Painting was his hobby

He was busy painting the serenity outside. Painting was his hobby. But he couldn’t
leave apart the ashtray beside the tray of colors. He was addicted. He was well aware
of its consequences but addiction is sticky. He was the elder brother trying to leave
behind footsteps for his little sister who was sitting just beside him with her drawing
copy and crayons.
Life was easy till he fell into the prey. Mother appreciated the lively, studious boy
he was. Father tried to meet his demands. The early morning scenes, when he was a
school going lad, was not the chaotic one but the pleasant hymn singing scenario;
the obedient boy that he was.
Even the influence of friends could not drag him to the bad, but the loss of Mother
was unbearable. Father thought providing the materialistic was enough but he
desired more of love and compassion. He couldn’t connect and communicate with
his innocent sister who longed for her brother’s company.
Depression sucks. The teacher’s rebuke at college, Father’s taunts at home, sister’s
fallen face, all summed up to make him a prey to the evil. Skipping meals, shocking
wake ups at midnight, lying down in a corner, shedding tears unintended were its
consequences.
Realization takes time. He started realizing late in his early 30s, where he should
have been an established painter but ended up instead on being a severe drug addict.
Father was well aware. Rehabilitation centers were not fruitful as the love of a
mother cannot be replaced.
When he started painting the picture of Mother one fine winter morning , he was
overwhelmed to feel her just in front of his eyes, talking to him, shuffling his hair ,
singing for him and lastly, making him realize the marvelous acceptable beauty of
life. He felt life returning to him.
Its never too late for a better transformation.