“हर किसी को मुकम्मल जहाँ नहीं मिलता,
किसी को दो गज़ ज़मीन, किसी को खुला आसमां नहीं मिलता।”

(lines by Nida Fazli)

They often echo in my head like a soft reminder — a truth we all live but seldom express. I’ve lived a life that, on the surface, might seem “settled.” I have a roof over my head, and a few loving souls I can count on. There’s no shortage of food or clothes, and I’ve tasted the joy of travel, spirituality, and even solitude. I’ve had jobs that give me livelihood, and I’ve known the thrill of independence.

But life has a way of keeping some windows shut — even as it opens a few doors.

What does it mean to have a “mukammal jahan” (a perfect world)? Is it a perfect family? Unshakeable health? A partner who understands your silences? A passion that fuels your mornings? For me, it meant emotional peace — something I have been chasing for years. I was never the kind to dream of big houses or luxurious life. I dreamed of deep connections, of a mind that wouldn’t overthink every little gesture, of a heart that wouldn’t hurt so easily. And yet, those things often slipped through my fingers like sand.

I’ve fought mental storms — from obsessive thinking, deep emotional attachments, to the constant loop of trying to “fix” everything, including myself. Therapy helped, prayers helped, writing helped. But the ache? It still visits.

“Some don’t even get two yards of land“.

There was a time I was almost homeless — not literally, but emotionally. I had places to live but no space to belong. Friendships failed. Relationships got tangled in expectations and pain. I was always either “too intense” or “too distant” for someone. It felt like I was building my home in other people’s hearts — only to be evicted every time.

Now, I understand that “two yards of land” also means grounding — a safe space to be who you are without fear of judgment or abandonment. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve started building that space within myself.

My home is no longer someone’s promises or attention. It’s my journal, my incense in the evening, my little walks, my spirituality, and the small things that don’t leave — like the sky over my balcony or the sun and moon that come daily and give me hope.

“Some don’t get an open sky.”

Freedom is a funny thing. People think if you’re single or financially independent, you’re free. But emotional cages are invisible — and often more painful.

In my 20s and 30s, I dreamed of flying — of breaking away from norms, being wild-hearted and fearless. But my mind became the biggest jailor. Every decision felt heavy with consequences. Guilt, fear, people-pleasing — they clipped my wings every time I tried to soar.

Now in my 40s, I see that the “open sky” is more than physical freedom. It’s about feeling light inside. It’s about breathing deeply without anxiety. It’s about letting go — of people, pain, and past versions of yourself.

I’m still learning to open my own sky. I’m still teaching my heart that it’s okay to not be okay, and it’s okay to walk away from what wounds you.

Life happens in between these lines…

These days, I don’t chase the perfect world. I embrace the incomplete one. I light my lamp in the evenings, sip my coffee slowly, and whisper to the sky — “Thank you for whatever you gave and even for what you took away.”

Because maybe, in not having it all, I learned to value what I do have.

Because maybe, in not getting my “open sky” or “two yards of land” the way I imagined — I carved out my own strange little paradise.

And maybe that is “mukammal” in its own way.