Remember the first time you won a prize for your painting in the competition held in your neighborhood? Or that time when your act in the school Christmas play was praised by all? Remember the sheer joy you felt then? That feeling of being on top of the world?
When did you stop feeling proud of yourself?
Years have passed and the competition has changed. Now it's no longer sufficient to score an B grade in that maths test. Your father doesn't understand your obsession with literature. To him, writing never payed bills. And no matter how hard you try, you can't make him see your passion. Mother says passion is for rich people. Not for you and me, we need to earn to make sure the economy doesn't wipe us out.
So you try. You try with all you got. You study till your head feels like it's about to burst and your eyes complain of overstraining. But somehow it's not enough. It's never enough. Your cousin's marks are always higher and Sharma uncle's son never fails to make you feel inferior.
Your father paid two lakhs for your education. And what you gave him in return was a rank in lakhs. Such an ungrateful child. You wonder if it's going to be the same always. If the suffering is ever going to end. If you'll ever not feel that you're not good enough. If you'll ever be allowed to experience the happiness you feel when you choreograph a dance routine while no one's home.
I haven't seen the future but someone had once told me, "if it isn't happy, it's not the end." And you, my boy, are going to be happy someday. One day you'll wake up and the burden on your shoulder will seem as light as feather. One day the birds will sing extra sweet and children will smile the widest smile you've ever seen. Maybe you won't have the future you're looking for. But baby, most of the times things do not go as planned. And I know that whatever obstacle comes your way, you have the courage to make the best out of every situation.