From The Broken Window

"From the broken window, he peeped out. The sky was nearly clear, and an abundance of kites coloured the horizon in the same way numerous dreams floated around in his mind. He found both very futile, as pursuing those dreams would require courage in an enrmous amount whose magnitude was unknown to him. And the kites meant nothing to him, as he was well aware of the fact that enjoying himself on weekends is merely another dream he can never pursue.

However, he was enthralled to see the vibrance of the kites. He recalled how he used to paint, using such vibrant colours, back when he had a family. He vaguely recalls hazy images of his parents, who died in an accident a year and a half ago. That is how he had landed up without a family, without money to pay the monthly rent, and hence without a shelter. That is how he ended up being a worker in the local hotel, with the assured luxury including three meals everyday, a room to sleep at night and the princlely payment of four hundred rupees at the end of each month. That is how he was compelled to let go of his studies, and, his dreams. Fourteen hours of daily duty did not allow him that sort of leisure.

Now, the only leisure he gifts himself is to stare out of the single window in his room and see everything that he misses. Young children in school uniforms. Kids playing around with bats and balls. The sound of laughter. The sunlight of hope. He painted all these images vividly in the canvas of his mind, and replayed them in desolate moments.

As the scream of the hotel-owner broke through his daydreaming, he stood up with a start, remembering how it's almost eight, and his duty is about to begin, He bid the window goodbye and became ready for another long, tiring day.

That very day during the afternoon, he left the shop, a hundred-rupees note in the pocket of the faded baggy pants he wore, and approached the nearby stationery shop to purchase a drawing copy, a few pencils and erasers and a set of pastel colours. This was the first instance in a very long time that he had used his own money, and he felt genuinely happy, which is a feeling almost obsolete for him. Later that night, after having a relaxing shower, he sat down on his bed and drew a picture of his family, which was once his most treasured possession. As he was filling the colours, he felt a spasm of excitement, which ordered him to go on in spite of the weariness. He realised that he had rediscovered his passion. After months, he went to sleep with a smile on his face.

Days after days, more artworks were created and carefully concealed from everybody else. But secrets are meant to be revealed, and the inevitable happened.

One fine evening, while he was busy in his room drawing a picture of a mother escorting her child to the school, he lost track of time. His deep thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud on his door, soon followed by the furious screams of the owner of the hotel, who was enraged by his sheer ignorance towards the only thing that is expected from his- carrying out his duty properly. On entering the room, he grabs the young boy's drawing book, and throws it out of the window, evidently infuriated by how the boy had been wasting his time.

He came back to his room late at night. It felt like something was missing from his room. A part of his soul, which had pined to be set free for months, and when it was finally set free, it left him once again, only making him realise how far were his dreams from him. He realised all of a sudden that no matter how many times he purchases a new copy and resumes his art, that is the beginning and ending limit of his aim. He can never leave his job and go on to have proper education and a career. Because while people read and criticise articles against child labour sitting in that very hotel, they call after him the very next moment only to rebuke for the food not being served on time or the table bearing specks of dirt here and there. Because while people raise their voice about human rights in friendly arguments, they themselves turn into an epitome of hypocrisy while it comes to taking actions in the practical world.

He glanced out of the window. Silent streets, as dark as the corners of his bruised heart. As lonely as each one of his hopes. The world seemed to him a large unfinished canvas, when someone like him began to paint it but left midway due to the similar kind of despair. Hopelessness became familiar to him. Helplessness greeted him like century-old companions. A drop of tear trickled down his cheek. With a loud burst of thunder, a heavy downpour started. Splashes of the rain enterd his room through the broken window and drenched his soul. That was the moment when he felt he should do what it takes to erase such miseries from other people's lives."

"And this, is my story", finishes Mr.Arun Sharma, the most demanded Indian painter of today. On the beginning of his own NGO to eradicate child labour and provide a better life to the orphans, he was handed over the mike to share a few words.

He continued, "I was determined to chase my dream and that was why I left work after a few years and spent all my savings to join the art school, where I was lucky enough to earn a scholarship. But for years, my ultimate dream was to make sure that no other child faces what I had to, that I can help them to let go of the fear and to bring out and nurture their dreams from the broken window of their heart."