Every morning, when the glass doors of Novacorp slid open, Shriya felt a part of herself vanish. The part that hummed old Hindi songs while cooking, that smiled at street dogs, that paused to smell night jasmine on her way home—none of that fit past the biometric scanner.
She was the Assistant Communications Manager here, a polished title wrapped in endless spreadsheets, muted meetings, and mechanical smiles.
But what chipped her spirit most wasn't the long hours or the never-ending deadlines. It was one question. Always the same. Always from Mr. Arvind Khanna, her boss, with his grey suit, colder eyes, and a habit of asking without looking.
"Who are you?"
He said it without pause, as if it was part of the welcome script. Whenever she made a presentation, shared a strategy, or even offered a suggestion, he’d stop her midway—
"Who are you?"
Not to know her, no. But to remind her that she was no one. That her words didn’t matter.
At first, she smiled through it, calling it a quirk. Then it dug in—like a paper cut you forget to heal. By the fifth time that week, the words had turned into a hammer. And it hit not just her confidence, but something deeper. A question she hadn't asked herself in years.
Who was she?
She looked at her emails, her Excel sheets, her pantry coffee mug with “#BossBabe” printed in fading gold—and none of it whispered an answer.
That night, Shriya walked home instead of taking the cab. Her feet ached, but her thoughts were louder than traffic. In this polished, rushed, always-updating world, where was the space to be someone? Not a brand, not a job role, not a KPI. Just someone.
At her apartment, she stood in front of the mirror. She touched her face—not to fix the kajal, but to see something real. Something lost.
The next day, she wore a yellow kurta instead of the usual grey suit. She skipped the mandatory Friday bun and left her hair open. People noticed. Whispered. But no one dared to speak.
Except Mr. Khanna.
He called her into the glass conference room.
"You seem... different," he said, eyes narrowing. "But still—who are you, Shriya to decide these office matters?"
This time, she didn’t blink.
“I’m someone who laughs loud in cinema halls,” she said softly. “Someone who used to write poems on train tickets. Someone who learned to ride a cycle at twenty-five because she was too scared as a child.”
Mr. Khanna remained silent. He hadn’t expected an answer.
“I’m also someone who meets deadlines, leads her team well, and brings new ideas. But maybe that’s not enough in your vocabulary.”
He leaned back. “That’s emotional nonsense. At work, we measure value. Not metaphors.”
Shriya stood up.
“And that’s exactly the problem, sir. You keep asking 'Who are you?' as if one person has to be one thing only. One number. One identity. But I can be everything. And nothing. All at once.”
She paused, voice steady now. “Maybe the better question is—how do I want to be? Because every day, I get to choose.”
He said nothing.
She walked out. Not fired. Not promoted. But free.
~
Weeks passed. She wasn’t trying to be rebellious. She just stopped being invisible. She laughed more. Asked better questions. Skipped corporate small talk. And one day, she gathered the courage to send her poems to a digital magazine.
They published one.
It wasn’t about her office. Or her boss. It was about an old woman feeding birds at sunrise. But somehow, it was about her too.
~
Months later, Shriya sat by her window, watching clouds stack like files in the sky. Her phone buzzed.
A message.
From her junior at work.
- "Your line today during the meeting - about people being more than their job titles- really stuck with me.
Thank you."
She smiled.
The question had changed.
Not “Who are you?”
But—“How do you want to be today?”
And every day, she had a different answer.
Sometimes soft. Sometimes strong. Sometimes lost. Sometimes bold.
But always—real.
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