The Dark Ink

FOR SOMEONE WHO HAS LOST EVERYTHING IN LIFE, WHAT WOULD YOU OFFER?

An elderly man in his seventies asked me this as I travelled home from Hyderabad. He sat quietly across from me, his presence unassuming yet impossible to ignore.

Wrinkled, ageing skin. Hazel brown eyes. A salt and pepper beard — perhaps dyed just enough to push time back a little.

His side parted, slicked back hair that screamed order and perfection matters. He had a peculiar sense of dressing, I sensed.

He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into his trousers. A sweater vest rested on him like a second skin. A brown leather watch with a golden dial adorned his overworked hand, paired perfectly with a matching belt and shoes.

A man who knew his style.
A man who still carried the quiet confidence that once made hearts flutter.

He extended his hand, steady and warm.

“I am Jai Prakash,” he said softly in a heavy voice. “A retired professor. And you?”

I met his hand with my own and smiled.
“Shruti,” I replied. “A dreamer.”

He laughed softly beneath his breath.
“You’re an interesting child.”

Then, gazing out the train window, he continued,

“For thirty-five years, I taught young dreamers how to taste life before the world taught them how to swallow it whole. Along with literature, of course.”

Who was Dev? A Dreamer Who Refused to Fade

He paused for a moment. He said, ” While everyone was busy excelling at their tasks, a young man named Dev understood what I meant. He was a dreamer with sparkling brown eyes who carried a lot of imagination and innocence with him.
Young and curious, full of life, he had a knack for telling stories; his narrative created visions.
A Writer – that he was through and through.”

I could tell the professor was lost in time. The weight he carried was like whispered words. He could not quite say them aloud. He looked at me for a long moment, choosing each thought carefully. Then he sighed and said,

“Dev never had just one ambition. He used to tell me, ‘Sir, I want to paint the world in rainbows — every shade of emotion people fail to express.’”

“All the while, people spoke about job titles and hefty packages”, he continued with a grin, “Dev talked about feelings. While they chased ladders and mountains, he chased colours and rainbows.”

He wore this saddened smile, faint yet significantly visible.

“He once told me, people walk around carrying storms inside them, and smile through cracked hearts, as if smiling through the thunder.” Waiting for the sight of a miraculous rainbow.
“He wanted to paint those storms. Express them. Name them.
So they wouldn’t feel so alone.”
“You see, Shruti, he was one of the rare ones who read between the lines. He didn’t just see words — he felt the spaces between them.”

“Dev believed”, the professor continued, his voice softer now, “that those spaces held the truest stories. The ones people are too afraid to speak out loud.”

He smiled again, hopeful and with a hint of a smirk, a sense of pride reflecting.

“Dev had a distinctive way of defining every emotion with a colour.
For grief – Blue, Anger – Red, Happy – Yellow and hope; Hope was Gold.” He continued.

This time, he sighed — light and hopeful — carrying with it a quiet sense of satisfaction.

A Teacher’s True Legacy

For the first time, his eyes spoke: Contentment.

I saw a man who had finally made peace with his purpose.

A teacher who had fulfilled his life not through applause or achievements, but by reaching one soul — a student who did not see literature as just another subject, but as something deeper, truer, more real than anything else the world had taught him.

Where is Dev Now?

After a long, settling pause,
I finally gathered the courage and asked, “So, where is Dev now? Is he still the same, or has he succumbed to the wicked world?”

Professor laughed softly, tapping on his knee, he said, “Dev never stopped writing, narrating or painting colours.”

The breath I didn’t know I held escaped me with a half-laugh, half-sigh of relief.
I found myself convincingly happy that the world didn’t fail him. That he didn’t succumb to his fears.

He then continued, “He sent me a letter, a one-liner that said –
‘Sir, I am still painting the Rainbow, just on different walls now.”

He curled his fingers slightly, as if he were trying to hold the memory in his hand.
Smiling to himself, he added, “He didn’t let the world erase him; he learned how to live inside it without losing himself.”

He lifted his head and looked at me, as if he was staring into my soul, he said –
“And now”, he said gently, “I think the world will need people like you, too.”

What this Journey Taught Me

The world seemed to pause at his words, as if life itself had asked me to listen more carefully.
I sat there in quiet awe, letting every part of our conversation settle inside me — not as memory alone, but as responsibility; as if something unseen but important had just been placed gently into my hands.

I may have sat there for hours, because when I looked out the window,
It said: Durg Junction.

Stations have a way of ending stories too soon.

The train slowed.
As I stepped out of the train, I realised,
Nothing around me had changed.
Yet everything within me had.

Some meetings don’t end at stations.
They begin inside you — and refuse to leave.

Final Thoughts

This journey was more than a train ride.

It was a reminder.

That dreams do not always die — they evolve.
That teachers do not always wear classrooms — sometimes they sit across from you on a train.
And that the quietest conversations often shape the loudest changes in your life.

If you’ve ever felt like your dreams faded with time, remember —

Maybe you’re just painting on different walls now.

✍ From the Author

Thank you for staying till the very end and becoming a part of this journey with me.
This story marks a new chapter for me — one where I open the doors to the storyteller within and share it with the world.

I’d love to know what this story made you feel.
Did it move you, comfort you, or leave you thinking?

Do tell me — would you like to see more stories like this, or should I continue writing about mental health and healing as I always have?

Your words matter to me.
Leave a comment and let me know. 💛
Shruti