The Arithmetic of Stillness

Sometimes, it’s best to stop and enjoy the tiny pleasures of life

Winning Entry: January 5th, 2026

Entry for :"The Writer's Cramp" 


Arif lived high above the busy city of Dhaka. From his office on the 14th floor, the world looked like a small, quiet map. But Arif did not feel quiet. He felt busy, always running. His life was a list of numbers: the money he made, the targets he hit, the school fees for his sons. He had a nice car and a big apartment. But he was tired.

His big moment of understanding came on a hot Tuesday. The air was heavy. Arif was finishing a very important report on his computer. He pressed ‘send’. At that exact second, the electricity in the whole building went out. The computer screen went black. The air conditioner stopped its hum.

“Power cut,” someone said. “Two hours, maybe more.”

Arif felt angry. Time was his most precious thing, and now it was being stolen. He walked to the big window, his phone in his hand. He looked down at the city.

What he saw made him stop.

Without electricity, Dhaka was changing. The noisy, honking cars below were moving slowly, carefully, like a gentle dance. The bright, flashing billboards were dark. For the first time, he could see the old, beautiful buildings behind them. On the street, a shopkeeper had brought a small radio outside. People were sitting together, talking and laughing. Above it all, a simple paper kite flew from a nearby roof. A little boy was flying it with his grandfather.

Arif’s anger melted away. A new thought, clear and cool, filled his mind.

I have been running so fast, I forgot how to stand still. What is the price of this peace?

He realised his life was all about ‘more’. More work, more money, more things. But he had less of what mattered: less time with his wife Tahmina’s laughter, less of holding his sons close, less of feeling the city’s heartbeat.

He did not wait for the power to return. He walked down the fourteen flights of stairs. His driver was waiting. “Let’s go home,” Arif said. “But take the small roads. Go slowly.”

They drove through parts of the city Arif always rushed past. He rolled down the window. The air smelled of rain on hot earth, of sweet tea from a roadside stall, of evening flowers. He heard the sound of a tailor’s sewing machine from an open shop, tik-tik-tik, tik-tik-tik. He heard students laughing. This was Dhaka’s real song, and for years, he had not listened.

That night, he did not go to his home office. He found Tahmina on their balcony, looking at the few stars you could see in the city sky.

“Remember,” he said softly, “the boat ride on the Buriganga we always wanted to take?”

Tahmina turned, her eyes wide with surprise. Then, she smiled. It was a smile he had not seen in a long time.

The boat ride happened that weekend. The water was brown and busy. The boatman gave them small cups of sugary tea. The breeze was warm. They held hands and did not talk much. They just were, together. It was perfect.

Arif began to change his life. He made a new rule: no phones at dinner. The first nights were quiet. Then, slowly, the talk came back. His younger son told him all about birds. His older son shared his fears about school. Arif learned how to listen again.

At work, he changed too. When a client was shouting about speed, Arif felt his old hurry rising. But then he breathed. He said, “Let’s make sure we do it right, not just fast.” The client was quiet, then agreed. The work was better.

Months later, another company offered Arif a huge amount of money for a very stressful job. The old Arif would have said yes immediately. This Arif went for a walk. He sat by Dhanmondi Lake. He watched families. He fed the ducks. He felt the sun on his face.

He said no to the job. For the first time, he chose peace over price.

That evening, another power cut covered their neighborhood. The lights in their apartment went out. Instead of complaining, Arif smiled. He found some old candles and lit them. The room became soft and golden. He brought out a board game. In the flickering light, they played. They laughed so loud. His youngest son climbed into his lap.

Arif looked around the candlelit room at his family. He looked at Tahmina’s face, young and happy in the gentle light. He felt a love so big it was a physical warmth in his chest.

His life was no longer a list of numbers to chase. It was this. It was the feeling of his son’s head on his shoulder. It was the sound of his wife’s laugh in the dark. It was the quiet strength of choosing to be present.

He had learned a new kind of math. The most important sum was not what you could get, but the love you could hold in a moment of perfect, shared stillness.

Total words:1000