Neel grew up in a house where silence was the rule. His father, Mr. Verma, was a stern man who believed only in practical things. He forced Neel to study engineering, calling art a "waste of time." Neel buried his dream of being a painter, resented his father, and moved away as soon as he could.
Years later, Mr. Verma passed away. Neel returned to empty the house. He walked through the rooms, feeling a mix of grief and anger. He felt his father never understood him.
He climbed into the dusty attic to clear out old boxes. In the corner, he found a locked trunk. He broke the rusty lock. Inside, he didn't find financial papers. He found canvases. Dozens of them.
Neel pulled them out, stunned. They were magnificent paintings—landscapes, abstracts, and portraits. There were portraits of Neel as a baby, as a boy, as a teenager.
He looked at the signature at the bottom of the paintings. Karan Verma. His father.
At the bottom of the trunk was a diary. Neel read the last entry, dated twenty years ago. "I put down my brush today. The life of an artist is one of struggle and poverty. I cannot let my son suffer as I did. I will be the villain in his story and force him toward stability, so he can be the hero of his own life. He will hate me, but he will be safe."
Neel fell to his knees, clutching the diary. He realized the strictness was a mask. His father had sacrificed his own passion and his relationship with his son to ensure Neel’s financial security.
Neel picked up a brush from the box. He didn't quit his job, but that evening, he started painting again. He painted a portrait of his father—stern face, but with kind eyes.