Arjun was in his early forties, a man who often felt like he was sprinting through life while carrying too many bags. On one shoulder sat his demanding IT career, full of deadlines and meetings that never seemed to end. On the other was his family—his 10-year-old son Aarav, full of endless questions and energy, and Meera, his wife, who kept the home and his world stitched together with quiet strength.
He loved them deeply. Everything he did—the late nights, the endless calls, the exhaustion—was for them. And yet, in the rare quiet moments, he felt a small ache inside. Something was missing.
Once upon a time, he was the guy with a camera slung around his neck, stopping to capture strangers’ smiles, the glow of a streetlamp, or the messy chaos of a Sunday bazaar. He was also the guy who filled notebooks with stories—scribbles about people he observed, or little pieces of fiction born during long train rides. Photography and writing weren’t just hobbies; they were his way of breathing, of staying connected to himself.
Now, the camera lay forgotten in a cupboard. The notebooks gathered dust. His days blurred between work and family, leaving no space for that version of Arjun who once lived for moments, not just responsibilities.
He often asked himself, is this what growing up really means—losing the things that once made you feel alive?
One evening, sitting on the balcony with tea in hand, Aarav came running with his school project: “My Father.” On the chart were words scrawled in uneven handwriting: “My papa works hard. He loves us. He used to like clicking photos but doesn’t get time now.”
Those words hit harder than any performance review ever could. Meera, who had been standing nearby, looked at him and said softly, “Maybe you need those things back, Arjun. Not just for you… for all of us.”
That night, as the ceiling fan hummed above him, Arjun thought about what she said. He realized it wasn’t about choosing between family, work, and his passions. It was about weaving them together, creating space instead of waiting for it to appear. He wanted Aarav to grow up seeing that adulthood didn’t mean giving up who you are. And he wanted Meera to see him smile again, not just out of duty but out of joy.
The next morning, he opened the cupboard, pulled out his old camera, and dusted it off. The weight of it in his hands felt familiar, grounding. He smiled—not because life was suddenly easy, but because he had decided something.
He would figure it out. For himself. For Meera. For Aarav.
The first frame of his new chapter had already been captured.
