom I've loved from afar—always near, yet never mine. As a poet, I filled pages with her name. As a lover, she was the centre of my existence. As a ruthless king, she was the reason my heart softened when the world demanded cruelty. As a politician, her resentment never wavered the love I carried for her in my heart. As a soldier, it was an honour to die in her arms. In every lifetime, my soul recognised her, and I fell for her all over again.

In this endless search for closure in this life, I saw a face— hazel eyes and a dimpled smile—and instantly, I knew it was my love.

But then, I saw her, a child with the same eyes I fell in love with, riding on the shoulders of a man who looked at her with the same warmth and admiration I felt in every lifetime. And in that moment, I realized, perhaps we were never meant for a happy ending. Each lifetime, our ending was always near, but never ours, leaving me to resent the heavens and the threads that bind us—forever pulling me toward her, but never her toward me, as though fate delighted in withholding what it refused to grant.

They say the hearts are intertwined. My love, I longed for you—did you feel it?

Unravelled Promises Muhammad Mehdi

Time immobilises around us, as her laugh strikes a chord in the hollow abode of my heart. Her smile bears the crest of our story, engraved in agony, love and happiness. Together, we are bound by a memorable journey, one that wove the strings of deception and candour, of loyalty and betrayal. Stitched within our skin are the very threads that closed our shared wounds, allowing them to heal.

The threads we had sown into each other through sheer will, valour and perseverance.

For as long as I can remember, we had always been there for each other, like a pair of interluding dahlias. Painted on the canvas that narrates our story are the bittersweet hues of red and white. Red for the blood we shed and white for the serenity that followed. The threads that bind us, both visible and invisible came at a steep price.

A price we still pay. A price that we will continue to pay for eternity.

Shards of tears marched down her face as my pained expression betrayed my thoughts. She knew what I was thinking. She always knew. I took us back to where it all started, where echoes of lost laughter still lingered in the eerie precipice of silent air. Where the screams of the children still curled in the crumbling dungeons of our once beautiful home—the place where dreams were born and where the dreamers died.

Banished from the ecstasy of short-term happiness, her eyes now glassy and hollow, searched mine, as if within the cracks of my shattered soul she might still find some glimmer of salvation. But the truth lay heavy between us, like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. We had woven our lives together with promises, but each promise had been laced with deceit, fraying the very fabric of what we once believed was unbreakable.

“Do you remember?” she whispered, her voice like the faintest breeze that ripples the waves, “How we thought we could fix the world, and ourselves, along the way?”

Her words seized my mind. We had sewn too much into each other—our dreams, our fears, our hopes—and in doing so, we suffocated beneath the weight of redemption. The threads that had held us for so long were now showing their tiredness.

“We stitched our dreams into the skin of this world,” I said, my voice breaking. “But we never realised it would bleed us dry.”

We had tried to mend what was broken, believing that our love could be the needle to sew the torn edges of our lives. Alas, our love was outweighed by the threads of betrayal and guilt in place. The lies we told ourselves had been the sharpest needles, piercing deeper into the seams of our bond.

Her hand trembled as it reached for mine, a ghost of the warmth that once connected us. “I thought we could survive anything,” she murmured, “but maybe...we were never meant to survive with each other.”

The threads were snapping one by one, each synchronised with the receding breaths that escaped her mouth. As the alternating spikes tracing the ECG slowly merged into a descending axis, I could feel the stitches unfolding, allowing the contained darkness to prelude.

Her grip loosening on mine, the darkness she had ventured into called to me. But all I could do was to stare into what we had lost forever, for there were prices to pay. She was gone. Forever.

Taking with her the last thread that had ever connected me to hope.

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous - Ocean Vuong Ayoosh Perchani

“She still thinks about you a lot. Your lives unstitched themselves, but the loose threads remain where the garment was torn.”

A quote from the debut novel Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson which eloquently captures the fragility of love and the unstitching nature of relationships.

Masterfully narrated in second person, Caleb pieces together an achingly beautiful love story between two British artists who won scholarships to private schools, struggling to belong in a world that reduces them solely to black bodies. Navigating through their lives as a photographer and a dancer, they fall into each other's orbits, as artistic forces pull them closer.

Knitted together by race, identity, and their love for art, they inevitably fall in love. However, even the strongest of threads are ripped apart by the influences of racial violence and years of compounding trauma.

Caleb intricately weaves themes of race, masculinity, and the experience of a black body as he untangles strands of oppression, racial profiling, and police brutality. A love story at its core, Open Water offers insight into identity and the delicate threads that bind us in a world where everything seeks to tear us apart.

Banana Muffins!

This recipe can produce approximately 16-18 little muffins.

Ingredients required: 1 cup flour 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp baking powder ¾ cup sugar 2 eggs ½ cup vegetable oil ½ cup vanilla essence 4 mashed bananas Directions: Mix eggs, sugar, oil, and vanilla essence thoroughly in a large bowl. To obtain the best results it's important to follow this sequence.

Add all the remaining dry ingredients and make sure the bananas are added last after being mashed properly.

If yellow is too boring, a few drops of food colouring can always be added.

Preheat the oven to 180 C for 10 minutes.

Oil your cupcake trays and place your cupcake batter in and bake for 18-20 minutes.

The best thing about this recipe is its efficiency and its fruity taste!

Enjoy your cupcakes and consume them within two to three days. Store in a box with a slight airflow to avoid getting them too moist.

PlayList Memories — Maroon 5 Birds of a feather — Billie Eilish Sajni — Strings Invisible Strings — Taylor Swift Somewhere only we know — Keane Ribs — Lorde Family tree — Ethel Cain Days of candy — Beach House We were girls together — Delaney Bailey Slipping through my fingers — ABBA Talking to the moon — Bruno Mars Fly me to the moon — Frank Sinatra Die with a smile — Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars Peter — Taylor Swift Right now — One Direction Family Line — Conan Gray Not a lot, but forever — Adrianne Lenker Count on me — Bruno Mars

Meet The Team

Editor i n chief Mar yam As if

Senior graphic designers Maryam Asif Emaan Athar

Designe rs Zunn

urain N adeem