Farhat ullah
Bio
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In prose, Farhat brings characters and situations to life with vivid imagery and thoughtful insight. His narratives are honest and relatable, often exploring themes of identity, humanity, and personal growth.
Stories (7)
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They Don’t Like Me Because I’m a Poor Girl
I walk through the hallways of my school, head down, books clutched tightly against my chest. I can feel the stares burning into my back, the whispers floating just loud enough for me to hear—“Look at her clothes,” “She’s always alone,” “She must live in the slums.”
By Farhat ullah7 months ago in BookClub
I Am Not Sexy
"I am not sexy." These four words used to haunt me like an unfinished sentence. In a world where allure is currency, and beauty opens doors faster than brains or kindness ever could, not being “sexy” felt like being left behind. Forgotten. Unwanted.
By Farhat ullah7 months ago in BookClub
Shine, Girl!
There was a time when she believed she could do anything. As a little girl, she would stand on rooftops and talk to the stars. She dreamed of singing in front of thousands, of writing books that made people cry, of dancing barefoot in the rain without anyone telling her to come inside. She was wild, curious, and full of light.
By Farhat ullah7 months ago in BookClub
I'm a Lucky
Everyone told me I was unlucky. Born in a storm, left on a church step in a cardboard box with a blanket and no name, I was named "Lucky" by the kind nun who found me. She believed every child was a blessing—even the ones the world had abandoned. I grew up in the Saint Mercy Orphanage on the edge of the city. We didn't have much: second-hand toys, chipped plates, and hand-me-down clothes that never fit quite right. But we had stories, hope, and each other.
By Farhat ullah7 months ago in BookClub
Lovely Girl
In a narrow lane of an old city, where the sun barely touched the ground through tangled wires and rusting balconies, lived a little girl named Noor. Just nine years old, Noor wasn’t like the other children on her street. While many ran after kites or quarreled over broken toys, Noor walked quietly with a smile that could soften even the hardest heart.
By Farhat ullah7 months ago in Education
The Silent Killer of Humanity
The streets of Lahore buzzed with life, but in a narrow alley behind a row of shops, a little boy named Bilal sat barefoot on the cold pavement. He held a worn-out shoe polish box in one hand and a cloth in the other. He was only ten years old, yet his eyes carried the weight of a man who had seen too much.
By Farhat ullah7 months ago in Education
