Nightingale Tells A Tale

6. The Room Of Forgotten Dreams

Amrita wiped her paint-smeared hands on her kurta and sighed. The canvas before her was another failed attempt, an abstract mess of muted colours that screamed frustration rather than inspiration. The rent for her tiny Mumbai apartment was due in a week, and the art gallery that had promised her an exhibition date was no longer returning her calls.

As she sat back on her stool, her gaze wandered around the cluttered room—a narrow space crammed with half-finished canvases, brushes, and tins of turpentine. The noise from the city outside seeped through the old walls, a constant reminder of the world moving on without her.

She didn’t want to admit it, but she was on the verge of giving up.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the skyline, Amrita stumbled upon the room. She had been rearranging her apartment to make space for a new easel when her hand brushed against a section of the wall near the corner. It felt hollow. Curious, she pressed harder, and a hidden door creaked open.

The room inside was dimly lit, with walls painted in a deep, velvety blue. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and rain. At first glance, it seemed empty, but as Amrita stepped in, a strange sensation washed over her. The air felt alive, humming with an energy she couldn’t quite place.

And then she saw them—objects scattered around the room. A child’s kite, tattered but still vibrant; a string of ghungroo anklets; a yellowed piece of sheet music with notes scribbled in pencil. Each item seemed impossibly ordinary, yet Amrita felt drawn to them.

She picked up the anklets, their bells tinkling faintly, and was hit by a sudden vision—a young girl spinning in a courtyard, her laughter echoing as she danced under the summer sun. Amrita staggered back, dropping the anklets. The vision faded, leaving her breathless.

Over the next few days, Amrita couldn’t stay away from the room. Each time she entered, new objects appeared—an old cricket bat, a half-finished embroidery hoop, a notebook filled with poems in an unfamiliar script. Each item carried a fragment of a dream, forgotten by someone, somewhere.

Amrita’s mind buzzed with possibilities. What if she turned these dreams into art?

Her first piece was inspired by the ghungroo anklets. She painted the girl from her vision, her figure a blur of motion and joy. The colours were vibrant, the strokes alive with energy Amrita hadn’t felt in years. When she finished, she stood back and marvelled at the transformation.

She took the painting to a small gallery the next day. The owner, a stoic man who had rejected her work countless times, stared at it for a long moment before breaking into a smile. “This,” he said, “is extraordinary.”

The painting sold within hours, and Amrita’s name began to circulate in Mumbai’s art circles. She started painting more, each piece inspired by an object from the room. A cricket bat turned into a poignant portrayal of a boy playing in the monsoon rain. A kite became a canvas filled with swirling skies and boundless freedom.

With every sale, her fame grew, and so did her bank account. For the first time in years, Amrita felt like she was finally succeeding.

But there was a cost.

Amrita noticed it after her fifth painting. She woke up one morning feeling inexplicably tired, her limbs heavy as if she had run a marathon in her sleep. By the time she finished her next piece, the exhaustion had worsened. Her hands trembled as she held her brush, and dark circles formed under her eyes.

She tried to ignore it, telling herself it was the price of hard work. But deep down, she knew the room had something to do with it.

One evening, she sat in the room, staring at the latest object—a pair of broken spectacles. The vision that accompanied them had been overwhelming: an elderly man sitting at a desk, scribbling furiously as pages piled around him. He had been working on a novel, one that would never see the light of day.

As Amrita sketched the scene, her hands began to ache. She dropped her pencil and doubled over, gasping for breath. The room seemed to pulsate, its blue walls darkening as if they were absorbing her energy.

“What are you?” she whispered hoarsely, looking around.

The room offered no answers, only a deep silence that pressed down on her.

Amrita couldn’t stop painting, even as her health deteriorated. She told herself it was worth it—her art was reaching people, resonating with their souls. But late at night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the room was draining her, feeding on her life force in exchange for the dreams it offered.

One day, as she worked on a piece inspired by the notebook of poems, her neighbour, Shalini, visited.

“Amrita,” Shalini said, her voice filled with concern, “you look terrible. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Amrita replied, though her voice was weak.

Shalini glanced at the painting on the easel. “Your work… It's beautiful. But at what cost? You’ve changed so much.”

Amrita brushed her off, but her neighbour’s words lingered.

That night, Amrita returned to the room, determined to understand its secrets. She picked up the notebook of poems and held it close, willing a vision to come.

This time, the vision wasn’t just a glimpse. She found herself standing in a vast, empty field under a starless sky. The objects from the room floated around her, each one tethered to an invisible thread.

A voice echoed in the darkness. “These are the dreams people abandoned. You bring them back to life, but life comes at a price.”

Amrita’s heart pounded. “Why me?” she demanded.

“Because you understand what it means to dream and fail. You give these dreams a second chance. But every chance you give takes something from you.”

When Amrita woke, she was back in her apartment, the notebook clutched in her hands. She stared at the room’s door, a mixture of fear and resolve washing over her.

She had a choice to make. She could continue painting, using the room’s gifts to fuel her success, or she could walk away, preserving what little strength she had left.

Amrita spent the next few days in deep thought. She looked at her paintings, the joy they had brought to others, and weighed them against the toll they had taken on her.

In the end, she made her decision.

Amrita locked the room and threw the key into the Arabian Sea. She wouldn’t forget the dreams, but she wouldn’t let them consume her either.

She returned to her art, this time drawing inspiration from her own life. Her work was different now—less vibrant, perhaps, but raw and honest. It didn’t sell as quickly, but Amrita didn’t mind. For the first time in years, she felt like herself again.

_____

"Dreams are gifts, but they are not ours to steal. The greatest art is the one we create from within, not borrowed from the forgotten."