Roads were always jumping with activities-they never slept. They breathed and pulsed to every beat; their whispers about dreams fell silent outside this cacophony. Amidst the honking of the Taxis and the constant chatter of the people, here lived Rajesh, an ordinary man, but carrying extraordinary burdens. He was neither famous nor rich. He did not belong to the million faces running to be part of the rush of the day; he was the expression of silent accountability behind every movement.

Survival was life for Rajesh. Born poor, luxury would never touch his skin for all of his life. Long, winding alleys and crumbling buildings made up the whole world of Rajesh. Long hours of backbreaking work comprised it.

He stands in that construction yard, his hands as coarse as the terracotta he lifts and shovels day after sun-baked day. Never complained, though. For every blister, for every drop of perspiration, it was for his family-for hope that they could climb above poverty to greater heights than generations before them had sunk to. His wife helped out by cleaning the high-rise apartments, which seemed to loom over their small chawl. And together they dreamed-something better, something different for their son, Vijay. From the moment Vijay was born, Rajesh made a silent promise: his son would never be like them. The boy would be educated, successful. He'd be the one to pull them out of this seemingly endless cycle of poverty. That, of course, was all Vijay grew up with-the burden of expectation. He was no shield against the struggles his father faced neither was he insulated from the sacrifices required to make way for a better future for him. Yet, of his son, Rajesh would never say a word of encouragement over his dream. :. Love was the same as most fathers: silent-an expression of affectionate hugs and soft spoken words but over rigid disciplines and living in a constant pressure of expectation to succeed. "Study hard," Rajesh would say. "You do not have the luxury of dreaming. You need to be practical.".

Vijay nodded.

At least, he tried. But the heavy mantle of expectations from his father under which he was living gave birth to this other dream only.

It was while his father spoke of duty that Vijay could see colours. He adored colours and the chaos of Mumbai- street vendors, their bold paintings, worn-down buildings, the faces of the people like his father, who lived lives of quiet determination, silent resolve. And deep within, he yearned to capture everything on canvas. But, in a family where survival gave precedence over art, his dreams were scoffed at as childish. "Painting won't feed us," Rajesh had said that one evening when he had found a sketchbook tucked under Vijay's schoolbooks. His voice was not harsh but firm. "Art is for people who can afford to dream. We don't have that luxury." Nothing," he muttered, swallowing the little ball that had risen up in his throat. "We cannot afford to be idle pleasure seekers," he continued. "Our life is not of that sort." And so, with a weight settling in his chest, he put away the brushes and paints and down that road began his journey as laid out by his father. Education, job, stability-this is all that would serve as a pattern to his life, not by choice but by necessity.

Years passed by, and Vijay grew up to be like his father - steady, responsible, and diligent.

But for all his practicality, there was a part of him never quite letting go of his aspirations. Even when he obtained steady employment, something in him still stirred him to want to create-to paint, to break loose from the life that had always been an imposition on him.

And yet the love for his father and some sense of responsibility toward his family pushed him along even further down the track of prudence.

Then Vijay had a son of his own-Arjun. The moment he held his child in his arms, he made a promise to himself: Arjun would not live under the same weight of expectations. He would be free to follow his dreams, whatever they may be. Vijay vowed that he would not make the same mistakes his father had made, that he would allow his son to pursue passion instead of practicality.

But time passed by, and years went by; Vijay had another kind of frustration.

He was not what he had ever dreamt of-him to be passionate, driven. He was careless, unmindful. He cared a lot more for spending parties with his friends and lying around than his future. The tension grew between the two as Vijay found himself trying to be patient and let his son find himself.

One thing was freedom to the child, but watching Arjun fritter away every opportunity as a betrayal was quite something else. "Arjun, you can't lead this life," Vijay would exclaim in distress. "You have such potential. What is that which doesn't matter? “Relax, Dad,” Arjun would reply with a casual shrug. “I’ll figure it out. Stop stressing.” There grew anger out of frustration and in a peaceful home the ground of two warring wills. Silent love was lost in the storm of his growing disappointment, and free-spirited attitude of Arjun only widened the gap between him and Vijay. The harder he tried to steer his son towards responsibility the further he drifted to his world of reckless abandon. It gnawed at Rajesh's heart, this drama between his son and grandson, laid bare before him: he saw a little of himself in the frustration of Vijay; heard something of himself in the words with which Vijay lectured his son; and though no words came out of his mouth, he couldn't help wondering if he'd been wrong all these years to have been driving Vijay down that path that wasn't Vijay's. For, outside, the din of a crowded Mumbai marched ahead with confident step. Behind the quiet walls of Vijay's home, meanwhile, a silent storm brewed between father and son, tugging in opposite directions, while Rajesh, the man who had formed the bedrock of the family, silently bore the burden of suspecting that this too would be a repeating history.

There had grown a stifling tenseness between Vijay and Arjun. What had been home, filled with all the usual hubbub of life in Mumbai-the tea vendors still calling out in the distance, rickshaws honking, laughter-thrilled the space with silence now. Every conversation between father and son seemed to be suspended by the hair of a quarrel, waiting to break out into a fight. Often it did.

One night, after yet another long day of heavy work, Vijay returns to an intransigent Arjun lounging on the sofa, passively scrolling through his cell phone. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink. Clothes littered the entire floor; a pizza box lay on the table. Half-eaten. And it stirs the familiar anger in Vijay’s chest.

“Arjun,” Vijay shouted, forcing himself to be audible yet soft. “What’s this? I told you to clean up this place, all this mess. Unacceptable!”

Arjun glanced up, unfazed. “Chill, Dad. I’ll do it later.”

“Later?” Vijay’s voice had risen in frustration. “That’s all you ever say: later, later, later. And it never does happen. When are you going to take something seriously, Arjun? You have no plan, no direction. Do you even care about your future?”

And Arjun looked up. “Here we go again, I suppose,” he whispered to himself and turned back to his phone.

Vjay clenched his fists. Suddenly he was boiling with frustration. “Arjun, listen to me! Can’t keep on living like this wasting your time wasting my money! I didn’t work all these years, sacrifice all mine, to sit here and waste the best years of your life!

Arjun sprang up from the sofa straight upright and now his wrath was apparent. “That’s the point, Dad! You’re always saying how you sacrificed and how hard it was. Did you ever ask me what I wanted? Did you ever once consider that maybe I do not want to live this life you wanted for me?

Vijay was stunned. The words of the son were a blow that hit him deeper than any argument they had had in their lives. He was there, trying to put voice together inside himself, piecing what Arjun said. “What is that? I have only ever wanted what’s best for you.”

Arjun shook his head in anger and frustration. “You don’t get it, do you? You are just like Dadaji. You think that the only way to save me is to push me into some ‘practical’ path.

You are so caught up in what you never had that you never stop to see me what I need. I am not you, Dad. And I’m certainly going to be far from Dadaji, spending my whole life running after something I do not even care about”.

A lump had formed In Vijay’s throat. It hurt to hear what Arjun was saying to him. All his life, Vijay had worked so his son could do whatever he wanted. Now, sitting there and listening to Arjun talk about him as if he were his father, it seemed like a betrayal.

“Do you think I wanted this?” Vijay’s voice cracked. “Do you think I wanted to lose my dreams? I gave up on painting, Arjun. Do you know what that feels like-to bury something you love because life won’t let you have it? I did this for you, for this family. And now, you’re throwing it all away like nothing matters.”

Arjun softened his gaze, but stepped back. “Never did I ask of you to surrender to anything, Dad. Never did I ask myself to bear the burden of your expectations. And I want to live my own life, but you made that impossible.”.

The words hung there in the air, heavy as stones. Vijay’s chest was tightening. When had he and his son turned from loving each other to this endless battling? He’d promised himself that he would never be like his own father-to allow his son a say in his decisions. Yet standing amidst the clutter of his living room, shouting at Arjun, Vijay knew he was the very thing he had always feared.

Between this anguished argument, Rajesh had silently sat in the next room and entered the space slowly. His massive frame had bent with age; however, his eyes still wore the wise silence of a man who saw more than his fair share of life’s struggles.

Enough, said Rajesh. His voice was calm but commanding.

He turned to them, and to the surprise of Vijay and Arjun. Rajesh never interrupted their arguments, and if he could avoid them at all, then he would entirely.

Rajesh spoke softly but firmly. Your father is doing just what he thinks he must for himself. You do not see it now, but everything that he pushes you to do comes from a place of love. He does not want you to struggle as we did.

Arjun shifted a little, guilt flickering on his countenance. But just before he could say something, Rajesh turned to Vijay.

“And you, Vijay,” he continued, “you get so deeply entangled in not letting Arjun lose his way that you forgot what it is to be young. You forgot what it is to have dreams. We did make sacrifices, perhaps we were wrong in thinking that’s the only way.” It was unbelievable for Vijay to hear this from his father. He could not remember ever hearing anything like that from him. Throughout his life, he had assumed all that his dad wanted was so-for him to work hard, be practical, and earn for the family. It was the remorse in Rajesh’s eyes that now changed everything for Vijay.

Perhaps, “ he said, his voice softened, “we both were wrong.”.

The room fell silent. Vijay looked at his son really for the first time in years. Arjun was not like those lazy free-spirited boys. Arjun was a fighter, and he had to struggle in order to carve an identity, just like his father had to struggle once to balance between the dreams and the responsibilities.

I just don’t know how to make it any better,” Vijay said quietly, all anger draining from his voice. “I want you to be happy, Arjun. And I just can’t make that happen.”. Arjun smoothed his face, and for the first time in years, there was a flicker of understanding between them. “Well, maybe we can work it out together, Dad,” he said now in a softer voice. For the first time in years, Vijay felt that something was happening-something which had been broken between them for so long was starting to mend. Not perfect, but a beginning. And that is when Vijay realised perhaps the most important thing wasn’t forcing his son to follow his dreams but helping him find his own. Still, the two were so engrossed in their argument that until now, until fate had dealt its final blow, they did not part with each other. Several hours later, Vijay decided to get out of his house and clear his head. He was torn between thinking about their fight. He never saw that speeding car until it ran into him. Arjun got that one call which thereafter changed everything.

The call came at night, about the kind that will wake you up with a beating heart before you even reach the hand set. Arjun’s hands were all shaky as he heard the voice on the other side of the hand set saying his father had been involved in an accident. Things around him went blurry; the words barely registered. Panicked, he rushed out of the house without a thought to reach the hospital where his father was.

When he arrived, the white sterile halls of the hospital seemed cold and impersonal, but Arjun’s head was in a spin, his mind only fixed on his father. He found Vijay in a small room, unconscious, being hooked up to some machines that continuously beeped, marking the beat of life. His father’s face, once having exuded strength and quiet resolve, now looked brittle; in this pale face, I saw only a shadow of the man who had toiled for so many years under the burden of the family’s hopes.

He sat, stunned by the view before him. He had never been afraid of his life before. Not even when his father was hospitalized for something major. But now, more of the realization that he had never really understood his father until it was almost too late. All the fights, the arguments, the silent love that Vijay carried along in himself; it all came forth for Arjun now, clearer than ever.

The long night dragged on, during which Arjun gazed about the room, lingering over a small, leather-covered notebook on the bedside table. He knew it at once-it was his father’s journal, the one Vijay often kept tucked under his arm and never once spoke of. Unhesitant for a split second, Arjun reached for the journal and cracked it open with his shaking fingers.

There were so many drawings-scrawly, ugly, and imperfect but beautiful in their very own way. Landscapes of Mumbai and portraits of people that pass by every day. And then in the middle of this journal, Arjun saw something that made his heart stop. There were drawings of him. Arjun as a child playing in the street, laughing with friends, and even an unfinished painting of Arjun holding the camera.

Arjun caught his breath. He had flipped through so many pages, reading snippets of Vijay’s thoughts.

”I want Arjun to have the freedom I never had. But how do I guide him without pushing him away? I just want him to find his passion, to follow his heart like I never could.”

The words were a blow to his gut. For so long, Arjun had clung to his perception that his father cared only for control, only for pressing him down a path of practicality. But here, in this small journal, he saw the truth. His father had always wanted him to be free—free to dream, free to follow his passions, free to be more than life had known with Vijay.

However, in his own way, Vijay had come to be entrapped, just as Arjun had, within the aura of the fear of failure.

Arjun teardrops welled up as he understood the profundity of love that bound his father:

this love that had forsaken control for better things.

Days went by, and Vijay was still in hospital for his recovery. Arjun sat by his side wordlessly but thoughtfully taking all into comprehension. He realized that he was a waste of time; this was something meaningless that he was chasing and not the gift his father had wished to give him—in the sense of freedom to follow his passion.

Determined, he went home, dusted off his old camera, and got busy taking photographs. He initiated working on the streets of Mumbai, capturing life and energy that had always surrounded him. But this time, he wasn't clicking pictures for the heck of it. For the first time, he put his heart to work.

Weeks became months, and Arjun just grew more into the passion for photography. Work was polished, more purposeful, and soon people noticed his work. He began posting some of his photographs online, and before long, he was being invited to come and show off his work in galleries all across the city. It seemed as if each step forward was a step into a future that did not seem possible—a future that his father always believed he would have.

The day finally arrived when Arjun exhibited his own gallery show. His photographs adorning the walls depicted Mumbai, people, and places that had formed his existence. Still, there, in between his photographs, were the sketches from his father’s journal. Arjun had made sure to get it framed as part of the show. For, after all, he knew this is much his father’s journey too-just as much as it was his own.

On exhibit night, the gallery was full of people, who had come there for purely aesthetic purposes. And he saw only one person that night. Vijay, limping from the injury, stepped into the gallery and looked around the room. And when his eyes chanced upon the sketches exhibited near Arjun’s photographs, he halted his steps. His eyes widened as if in shock, then slowly gained sentimentality.

He went to one of the sketches—his own work, unfinished and badly drawn, but proudly hung up there for all to see. He turned to Arjun, his voice low and shaky. “You—”

“I just followed the dream you showed me, Dad,” Arjun said, his voice warm.

Vijay couldn’t help but turn to his son and finally, with his heart swelling in swellings of pride and gratitude, through watery tears. “You’ve been proud of me,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Arjun smiled back at him. “I only followed the dream you showed me, Dad.”.

At that moment, father and son stood together, not merely as family but as two artists finally returning to the magic that adorned the canvas of their dreams. Years were washed away by tension and misunderstandings, but what remained with was the unseen bond always there beneath the surface.

They went their separate ways but led to the same destination: one to where dreams, love, and understanding can live together.

.    .    .