“Aankhon ki Suiyaan” The Story Isn't Over Yet!

Many of us are familiar with the phrase “Aankhon ki Suiyaan” (Needles in the Eyes) often used to describe a task that’s nearly, but not quite, finished. Yet, beyond its literal meaning, this saying reminds me of something deeper: the small, piercing moments of wisdom that stay with us forever.

I still remember those warm summer nights when my father would sprinkle water on the angan (courtyard) to cool the ground. We’d gather there to eat dinner, share ripe mangoes, and listen to his stories, a nightly ritual that wove itself into the fabric of my childhood. His tales were more than just entertainment; they were pearls of wisdom, shaping my values, resilience, and understanding of the world in ways I didn’t even realize until much later.

When I became a therapist, I discovered something profound: the stories my father told me weren’t just memories, they were tools. In therapy, we don’t give direct advice, but we can share stories, metaphors that gently guide, challenge, and inspire. Now, when I sit with clients, I often find myself revisiting those same tales, not as lessons forced upon them, but as mirrors for their own reflections.

Stories, like the ones my father shared, have a unique power. They don’t preach; they invite. They don’t demand change; they plant seeds. And just like those evenings in the angan, where laughter and wisdom flowed as freely as the summer breeze, the right story at the right time can bring clarity, comfort, and connection.

Perhaps that’s the magic of storytelling, it doesn’t just pass down knowledge; it keeps alive the warmth of those who told them to us. And in that way, my father’s voice still speaks, not just to me, but to those I now have the privilege to guide.

one of his story is a classic South Asian folktale found in many cultures including Urdu, Punjabi, and Sindhi storytelling traditions. It’s rich in metaphor and can be compared to Sleeping Beauty or Snow White but with distinct regional flavor and deep psychological, moral, and feminist undertones.

Let me retell it  and then unpack its moral and psychological meaning.

In a kingdom lulled by silence and secrets, there lay a prince, not dead, but enchanted into stillness, his body pierced with hundreds of tiny silver needles, as if his very soul had been stitched shut by some ancient curse.

Among all the glimmering palaces and proud physicians, none could revive him. His body remained, but his presence had evaporated, like mist in the morning.

Then came a noble-hearted girl, a maiden with more patience than pride, and hands soft but strong enough to undo a spell. She was not of royal blood, but her spirit was gold.

Day after day, she sat beside the prince. One by one, she pulled out the needles; from his toes, his hands, his lips, his neck each one like pulling sorrow from skin. She sang quietly as she worked, her voice a lullaby of light.

At last, only the needles in his eyes remained.

But the girl, exhausted and disheveled, thought:"Let me tidy myself, so when he wakes, I don’t look like a servant but the woman who saved him."

She stepped away. And into that moment of absence slipped her maid, a shadow-hearted woman. Seeing the sleeping prince and the two final needles, she yanked them out, just in time for his eyelids to flutter open like petals.

He saw the maid. He smiled. He believed she had saved him.

And so, the girl of golden patience was forgotten, buried under silence, while the maid wore a crown of false glory and became the crown princess, the future queen of the land.

I still remember how deeply this story unsettled me. The injustice burned in my chest, and I turned to my father in frustration: "This isn't right!" My discussion that evening with Abbo kept circling back to one profound truth,

Truth and recognition don't always walk hand in hand.

Sometimes the ones who labor in shadows never see the light of acknowledgment, while those who merely arrive at the finish line claim all the glory. That night, my father saw the storm in my eyes. With a gentle promise, he assured me: tomorrow would bring a new story. But first, a lesson to carry forward - one that still guides me today:

What we leave unfinished today becomes tomorrow's burden. Even the smallest needle, forgotten, can pierce when we least expect it.

And so I learned, both from the tale, and from his wisdom that completion is its own kind of justice.

In my practice, I've witnessed how unfinished business, those unspoken truths and unrecognised efforts lingers in the air like a held breath. We wait, just as the girl in the tale did, for the moment when we might finally reclaim our narrative.

Some might say, "Good deeds are their own reward," or "Allah (or the Universe) sees what others don’t." And while there is deep truth in that faith, we must also recognise the importance of timing, knowing when to speak and when to stay silent, when to step forward and when to withdraw with dignity.

The prince’s awakening, still blind to the real heroine, mirrors a painful reality: human perception is limited. We often see only what is right in front of us, missing the quiet sacrifices made in the shadows. And the girl’s choice to walk away? It strikes a delicate balance, between self-care and service, between humility and the quiet guarding of one’s worth.

It makes me wonder:

• Have you ever poured your heart into something, only to feel invisible? What did you do?

• How can we create spaces, in our relationships, in society, where rightful recognition is given, not just to the loudest, but to the truest?

Perhaps the lesson lies not just in faith, but in the courage to claim our truth when the moment is right, before the needles are left forgotten, and the story slips away unfinished.

My friends, just as my father promised me all those years ago, this tale has more to give - and I will share its continuation soon. But first, I'm curious:

If this were your story to tell, how would you write its ending?

Would the noble girl return to claim her truth?Would the prince's eyes finally open to see beyond appearances?Or might there be a third path, one we haven't yet imagined?

Some stories teach us patience. Others remind us that resolutions come in their own time. This one, I suspect, holds lessons about both.

Share with me, what ending would you give this tale? Your vision might light the way as I prepare to unfold the rest.

(After all, the best stories grow richer when many hands hold the pen.)

What happens next in your version?

[Comment below - I'm collecting these creative endings for a special follow-up post!]

P.S. For those wondering why I pause here, isn't life itself full of such meaningful interruptions? The space between "what was" and "what could be" is where wisdom grows.