The Power of the Dream?

6th April, 1990: A child is born in West Mumbai. Another in West California.

Just your average kids, brown hair, brown eyes, cute smile. Their relatives see them, kiss them. Their futures are speculated, their facial features analysed and matched. Two happy families.

6th April, 1994: Both turn four. One has picked up a paintbrush, the other a book. One makes rough, bright, haphazard lines on white paper, the other, a poem about the family dog. Both are praised, encouraged.

6th April, 1999: Both turn nine. Well into their school life, they enjoy every moment. By now, one is an art geek, the other, a book fan. Their obsessions slightly ridiculed by their peers, they are nonetheless supported.

6th April, 2000: Both are encouraged to write bucket lists. "Paint all the world into one canvas", says one; the other, "Change the world with my words." Show this to their parents. Parents promise to make it happen. Both kids swear to hold them to it.

6th April, 2002: Their twelfth birthday dawns. Relatives well aware of their art, one rips open gifts containing canvases, oil painting guides, liquids of all hues and fresh white sheets; the other, brown leather-bound volumes with gold-embossed titles. Both rejoice. Both remind everyone of their dreams. 

6th April, 2005: The fifteenth birthday. By now, both have their dreams set in stone. Both sets of parents inspire, motivate and appreciate. Only one set says the dream is impossible to reach. Only one kid sighs with disappointment. 

6th April, 2008: Both kids create art like never before. Both now strong in their fields, both wish to conquer the stars. One goes off to art school, ears filled with words of encouragement and confidence. One goes off to a College of Commerce and Accountancy, much more invested in writing than in a prospective career. 

6th April, 2012: Both graduate. Both have refined their art to near perfection. Both know that a carefully placed drawing, or a single sonnet can change the world. One of them is scared, however. Scared of his talent. Scared of society, and scared of poverty. One of them never shows his writing to anyone, ever again. The other one enjoys the attention, the limelight and the appreciation. Emboldened by society, he aims for the sky.

6th April, 2020: Both are happy. Families of their own. One struggles to make ends meet. The other's is far more successful. If we're speaking of money, that is.

6th April, 2028: One's work frequents art galleries. The other's? The bottom of people's files.

6th April, 2032: One lives in a two-bedroom apartment in South Jersey. The other, a multi-storeyed villa in New York City. A teenager walks up to the artist, hands him a roll of paper, says, "You inspired my childhood." The artist smiles, he feels his life's purpose fulfilled. The New Yorker returns home after a long day at work. His wife smiles, cooks him dinner. He writes a story before going off to sleep.

6th April, 2042: Both hit middle-age. Both remain happy. One because he's the world's 4th Richest Man, the other because his art matters. 

6th April, 2062: The artist dies in bankruptcy. He's mourned by family and close friends. His tombstone lies in a wayside graveyard, visited by few. It reads, "RIP, Henry Cook. Your art mirrored suffering and joy alike. You impacted the world without it ever knowing."

The accountant had died a few months ago. He was given a state funeral, attended by celebrities and Senate members. His tombstone, polished and glistening, read, "RIP, ", the name was soiled over, ",Accountant."