“Who Am I?”
Author: Uzayfa (Afsana Wahid)
Some questions seem simple—
but their answers are oceans deep.
“Who am I?”
This is a question every woman has asked herself at least once in life.
On some tired evening,
in the silence of a lonely afternoon,
or while standing behind the smoke of a kitchen stove…
this question comes quietly,
knocks on the heart, and waits.
This book is the story of a woman’s spiritual search—
a woman who kept dissolving herself
in the happiness of others…
until one day
she found her own voice again.
This is not just Uzayfa’s story.
This is the story of every girl
who became a sister,
then a wife,
then a mother—
but never remained just herself.
If you’ve ever looked at your own reflection and wondered—
“Am I truly happy?”
Then trust me…
this story is for you.
The afternoon was slowly fading.
The sun was no longer harsh—
only a faint warmth touched the walls of the room,
and seeped quietly into the soul.
Uzayfa sat near the window,
an old handkerchief twirled around her fingers.
On the table lay an old diary,
its pages covered with years of silent dust.
What she wrote yesterday
had made a small crack—
and through that crack
her forgotten voice had begun to return.
“I still exist… somewhere.
I have only been unseen.”
She looked around the room.
Everything was in perfect order.
The neat kitchen,
the spotless curtains,
children’s books,
her husband’s files…
Everything had its own place—
except her.
The gate creaked outside.
Her son had returned from school.
“Ammi!”
A gentle smile touched her lips—
not just for her son,
but for the life his presence brought into the house.
And yet, as soon as he disappeared into his room,
she went back to the same silent corner of her heart—
the one she returned to every day.
That day, for the first time,
she looked at herself in the mirror.
Not just at her face—
but at the question behind it.
Tired eyes,
lips holding back unshed words,
lines on her forehead that spoke
of an age measured not by years
but by weight she had silently carried.
While cooking dinner that evening,
she turned on the radio.
Suddenly, an old ghazal began to play:
“Someone deceived me gently…
and I drifted far away from myself…”
She lowered the flame,
closed her eyes for a moment,
and in every verse of that song
she saw herself—
as if someone had written it
only for her.
“I don’t want everything inside me to suffer silently,
while outside, only silence flows…”
She whispered these words to herself
and opened the next page of her diary.
“I don’t just want to survive anymore,
I want to feel alive.
I don’t want to be someone else’s shadow—
I want to find my own light.”
That night, Uzayfa kept her phone aside.
No chats,
no calls,
no noise of social media.
Only an old laptop before her,
and a woman trying to untangle herself
from her own questions.
She opened a blank document.
Subject: “A Letter—To Myself”
**“Uzayfa,
How are you?
Yes, I know this question sounds strange,
because everyone asks you this every day.But today, no one else is asking.
It’s you.
You are asking yourself—
How are you, really?Are you tired?
Have you forgotten that you once spoke to the wind?Is this all your life has become?
Afternoons of cooking,
evenings of exhaustion,
and nights of quiet sleep?”**
Her fingers stopped.
Her breath became heavier.
And yet, something inside her felt lighter—
as if a burden had been lifted.
**“Do you remember that girl
who used to count tiny joys in the pages of an old diary?
Who wrote little poems while looking at clouds?
Who wanted to get drenched in the rain—
just to feel it,
not worrying about wet clothes drying?That girl still exists somewhere.
She hasn’t died.She has only hidden herself—
beneath the folds of your forced smiles.”**
Two tears slipped from her eyes—
one falling on her cheek,
the other on the laptop keyboard.
**“Uzayfa…
For how long will your love only belong to others?
Save something for yourself too—
a sweet word,
a small piece of dessert,
a corner of the world
where only you exist,
with no one else but your own soul.”**
She closed her eyes for a moment,
and then slowly began to type:
**“I promise…
the next time someone asks me—‘What do you want?’I will not stay silent.
I will say—
I want me.
My own voice,
my own choices,
my own day.Because I am not incomplete.
I am just forgotten…
and now I am finding my way back.”**
She saved the document.
Title:
“A Letter—The First Meeting With Myself.”
That night, Uzayfa didn’t do any chores.
No cleaning,
no cutting vegetables.
She just opened a small pink box—
inside it were an old anklet,
her college ID,
and a letter she had once written
to her elder sister.
That night, after many years,
Uzayfa had a dream.
In the dream, she was walking in a wide open field…
the wind lifted the veil from her face…
and a distant voice whispered:
“You came late…
but now,
it’s finally your time.”
When she woke up the next morning,
there was a strange peace in her heart.
Not new—
but something she had forgotten long ago.
Sometimes, finding yourself is the most beautiful homecoming.
This is the English version, carefully translated to keep the same softness and deep feel as your original Hindi.
Perfect for blog posting or turning into a series.
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