By the time he turned twenty, he had failed the government exam twice.
He studied in the mornings and wrote in the evenings — secretly, in a tattered notebook, behind locked doors.
He filled over seven notebooks in two years. Fantasy tales. Sci-fi dramas. A horror-thriller based on his old neighborhood. He poured his heart into every word.
"One day, they'll read this. One day, I'll prove I'm not wasting time."
But reality was louder.
One year ago, Rohan was sitting in his room, writing one of his fictions when his younger sister Priya walked in.
"Brother, what are you doing?" she asked. She was four years younger than him.
"The food is ready, mother's calling you."
"Yeah," he replied without looking up, still writing.
At the dining table, Rohan didn't touch his food. He kept staring at his plate.
"What's the matter? Why aren't you eating?" his father asked, chewing rice.
"Ahh… Father…" Rohan said. "Can I ask you something?" His voice was soft. Eyes still on his plate.
"Yeah? What is it?" his father replied.
Rohan lifted his head slightly, a faint smile on his lips.
"You always say that a dream is what gives purpose to life… and that working on that dream is what life truly means, right?"
"Yeah," his father nodded.
Rohan breathed in gently.
"Then please… just let me live my life… chasing the one thing that makes me feel alive."
The atmosphere shifted.
The air grew heavy.
Mother and father stopped eating midway. They looked at each other.
Priya already knew what Rohan meant by that, because she was the only one who truly knew his heart.
"What do you mean? Rohan, what are you talking about?" his father asked, confused — an unknown fear haunting him inside, as if something irreversible was about to happen that night.
"I want to write. I want to be a writer, Father. I want to tell my stories to the world."
That was the first dream he ever whispered out loud.
Not to friends.
Not to the world.
To his father. His mother. At the dinner table.
With nervous hands clenching the hem of his old school t-shirt, and hope burning quietly in his eyes.
But dreams, in that house, were luxuries. Writing was not a career. It was a distraction.
"Stories? What kind of stories are you going to tell?" his father asked.
"All kinds. I've written all kinds — movies, series, so many. My dream is to show them to the world."
"Stop talking nonsense," his mother sighed. "Nobody cares about those kinds of things. They're not going to feed you. Clear the government exam first. Then do whatever you want."
Rohan had already expected that outcome.
Because of the generation gap.
Because his parents weren't educated.
Because in their eyes, government jobs were the only road to happiness.
They didn't understand how different the world had become — how many other paths there were to live a full, comfortable life.
He didn't expect them to accept his dream, but he still hoped.
"Rohan, I'm happy you have a dream, but… writing stories and movies? I know where this dream came from — watching those actors and stars."
No, that's not true. I'm not looking up to them… Rohan thought.
"Why not dream about becoming a police officer? IAS? IPS? Having those dreams is understandable. You'll get a high salary, respect, a secured future. Even your family's future will be taken care of."
"But writing? That's not made for people like us," his father continued as he stood up. "Focus on your government exam. Don't waste time on such things."
Rohan stared at his plate that night.
The rice was cold.
He didn't cry.
He just… stopped talking about his dream after that night.