Lost and Found in Quirkadia | A Whimsical Escape into a Fictional World of Emotions & Imagination

Some Mondays feel like Mondays were created solely to test your patience. You’re mid-scroll in a family WhatsApp group chat filled with motivational good mornings and politically incorrect forwards, dodging work emails like they’re dodgeballs. The walls close in, your coffee’s gone cold, and you suddenly realize that adulthood is just repeatedly saying, “After this week, things will calm down.”

That’s when I finally broke.

And escaped.

Not to Goa. Or to a Himalayan monastery (already been there, came back with a sore knee and a fresh existential crisis). No, I went somewhere better.

I went to Quirkadia – a place that doesn’t show up on your bucket list because, frankly, you didn’t know you needed it until your brain quietly whisper-yells, “Bro, reboot or self-destruct.”

The Graaaaaand Entry

I reached there via a second-hand thought — a daydream that started with me as Shah Rukh Khan in a slow-motion train scene and ended with me tumbling through a wormhole shaped like a spiral notebook filled with poems I never finished.

A slightly disgruntled unicorn-autorickshaw driver named Garry (who spoke like he binge-watched Anurag Kashyap films) picked me up at the border. He wore mirrored aviators and had a sticker on his dashboard that read, “Maa ke haath ka guilt.”

“Where to, sir?” he asked, tail swishing.

“Anywhere but here,” I muttered, and off we went.

Department of Unsent Emotions

Our first stop was a crooked little office built entirely out of recycled love letters and draft WhatsApps. Welcome to the Department of Unsent Emotions — a place that archives every voice note you deleted before sending, every never mind you typed after pouring your heart out.

I spotted one of mine, laminated and on display:

“Hey… I don’t know if this makes sense anymore, but I still think of you when Atif Aslam plays. Anyway. Take care.”

Touché, Quirkadia. Touché.

A melancholic owl gave me a side hug. I didn’t resist.

The Economy Here Runs on Vibes

In Quirkadia, money is a myth. Here, you pay with unfiltered laughter, shared silences, and stories you haven’t told anyone yet.

A good cup of chai? Two nostalgic sighs and one belly laugh.

A warm bed under a sky full of stars? Just hand over your overthinking for the night.

Therapy? Free. It’s available at the Café of Conversations That Should’ve Happened, where strangers listen without interrupting, and the coffee refills itself until you forgive yourself.

Occupation and Side Hustles

In Quirkadia, everyone has a job that makes their heart do the waltz. Mine?

Primary Role: Curator of Almosts. I walk through memories people never lived – trips cancelled, songs unwritten, the girl I almost told everything to before I chickened out and changed the topic to pizza.

Side Hustle: I run a library kiosk that loans out lost dreams. I even found mine – an old, dust-covered journal titled “The Book I’ll Write Someday.” It winked at me.

How to Travel?

You get around here in the Thought Tram, fueled by nostalgia and side-eye. It plays songs you loved in 2007 and makes random stops when you remember something cringy you said in college.

At every station, there’s a loudspeaker that announces in a soothing voice:

“Bhaai, breathe. Nobody remembers that except you. Move on.”

Public service, really.

Weekly Events You Shouldn’t Miss

Mondays: Group Overthinking Circle. Everyone sits silently, staring at ceiling fans and decoding texts from 2016.

Thursdays: The Great “Should I Text Her?” Debate. Spoiler: you shouldn’t.

Fridays: Open Mic for things you wish you’d said. Entry ticket: one unshed tear and a pun.

And every Sunday is Nostalgia Brunch – where you eat food that tastes exactly like your childhood and cry for no reason in particular.

The Hall of Mirrors

This one caught me off-guard.

It’s a place where every mirror shows a version of you: the you who took that risk, who never got scared, who said “yes” when it counted, who never let go of writing… or of her.

I stood in front of one mirror for far too long. It showed a version of me who wasn’t afraid of vulnerability. He looked straight at me and said, “Write the damn book, man.”

I nodded. He nodded back.

Love Exists Here Too — In Many Forms

Romance isn’t a commercial here. It’s raw. Messy. It’s two souls sitting quietly at 2 a.m., listening to the rain and knowing they don’t have to explain anything. I met someone too — her name was Echo. She didn’t speak much, but her silences said everything I needed to hear.

And when I asked her if she was real, she smiled and replied:

“Real enough to heal you. Unreal enough to not break you.”

The Exit

Eventually, Garry showed up again.

“Time to go, hero. The world misses your confused wisdom and dad-level puns.”

I didn’t want to leave. But I knew I had to. So I asked, “Will I remember this place?”

Garry smirked. “Only when you stop pretending you’re fine and start being honest with yourself. That’s your return ticket.”

With that, I blinked and was back in my room. Same ceiling fan, same WhatsApp chaos, same lukewarm tea.

But something felt different.

There was a notebook on my desk.
The one I saw in the library kiosk.

Its title: Chapter One: Quirkadia.

“This blog is a guest post contributed as part of the Window Seat Stories collaboration by – Saadique AB

Saadique is a government professional and poet whose collection Remember Me One Evening marks his return to writing. With resilience, creativity, and a lifelong love for quizzing, he continues his journey of literary rediscovery.