The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

I

Jiya tugged at the handle of her wardrobe, staring blankly at the array of perfectly arranged clothes. Each item had its place, each fold meticulous—just like her mother taught her. She closed the door and sighed, feeling the familiar weight of anxiety settle in her chest. Every morning began like this—a routine that felt suffocating yet comforting in its predictability. She straightened the edges of her duvet, ensuring no crease disrupted its symmetry.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, cold and exact: “Perfection is the only option, Jiya. Don’t you dare settle for anything less.”

Ayesha’s obsession with control seeped into every part of their lives. The house was a shrine to cleanliness, a temple to order. But what good was it if the love and warmth that should have filled their home was always missing?

Jiya watched her father shuffle into the room. He was a ghost of a man, forever present but eternally absent. His sighs spoke louder than his words, and his mind always seemed elsewhere. As usual, he took his seat at the corner, staring blankly into the air, as if lost in thoughts only he could understand.

Jiya longed for the kind of father who noticed her—who offered guidance or a soft word of encouragement. Instead, she found herself looking after her younger sister, Asma. Asma was still innocent, untouched by the harshness of their mother’s gaze. Jiya tried to protect her, shielding her from the cold criticism that had shaped her own childhood.

Her elder sister, Zoya, had already escaped. Marriage had given Zoya freedom, but her absence left Jiya even more alone to face their mother’s expectations. And then there were her brothers. Adil, the eldest, too busy chasing the illusion of status and wealth, and Sameer, the one just older than Jiya, who was lost to the streets, tangled in a life of danger that both terrified and fascinated him.

Jiya longed to escape too. But no matter how hard she tried, the feeling of inadequacy, the constant need for validation, clung to her like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

II

Years later, Jiya had built a life that, on the surface, seemed like everything she had ever dreamed of. She had a successful career, a beautiful home, and a husband, Imran, who was loving and kind. Their two children filled their house with the laughter she had missed in her own childhood. Yet, the ghost of her past lingered.

At work, she was known for her efficiency and dedication. Her colleagues admired her attention to detail and her drive to succeed. But beneath her poised exterior, Jiya struggled. Every achievement felt hollow, every success just another box to check. She had never learned how to celebrate herself—how to feel satisfied.

One day, as she stood in her office, surrounded by awards and certificates of achievement, Jiya stared out of the window. The city buzzed with life, but she felt disconnected from it. A voice inside her whispered, Is this it? Is this all I’ve worked for? She had everything she thought she wanted, but somehow, it all felt incomplete, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together.

At home, Imran was patient, always understanding when she felt overwhelmed. He didn’t understand why she needed the house to be spotless, why she couldn’t rest until everything was in its place. He’d tell her to leave the dishes, to relax, but Jiya couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to stop,” she confessed one evening, as she stood in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters long after dinner was over. Imran leaned against the doorway, watching her with a concerned expression.

“You don’t need to be perfect, Jiya,” he said softly. “No one’s expecting that from you.”

But Jiya was. She was always expecting it from herself.

III

The past wasn’t something Jiya liked to dwell on, but it had a way of creeping into the present when she least expected it. Memories of her childhood, sharp and unforgiving, would surface in the quiet moments.

She remembered sitting at the dining table, staring at her school report, her heart pounding in her chest. The numbers and letters blurred together as her mother examined every grade with a critical eye.

“Why isn’t this higher?” Ayesha would demand, her voice icy. “What’s the point of working hard if you don’t achieve excellence?”

Jiya could never meet her mother’s gaze in those moments. Her father, sitting nearby, would simply look away, offering no defense, no support. The silence from him was worse than the words from her mother.

These moments had shaped her. As a child, Jiya learned that love was conditional—that she had to earn it through flawless performance. The need to prove herself, to be seen as worthy, followed her into adulthood like a second skin.

Her mother’s OCD dictated the rhythm of their lives, and Jiya had danced to that beat for as long as she could remember. Now, even though she had built her own life, her own family, she found herself caught in the same patterns—striving for a perfection that always felt just out of reach.

IV

It was a normal evening when Jiya’s tightly controlled world began to unravel. The kids were playing in the living room, their toys scattered across the floor, their laughter filling the air. But Jiya couldn’t focus on their joy. All she could see was the mess—the clutter that threatened to disrupt the order she worked so hard to maintain.

Her chest tightened, and she felt the familiar panic rising. The toys, the papers, the disarray—it was too much. She tried to breathe, to calm herself, but the feeling of losing control was overwhelming.

Imran noticed immediately. He reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “Jiya, it’s okay. Let them play. The mess can wait.”

But it couldn’t wait. Jiya felt like she was suffocating. A voice echoed in her mind: “If you can’t control your surroundings, you can’t control your life.”

“I just… I just need things to be in order,” she snapped, her voice louder than she intended. The children stopped, looking at her with wide eyes. The room fell silent, and the weight of her words hung heavy in the air.

Later that evening, as they prepared for bed, Imran looked at her seriously. “Jiya, I know you’re dealing with a lot, but this pressure you put on yourself… it’s affecting all of us. It’s affecting you.”

Jiya lowered her gaze, unable to respond. Imran was right. This wasn’t just about the mess. It was about the years of pressure, the weight of expectations, the constant need to prove herself. It was about the deep-rooted belief that if everything wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t enough.

V

That night, long after everyone else had gone to bed, Jiya sat alone in the darkened living room. Her heart still raced, and the silence around her felt oppressive. She stared at the mirror across the room, the reflection showing a woman who looked calm, composed—but inside, Jiya was breaking.

For so long, she had been running. Running from her past, from the voice of her mother, from the need for validation. But she couldn’t run anymore. She had spent her entire life trying to escape, only to realise that the prison she was trying to flee was inside her.

She needed to uncode the programming that had been written into her from childhood. She needed to face the reality that peace wouldn’t come from controlling her environment, from striving for perfection. It had to come from within.

VI

The journey toward peace wasn’t easy. It began with small steps—allowing herself moments of imperfection, moments where things didn’t have to be in order. She started leaving the dishes unwashed after dinner, letting the toys remain on the floor for a little longer, sitting with the discomfort instead of trying to fix it immediately.

Each small act felt like a rebellion against the voice in her head. At first, it was unbearable. She felt restless, anxious, as if she were failing in some fundamental way. But slowly, the anxiety began to ease. She started to see that her worth wasn’t tied to her ability to control her surroundings.

She also began to realise that the validation she had been chasing for so long—from her mother, from her career, from her husband—wasn’t what she needed. What she needed was to learn to accept herself.

VII

One afternoon, as Jiya stood in front of the mirror, she saw it again—her mother’s reflection in her own. But this time, something was different. Instead of feeling haunted by the resemblance, she felt a deep sense of compassion.

Her mother had been trapped in her own struggles, shaped by her own past. Ayesha’s obsession with control hadn’t been about Jiya—it had been about her own fear of the world, her own inability to find peace within herself.

Jiya realised that she had spent so much time running from becoming her mother that she had never stopped to understand her. And in that understanding, Jiya found the key to her own freedom.

She didn’t have to become her mother. She could choose a different path.

VIII

As the months passed, Jiya continued to work on herself. It wasn’t easy, and some days were harder than others. But she had learned that peace wasn’t a destination. It was a journey—one she would have to walk every day, with patience, kindness, and acceptance.

One evening, as she stood in front of the mirror once more, Jiya didn’t see her mother’s reflection anymore. She saw herself—a woman who had survived, who had thrived, and who had learned to love herself despite her minute flaws.

The reflection smiled back at her, no longer a ghost from the past, but a reminder of the woman she had become. The journey wasn’t over, but for the first time in her life, Jiya knew that she was enough, just as she was.

And that was when true peace began.