THE BLOODY PIGMENT

THE BLOODY PIGMENT.....

"Arjun's Prism" a exclusive "By Invitation Only" art gallery nestled in a narrow lane of Versova covered by the swaying Palm trees and facing the Bombay sea. The gallery was pristine white, but "The Creation of the Womb" felt like a bruise on the wall. It was a chaotic swirl of deep crimson and oily blacks, pulsating with a strange, wet energy that made Aditi’s stomach turn. To her, it looked like a surgical nightmare which was bloody, visceral, and raw. It was something that should have been hidden away in a dark basement. But Advait stood frozen, his eyes glazed as if he were looking into the face of a long-lost lover, he was literally sinking into the wet layers of the canvas.

Arjun, their college friend, beamed with pride, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes, he looked exhausted, as if the art were draining him. "He’s a genius, Advait," Arjun whispered, his voice sounding hollow and metallic in the quiet room. "Balram doesn’t just paint; he captures things... things that don't want to be caught." Aditi felt a sudden chill crawl up her spine.

"I will buy it," Advait said as if had been hypnotized. "It's for 85000.00 Advait," Arjun smirked and said. "Don't worry," Advait replied without taking his eyes off fromthe swirls. The swirls seemed to be drowning him. Aditi was surprised, "Advait you would pay 85k for this blotch?" Advait looked at him with his red pupils glowing. Aditi stepped back afraid. Although the price tag of Rs. 85,000.00 was a drop in the bucket for them, but she would have paid double just to have the canvas burned and the ashes scattered in the sea.

"Advait you should meet Balram as he would hand over the painting to you, that's his way with the clients" Arjun said. The meeting with Balram took place in a cramped, windowless back room that smelled of turpentine and rotting flowers. Balram looked as if he had been hollowed out, his skin color was of old parchment and his fingernails stained with crusty red. When he shook Advait’s hand, Aditi noticed that his grip did not just hold him, but it seemed to cling, his long fingers wrapping around Advait’s wrist like a vine. He was "off" in a way that defied logic, moving with a jerky, unnatural grace which made her pulse race and a strong desire to run away from that room.

"You feel it, don't you? The pull of the origin?" Balram's voice  sounding like the dry leaves dancing on the stone of a grave. Advait nodded slowly, his usual sharp wit and skepticism replaced by a hollow, haunting devotion. He was not just buying a painting, but it appeared he was surrendering to it, his eyes tracking every movement of Balram’s stained hands. Aditi tried to pull him away, but Advait’s skin felt unnaturally cold, his muscles rigid and unresponsive to her touch, as if he was turning into stone.

As they spoke, the air in the room grew heavy and thick, making it hard for Aditi to breathe, and the air in the room smelled faintly old blood. Balram began describing his process of painting, talking about "life-blood" and "the bridge between the seen and the unseen," his eyes never leaving Advait’s. Every word felt like a spiral being woven into the air. Aditi could not make out any sense of his talks, to her horror, Advait did not just agree to buy the first painting but he signed a contract for three more, his signature was shaky, jagged, and unrecognizable on the paper. 

That night, "The Creation of the Womb" hung in their bedroom, and the silence of the house became deafening and predatory. Aditi lay awake, watching the crimson oils shift, the shapes on the canvas seemingly rearranging themselves when she blinked. She could hear the faint, rhythmic thumping coming from the wall, a heartbeat, slow, wet, and heavy. Beside her, Advait breathed in perfect sync with the painting, his chest rising and falling in a terrifying, mechanical rhythm. He was no longer dreaming his own dreams.

Within a week, Advait began to change physically, his vitality leaking out of him like water from a cracked jar. He stopped eating, his face had turned pale and the skin  had lost it's luster, mirroring the translucent complexion of Balram. He spent hours staring at the wall where the three new paintings were supposed to be hung, he would  whisper to the empty space in a language which Aditi could not understand. When she tried to scream for help or call a doctor, her voice came out as a raspy, thin whistle, as if the air was being sucked out of her lungs by an invisible, hungry force.

The second painting arrived at midnight, delivered by a silent Arjun who refused to look Aditi in the eye and fled before she could speak. It was titled "The Severing," and it depicted a figure that looked remarkably like Advait, his shadow being peeled away from his body by a dozen clawed, translucent hands. It was then Aditi realized that Balram was not just painting fantasies but he was painting a countdown to her husband's disappearance, documenting the theft of Advait's soul in oil and pigment.

By the time the third painting was due, Advait was a mere ghost in his own home, a hollow shell of the man she loved. He no called out Aditi's name, his eyes reflecting only the dark, swirling void of the canvases which lined their walls like open wounds. Aditi found the contract in his study, and her heart stopped when she touched the paper. The ink was not black but a fading, metallic brown, the exact color of dried blood. The "price" was not just the money they had paid, it was a total transfer of essence from the living to the canvas.

On the final night, Balram appeared at their door without being called, his presence bringing a freezing fog into the house. He did not need a key, the house seemed to open for him like the wound. He walked into the bedroom where Advait sat cross-legged on the floor, his skin now the same parchment-gray as the artist's. As Balram touched the final canvas, Advait’s body simply collapsed like an empty suit of clothes. The painting was no longer empty; it showed a man trapped behind a layer of oil, his face pressed against the surface, screaming in a silence that would last forever.

Aditi was pained and afraid with the turn of events. Overcoming her fear and driven by desperation she grabbed the heavy brass lamp in the room and swung it at the final canvas, expecting the fabric to tear. Instead, the surface felt like rubbery flesh, absorbing the blow with a thud. Across the room, Balram did not even flinch, he simply turned his head with a slow, predatory grace, his eyes now glowing red. "You cannot break what has already been integrated, Aditi," he whispered, his voice deep, slow and vibrating through the air in the room. "Advait is not in the room anymore. He is the pigment. He is the medium. He is finally eternal."

Panic gripped her, and she ran for the front door, her mind racing toward the only person she thought could help. She scrambled to her car and sped toward Arjun’s apartment, her hands shaking so violently that she could barely steer. She banged his apartment door till he opened it, sobbing, begging him to call the police or some kind of exorcist. But as she entered his living room, the air turned ice-cold. Arjun was sitting at a large mahogany table, bathed in the flickering light of thirteen black candles. He was meticulously cleaning a set of silver brushes, his face devoid of the warmth she had known for years.

"I knew you would come here, Aditi," Arjun said, his voice devoid of emotion. He stood up, and for the first time, she noticed the symbol branded into the hollow of his throat, a twisted, umbilical knot that matched the signature on Balram’s paintings. He was not a victim of the art but he was the scout. "Do you think a man like Balram finds his subjects by accident? He is the Hand, but I am the Eye. I find the souls with the right frequency, the ones hungry enough, like Advait, to let us in."

Horror enveloped her as Arjun revealed the truth: they were members of The Gilded Shroud, an occult tribe that believed true immortality could only be achieved by trapping living consciousness within "The Eternal Gallery." Arjun had spent years befriending them, waiting for the moment Advait’s internal spark was bright enough to harvest. "Every painting Balram finishes feeds the tribe," Arjun explained, stepping closer. "We don't just take lives; we preserve them in a state of perpetual, conscious equilibrium. Advait is part of something much larger now. He is the foundation of our Master’s next work."

Suddenly, the shadows in the corners of Arjun's room began to thicken and stretch, taking the jagged shapes of the figures from "The Severing." Aditi backed away, but the door behind her slammed shut and the locks turned by themselves. From the darkness, Balram stepped out, carrying a fresh, blank canvas that seemed to pulse with a faint heartbeat. "The contract Advait signed had a hidden clause," Balram spoke with a coarse voice, his stained fingers twitching with excitement. "A soul is never complete without its mirror. He is calling for you from inside the red oil, Aditi. He is lonely in the dark."

The two men closed in on her, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed ritual. Aditi now realized with terror that her repulsion toward the painting had not been a warning to save Advait, but it had been the very thing that marked her as the perfect "contrast" for the collection. As Arjun held her arms with a strength that felt supernatural, Balram dipped a brush into a jar of dark, viscous fluid. As the first stroke of wet paint touched her forehead, she felt her bones begin to soften and her voice dissolve, her reality narrowing down to a single, terrifying point of oil and canvas.

The transition was not a sudden snap, but a slow, agonizing dissolution of her physical form. Aditi felt her skin turn into a thick, tacky substance, her screams muffling as if she were being submerged in heavy syrup. Inside the canvas, the world was a distorted nightmare of smeared colors and suffocating heat. She found herself standing in a landscape made of dried leaves and flowing ink, where the sky was a bruised purple and the ground vibrated with the collective moans of a thousand trapped souls. Then, she saw him - Advait was standing a short distance away, his body translucent and flickering like a dying candle, his eyes wide with and devoid of the sparkle.

They reached for each other, but their hands passed through one another like smoke. "Aditi," he whispered, the sound vibrating through the very fabric of the painting. "We are not just art... we are the fuel." As they huddled together in the crimson gloom, the "sky" above them peeled back like an eyelid. Through the transparent layer of the varnish, they could see the "Real World" magnified and distorted. Balram and Arjun stood over the canvas, their faces looming like giant moons. They were laughing, their voices booming like thunderclaps that vibrated and shook the very foundations of the painted world.

Aditi realized that the only way to fight back was to manipulate the medium they were trapped in. She discovered that by focusing her intense rage and grief, she could make the paint around her boil and shift. She reached into the "ground". the deep, dark pigments of the lower layers and began to pull at the strokes Balram had laid down. If they were the paint, then they were also the weapon. She grabbed a streak of sharp dried oil and felt it harden into a blade in her hand. "Advait, help me!" she cried. "If we can't leave, we will tear this world from the inside out!"

Together, they began a frantic, rhythmic assault on the boundaries of their prison. They did not just move but they tore at the brushstrokes, ripping through the "Creation of the Womb" and bleeding into the neighboring canvases. They surged through the painted landscape of the damned, causing the paintings on the walls of the physical room to blister and weep. Outside, Balram’s triumphant smile vanished. He watched in horror as his masterpieces began to liquefy, the expensive oils running down the walls like melting wax. The "perfect" subjects were no longer behaving as  they should have instead they were a riot of color and fury.

The gallery air turned toxic as the scent of the occult oils filled the room. Arjun tried to stabilize the canvases, his branded throat glowing with a flickering light, but the power of two souls acting in unison was too much for the ritual to contain. The frames began to crack under the pressure of Aditi and Advait’s combined will. A sharp tear appeared in the center of the final painting, and instead of more paint, a cold, unnatural wind began to howl from the breach. The "Gilded Shroud" had never accounted for a love that refused to be curated.

With a sound like a gunshot, the final canvas exploded. The force of the spiritual decompression threw Balram and Arjun against the white walls, pinning them there as the swirling, angry pigments engulfed them. For a second Aditi and Advait stood in the center of the room, their forms glowing with a blinding, divine light. They were not fully human, and they weren't quite paint but they were something new, a powerful energy born of the canvas. As the gallery began to burn with a fire that consumed only the art, they turned toward the insane cultists, ready to show them what "eternal life" truly felt like.

A BEAUTIFUL MESS

 

A Beautiful Mess........

Advait felt like a puzzle with no solution, and he was sick and tired of people trying to solve him. Every time he spoke about his struggles, he could see the machines whirring in people's heads, ready to dish out the right advice, the perfect answer that would make everything neat and tidy again. But life wasn't a five-star hotel, where everything would be neat and organized. He was like any other normal human being, a bit different. He had his mood swings, his sadness one day was not the same as his sadness the next. His anger was a fleeting storm, and his joy a bird that would perch for a moment and then fly away. He was a creature of constant change, and longed for someone to see him not as a problem to be fixed, but to be able to appreciate his chaos.

He remembered a past relationship where every conversation felt like a diagnostic session. His ex would say, "I know what you need," or "You just do this, and it will be sorted." He felt a tightening in his chest every time, a suffocating feeling of being seen through a lens of judgment and expectation. She was looking for the finished painting, not the crooked lines and the messy canvas. She wanted him to be a still photograph, not a moving film. He knew her intentions were good, but it made him feel more and more like a failure. He was always disappointing her by not staying in one emotional phase long enough for her to "solve" him.

Then came Aditi. She was different from the very beginning. One evening, Advait was sitting on his couch, a bunch of thoughts tangled in his brain. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to hear any advices. As Aditi entered the room, she saw Advait sitting and immediately sensed his feelings. She simply sat down beside him, not saying a word, put her hand over his shoulder. She didn't ask "What's wrong?" or try to cheer him up with a silly joke. She just existed in the silence with him, her presence a soft blanket of acceptance. It was the first time in a long time he didn't feel the pressure to explain himself or to be okay.

After a few minutes, the dam broke, and he began to pour, his voice soft and raw. "It's not one thing," he said, looking at the floor. "I feel like I'm a different person every hour. My problems are like clouds, they evaporate and reform and change shape. And every time I try to talk about them, people are looking for the permanent sun. I'm not the same person I was an hour ago, or a minute ago. Are we not two shape-shifters looking at each other." Advait was probably looking for a validation. Aditi listened without interruption, her gaze gentle. When he finished, she didn't offer a solution. She just put her hand on his, her touch a grounding warmth. "I know," she said quietly. "I feel it too. My anxiety today is a sharp, jagged stone, but tomorrow it might just be blunt. It's a mess, isn't it? But a beautiful mess. I don't want to solve you, Advait. I don't want to fix your clouds. I just want to watch them with you."

Her words were soothing, like a balm on a painful head. He realized that all this time, he had been fighting himself, trying to become the person others wanted him to be, stable, predictable, and fixed. But here was Aditi, telling him that his constant evolution was not a flaw, but a part of him to be cherished. He looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time, not as a mirror but as a connected soul. 

She was not trying to describe him; she simply accepted him. That night, for the first time ever, Advait felt truly seen. He was not judged, nor advised. The heavy knot in his brain hadn't completely disappeared, but it felt lighter, less suffocating. He understood now that he didn't need to be solved.

He just needed to be accepted and appreciated for the mess that he would always be. And in Aditi, he had found someone who could do just that, with a quiet strength that was more powerful than any answer.

THE MAZE OF LIFE

 

The maze of Life......

Advait never meant to enter the maze. He stepped inside on a quiet afternoon, searching for a moment of peace from the noise inside his own heart. The hedges rose around him like ancient guardians. They were tall, breathing, almost sacred. When he paused, the silence settled over him. And in that stillness, he felt a truth rising from somewhere deep within: life had always been a maze… he had just never slowed down enough to feel its mystery.

He ran his fingers along the leaves. The walls felt like symbols, of his fears, his memories, his unspoken hopes. He couldn’t see the full shape of the maze. He didn’t know where the path bent or why it suddenly stopped. So he kept his eyes lowered, searching for the next safe step. Something inside him whispered, Walk. Not loudly, not hurriedly, just a soft, steady call. And he followed it. Maybe that quiet inner voice is the thread that guides our soul forward.

As he walked, Advait imagined how peaceful life would feel if he could rise above the maze and float like a bird, see the whole pattern, understand every twist. From that height, every delay would look like divine timing. Every mistake would look like a lesson placed gently in his path. But life keeps us close to the earth. It teaches us slowly, like a patient sage, revealing one truth at a time.

There were days when Advait felt trapped. He walked in circles, returned to old wounds, repeated the same fears. He wondered why life kept sending him the same lessons. He looked at others and thought their paths were straighter, brighter, easier. But he forgot that every soul walks through a different design. Some wander through long shadows. Some through sharp turns. Some through storms that no one else can see.

One day, as he reached a dead end. A wall so tall it felt like the end of his story. He sat down, exhausted, and whispered, “Maybe this is where I stop.” But the maze stayed silent, as if inviting him to listen deeper. And in that silence, he felt a soft truth rise inside him - no one is ever truly lost. Sometimes we are simply standing at a turn that hasn’t revealed its purpose yet. So he placed a hand on his heart, breathed slowly, and took one more step. That single step opened a new path, as if the maze had been waiting for him to take that step.

As he moved forward, he began noticing signs. The sunlight falling through leaves like blessings, strangers appearing like messengers, failures shaping him like a sculptor shaping stone. And slowly, something miraculous began to happen: the maze started rising.  The walls lifted inch by inch, as if the universe itself wanted him to see more than just the road beneath his feet.

When Advait finally reached the center, he stopped. The walls had risen high enough for him to see the entire pattern - clear, complete, breathtaking. The twists that once frightened him, the blocks that frustrated him, the detours that confused him… they all formed a beautiful mandala like design. A pattern he could never have understood while walking through it. Every struggle had strengthened him. Every delay had protected him. Every detour had guided him toward the person he was meant to become.

And in that sacred moment, Advait understood the spiritual truth of life:
We spend so much time staring at the road, trying to escape the maze,
that we forget to rise above and see the beauty of the whole design.

We don’t find our way because we know the map.
We find it because we keep moving with a steady, trusting heart   until the maze lifts,
and life reveals its hidden pattern, shining softly, like a blessing from above.

THE COOK

 

The Cook.....

Aditi sat propped up against the pillows, her back aching not just from the surgery, but from the unaccustomed stillness. For more than three decades, the kitchen had been her kingdom. She knew exactly how much salt her husband liked and just how crispy her son wanted his parathas. Now, she felt like an exiled queen watching someone else walk into her palace.

Anjali entered with a cheerful clink of glass bangles. "Didi, aaj kya banaana hai?" she asked, her voice bright and ready. She was a thin woman with quick movements, a contrast to Aditi’s current forced slowness. Aditi felt a pang of jealousy. That should be her standing there, tying her apron and lighting the stove.

Aditi pulled out a small notebook where she had scribbled every detail. "Anjali, listen carefully," she began, her voice firm. "The dal must be soaked for exactly twenty minutes. Don't use the pressure cooker for more than three whistles. And remember, the mustard seeds must crackle completely before you add the curry leaves." Anjali nodded, though her eyes showed a hint of confusion. She had been cooking for families for a decade, usually left to her own instincts. To her, cooking was a rhythm, not a set of rigid rules. However, she saw the desperation in Aditi’s eyes and chose to stay silent, accepting the long list of "do's and don'ts."

As the sounds of chopping and sautéing drifted from the kitchen, Aditi sat in the bedroom, her ears strained. She could smell the oil heating up. "Is she using too much?" she wondered. She winced at the sound of a heavy spoon clattering against the kadhai. In her mind, she was standing right there, correcting Anjali’s grip.

Anjali, meanwhile, felt like a student taking a difficult exam. She wanted to add a pinch of garam masala, her secret touch, but remembered Aditi’s strict instruction: "Only cumin and turmeric." She felt stifled. Her hands, which usually moved with a life of their own, now felt clumsy and hesitant. The kitchen, usually a place of warmth and aroma, felt tense. Anjali followed the "whistle count" religiously, staring at the cooker. She measured the water with a cup instead of her usual practiced eye. She was so focused on following the map that she forgot to enjoy the journey of the meal.

When lunch was finally served, the family gathered around the table. Aditi watched from the distance, leaning on her walker. There was a heavy silence as her husband took the first bite of the dal. He chewed slowly, his expression neutral. Her son picked at the vegetables, looking for the familiar charred edges his mother always mastered. The food was... fine. But it wasn't "Aditi’s food." The dal was perfectly cooked by the clock, yet it lacked the soul of a slow-simmered meal. The vegetables were exactly as instructed, but they tasted like a checklist rather than a dish. Anjali stood in the corner, wiping her hands on her dupatta, sensing the disappointment.

Aditi felt a tear prick her eye. She realized that by forcing Anjali to be a puppet, she had squeezed the life out of the food. She had tried to transfer her own "magic" through a set of cold instructions, failing to realize that cooking is an art of the heart, not just a manual of motions.

This small incident in the kitchen reflects a deeper truth about our lives. We often try to control every variable in our environment, believing that if people just followed our "script," everything would be perfect. We treat our relationships and our work like recipes, forgetting that the most beautiful results often come from the ingredients we didn't plan for.

Control is frequently an illusion we cling to when we feel vulnerable. Just as Aditi used instructions to mask her helplessness after surgery, we use micromanagement to mask our fears of being replaced or forgotten. But true mastery lies in letting go. When we stifle others with our rigid expectations, we prevent them from bringing their own unique light into our lives.

Life is not a series of "whistles" and "measurements." It is a fluid, breathing process. If we insist on everyone playing their part exactly as we’ve written it, we end up with a performance that is technically correct but emotionally empty. The "perfect" life is often the one where we allow for a little bit of mess, a little bit of "too much salt," and a lot of someone else's perspective.

In the end, the most nourishing meals and the most fulfilling lives are those seasoned with trust. To be "fed" is a physical act, but to be "nourished" is a spiritual one. We must learn to give others the space to fail, to experiment, and to contribute. Only when we stop holding the spoon so tightly can we truly taste the richness of the world around us.

Two months later, the doctor finally gave Aditi the green light to move freely. The surgical scars had faded to thin silver lines, and the strength had returned to her legs. But as she walked into the kitchen on a sunny Tuesday morning, she didn’t reclaim it with the territorial fire she once had. Instead, she found Anjali already there, sorting through a pile of fresh vegetables, preparing the base for the next meal. 

"Anjali, wait," Aditi said softly. Anjali froze, her hand halfway to the spice box, expecting a correction or a critique. But Aditi simply pulled up a stool and sat beside her. "Don't follow my notebook today. Show me how you are used to making this dal in your style. I want to taste your home today."

Anjali’s face transformed. A wide, genuine smile broke across her features, and her movements suddenly lost their stiffness. She began to work with a rhythmic grace that Aditi hadn't seen before. She didn't use a measuring cup; she felt the weight of the lentils in her palm. She didn't count the whistles; she smelled the steam to know when the pulse was tender.

Aditi watched, helping only when asked, peeling a clove of garlic here, stirring a pot there. She realized that by stepping back, she wasn't losing her place in the house; she was gaining a partner. The kitchen was no longer a kingdom to be guarded, but a shared space of creation. The air didn't feel heavy with "instructions" anymore; it felt light with conversation and the sizzle of shared effort.

When the family sat down for lunch, the aroma was different, it was bolder, earthier, and vibrant. As her husband took a bite, his eyes widened in surprise. "This is incredible," he remarked. "It’s different from yours, Aditi, but it’s wonderful in its own way." Aditi smiled, meeting Anjali’s eyes across the counter.

The meal was a success because it contained the one ingredient no manual can provide: the freedom to be oneself. Aditi learned that her value didn't come from being the only one who could cook, but from her ability to appreciate the flavors others brought to the table. In letting go of the "right way," she discovered a "better way". A way one paved with grace, humility, and the joy of a shared life.

SEAT NUMBER 38

 

Seat Number 38.....

The train rattled along the tracks, carrying Advait, Aditi, and little Aryan on a long twenty-hour journey. The air was filled with the rhythmic sound of the wheels and the steady chatter of travelers settling into their seats. While most adults were preparing for the long haul by unfolding blankets and opening snacks, three-and-a-half-year-old Aryan was just getting started with his own adventure.

Aryan was a bundle of pure energy and curiosity. With his bright eyes and wide smile, he turned the narrow train aisle into his own personal playground. He didn't see strangers; he only saw potential friends. Within the first few hours, he had already greeted almost everyone in the compartment, earning cuddles, gentle pats and a few treats from fellow passengers who couldn't help but fall for his bubbly charm.

In the middle of this lively scene sat a man on seat number 38. He looked to be about fifty-five years old, traveling all by himself. He spent most of the time staring out the window, his face etched with a quiet sadness, as if he were lost in a world of heavy thoughts. He seemed to be a thousand miles away from the noise and laughter of the train compartment.

As Aryan made his rounds, he eventually stopped near seat 38. The man looked down and noticed the little boy standing there, looking up with pure expectation. Slowly, as if waking from a deep dream, the man reached out and gave Aryan a gentle, tentative pat on the back. It was a small, polite gesture, but for a child like Aryan, it was a golden invitation.

Without a second thought, Aryan did something that surprised everyone: he climbed right onto the man’s lap. The man froze for a second, his hands hovering in the air. He wasn't prepared for such a direct burst of affection from a stranger’s child. He looked around nervously, perhaps wondering if the parents would mind or if he should put the boy back down on the floor.

But then, Aryan leaned back against the man's chest as if he had known him for a lifetime. The man’s stiff shoulders finally dropped, and the tension in his face softened into a smile. The icy wall of loneliness around him seemed to melt away instantly. He wrapped his arms around the child, and in that moment, a deep, silent bond was formed between two people from completely different generations.

For the next several hours, the two were inseparable. They looked through Aryan’s picture books together, with the man pointing out animals and reading stories in a soft, kind voice. Later, Aryan sat focused and quiet as he played a simple game on the man’s mobile phone. The man watched him with a gaze full of warmth and pride, looking very much like a grandfather watching his own kin.

Advait and Aditi watched from their seats nearby, exchanging surprised and touched looks. They had seen their son be friendly before, but this was different. The man, who had looked so isolated and grey just an hour ago, was now glowing with life. It was as if Aryan had instinctively found a missing piece of the man’s heart and placed it back where it belonged.

The rest of the compartment grew quiet as the sun began to set, but the two of them remained in their own little world. The man seemed completely oblivious to the noise of the train or the other passengers, focused entirely on the small boy who had chosen him. It was a beautiful reminder that connections don’t care about age or history; sometimes, a child’s innocence is the only bridge needed.

As the train finally pulled into their station, it was time to say goodbye. The man handed Aryan back to his parents with a look of deep gratitude in his eyes. He didn't say much, but the way he held Aryan’s hand one last time said everything. They had started the journey as total strangers, but they left as long-lost friends, proving that a child’s simple love can heal a heart in ways words never can.

As the train slowed down and the platform lights flickered across their faces, a heavy silence settled between them. The man looked down at Aryan, who was now rubbing his sleepy eyes, unaware that their time together was coming to an end. For the man, those few hours had been a sanctuary, a brief escape from a life that had clearly become too quiet and too lonely. He realized then that while he had been entertaining the child, it was actually the child who had been saving him from his own thoughts.

When the train finally screeched to a halt, Advait and Aditi stepped forward to gather their bags and take Aryan’s hand. The man stood up slowly, his legs a bit stiff, but his expression was transformed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wooden keychain he had been carrying. With a trembling hand, he pressed it into Aryan’s tiny palm, whispering a soft "thank you" that was meant for more than just the company. It was a thank you for the reminder that he was still capable of feeling joy.

As the family walked down the narrow aisle toward the exit, Aryan turned back one last time to wave a frantic, chubby-handed goodbye. The man stood by seat 38, waving back until the little boy disappeared into the crowd on the platform. He sat back down in the now-empty space, but the coldness of the journey was gone. He leaned his head against the window, watching the family walk away, carrying with him a warmth that would last long after the train reached its final destination.

A few days later, the man sat in his quiet living room, the silence of his house feeling far less heavy than it once had. He looked at the empty space on his sofa and, for the first time in years, he didn’t see a void; instead, he remembered the weight of a small child sitting there, the sound of innocent laughter, and the way the light had caught Aryan’s curious eyes. He reached into his pocket and touched the smooth edge of his phone, half-expecting to see a sticky fingerprint or a bright game left open on the screen, a lingering ghost of their brief, beautiful friendship.

He realized that the encounter had changed the rhythm of his days. He found himself walking through the local park, watching children play and smiling back at strangers, no longer retreating into the shell of his own memories. The "long-lost friend" he had found on the train had taught him that the world was still full of light, if only he was willing to look up and see it. Aryan was miles away, likely onto his next big adventure, but the man felt as though he carried a piece of that bubbly spirit with him, a quiet promise that he was never truly alone as long as he kept his heart open.

As the man sat in the fading evening light, his mind drifted back to the tragedy that had cast a shadow over his life for nearly a decade. Years ago, he had been a different person - a father and a grandfather with a house full of noise and messy toys. But a tragic car accident on a rainy autumn evening had stolen his world away in an instant, taking his son, daughter-in-law and his young grandson. Since that day, the silence in his home had become a physical weight, a constant reminder of the voices he would never hear again and the futures that would never unfold.

He had spent years avoiding the gaze of children in parks or the aisles of grocery stores, because the sight of a small child was like a sharp needle to his heart. It reminded him too much of the grandson who would have been about ten years old by now. He had built a fortress of solitude to protect himself from the pain of remembering, believing that if he didn't let anyone in, he couldn't be hurt by the echoes of what he had lost. 

Seat number 38 had been his self-imposed exile, a place where he could be invisible. However, Aryan had done what no adult had been able to do; he had simply ignored the man's grief and climbed right over his defenses. When the boy had settled into his lap, the man had felt a familiar warmth he thought was gone forever. For a moment, the ghost of his own grandson seemed to merge with the lively child in his arms. The tragedy hadn't disappeared, but for the first time, it wasn't the only thing he felt. The heavy armor of his sorrow had finally cracked, letting in a sliver of much-needed light.

He remembered how he had hesitated when Aryan first approached, afraid that touching a child’s hand would break him into pieces. Instead, it had started to put him back together. He thought about the books they had read together on the train and realized that he hadn't spoken those kinds of gentle, playful words in years. The tragedy had silenced his voice, but Aryan had forced him to speak again, to laugh again, and to remember that his heart was still beating for a reason.

Now, looking at the sunset from his porch, the man didn't just see the end of another day; he saw the possibility of a new beginning. The grief was still there and it would always be there, but it no longer felt like a life sentence. He thought of the little wooden keychain he had given the boy, a small relic from his "old" life, and felt a sense of peace knowing it was out in the world with a child full of hope. He took a deep breath, the air feeling lighter than it had in a decade, and finally allowed himself to whisper the names of those he had lost, no longer with a wail of agony, but with a smile of quiet remembrance.

Back at the hotel, as Aditi was unpacking Aryan’s small backpack to find his pajamas, her hand brushed against something unfamiliar tucked into the side pocket. She pulled out a small, cream-colored envelope, slightly worn at the edges. Inside was a handwritten note, the script shaky but elegant. It wasn't just a thank-you note; it was a confession. The man from seat 38 had written, "Today, your son gave me back a world I thought was lost forever. I haven't smiled like this since I lost my own grandson ten years ago. Thank you for letting him sit with a stranger who desperately needed a friend."

Aditi felt a lump form in her throat as she called Advait over to read the words. Along with the note, there was a small, silver coin, an old collector’s piece carefully tucked into a tiny plastic sleeve. On the back of the sleeve, the man had scrawled: "For Aryan’s first piggy bank. May he never lose his light." The couple looked over at their son, who was already fast asleep, clutching the wooden keychain the man had given him earlier. They realized then that their long, tiring journey hadn't just been about reaching a destination; it had been a mission of healing they hadn't even known they were on.

Advait sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the silver coin glinting under the lamp. "We didn't even ask for his name," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. They felt a sudden, profound connection to this man whose tragedy they had unknowingly softened. The train ride, which they had initially viewed as a twenty-hour chore, now felt like a sacred interval in time. They understood that Aryan’s bubbly nature wasn't just a personality trait; it was a gift that had reached across a decade of sorrow to pull a drowning man back to the surface.

As they tucked the note into their travel journal to keep forever, they promised themselves to foster that kindness in Aryan as he grew. They looked at the silver coin and the wooden keychain as more than just objects; they were symbols of a bridge built between two souls in the middle of a crowded train. The man had arrived at his stop, and they at theirs, but the invisible thread between seat 38 and their family remained unbroken.

The next morning, the sun rose over a new city, but the echoes of the train journey stayed with them. Aryan woke up and immediately asked, "Where is my grandpa friend?" Aditi hugged him tight, tears pricking her eyes, and told him that his friend was home, happy and safe. She knew that somewhere, miles away, a man was waking up to a house that no longer felt quite so empty, carrying the memory of a little boy who had taught him how to live again.

Inspired by the warmth that Aryan had reignited in his soul, the man decided he could no longer sit in the silence of his own home. A week after the journey, he walked into a local community center and signed up to be a volunteer "reading grandfather" for underprivileged children. He realized that while he couldn't change the tragedy of his past, he could honor the memory of the grandson he lost by sharing his love with children who needed a fatherly figure. The walls he had built around himself were finally gone, replaced by the sound of storybooks and the tapping of small feet.

On his first day, as he sat in a circle with a group of wide-eyed toddlers, he felt a familiar tug on his sleeve. It reminded him so much of Aryan that he couldn't help but chuckle. For the first time in ten years, he didn't feel like a man defined by loss; he felt like a man defined by his capacity to give. He realized that grief is a heavy burden, but it becomes lighter when you use your hands to help someone else carry theirs.

In his pocket, he kept a small photo he had taken of Aryan playing on his phone, a blurred, candid shot that captured the child's pure focus. Every time he felt the old shadows of sadness creeping back, he would look at that photo and remember the twenty-hour train ride. He would remember that a three-year-old stranger had seen past his gray hair and his sad eyes to find the friend hidden underneath. It was a reminder that life is never truly over as long as there is love to be shared.

Thousands of miles away, Aryan grew older, and the silver coin stayed in a special box on his dresser. Though he was too young to remember the man's face or the details of the tragedy, he often told people about the "kind train man" who gave him his favorite keychain. The man’s legacy of kindness lived on in Aryan’s heart, shaping him into a compassionate young boy who always looked out for those sitting by themselves.

The connection that began on seat number 38 had created a ripple effect that neither of them could have predicted. One life was saved from the depths of despair, and another was taught the power of a simple gesture. In the end, the story of Advait, Aditi, Aryan, and the lonely traveler wasn't just about a trip on a train; it was a testament to the fact that no matter how long the journey or how dark the night, a little bit of light is always enough to find the way home.

THE LIGHT YOU NEVER SEE

 

The Light You Never See.....

The mirror is a quiet deceiver. Every morning, we stand before it, checking our reflections as if they hold the final truth of our existence. We see a nose, a pair of eyes, the curve of a chin, and we think, "This is me." But the mirror only shows the shell. It cannot show the way your spirit moves or the way your presence fills a room. It is a flat surface trying to hold a soul that is far too vast for glass to contain.

We often live our lives through the narrow lens of a camera, trying to capture the moments to prove we were there. We pose, and we smile, making sure the lighting is just right. But in doing so, we become a project rather than a person. The camera captures a version of you that is frozen and still, while the real you is a flowing river, ever-changing and alive. You are more than a static image; you are a living, breathing experience that no pixel can fully translate.

There is a specific kind of beauty that you will never witness in yourself, and it is perhaps your most honest form. It is the way your face lights up when you see a person you love walking towards you. At that moment, your eyes sparkle with a warmth that no digital filter can recreate. Your joy is written in the tiny lines around your eyes and the sudden softness of your smile. You are at your most radiant when you are looking at someone else, forgetting entirely about how you appear to the world.

Think of the things that set your soul on fire from within. When you talk about your favorite book, the one with the dog-eared pages that you keep safe like a secret. Your entire energy shifts. Your voice carries a weight and a melody that is unique only to you. You don't hear the passion in your own tone, but those listening do. They see the fire in your heart reflected in your words. You are not just a person talking; you are a vessel for the things you value most.

We are a collection of the places we have been and the songs that have carried us through the dark. You carry the rhythm of every street you have walked and the lyrics of every song that made you feel understood. These things become a part of your hidden DNA. You can't see these "melodies" when you look in the mirror, but they are the architecture of your character. They are what make you "YOU" when the lights go out and the world is quiet.

The great human fallacy is that we judge our worth based on moments where we are not actually being ourselves. We look at a blurry photo or a tired morning reflection and feel small. But these are the moments when we are most "virtual," most disconnected from our essence. We measure our value in the spaces where we are performing or resting, rather than the spaces where we are simply existing in the vibrant truth of our passions.

You are most beautiful when you forget that you are being watched. It is in the quiet focus of your work, the messy laughter over a shared meal, or the way you hum a tune while you're lost in thought. In these unscripted seconds, you are pure. You aren't trying to be pretty, or smart, or cool, you just are. This effortless existence is where your true self lives, tucked safely away from the judgment of the lens or the criticism of the mind.

We often forget that we are also made of our conversations. Every deep talk at midnight and every quick laugh with a stranger adds a layer to your soul. Your identity is a tapestry woven from the kindness you have given and the stories you have shared. You cannot see a conversation in a mirror, yet it is one of the most significant parts of your being. You are the echo of every "I love you" and every "tell me more" that you have ever uttered.

Life is not a product to be displayed; it is an adventure to be felt. The world tells us to curate our lives, to make them look a certain way for others to consume. But the most important parts of your life, the adventures that changed you and the feelings that awakened your spirit, are invisible to the eye. They are felt in the chest. They are the invisible marks of a life well-lived, and they carry more beauty than any physical trait ever could.
So, let go of the need to see yourself clearly through a lens. Trust that you are far more wonderful than any reflection could ever suggest. You are a masterpiece of light and shadow, of music and memory. While you may never see the way you glow when you are truly happy, remember that the world does. You are not meant to be looked at; you are meant to be known, to be loved, and to be truly, beautifully alive.