Brushstrokes Upon Breath: An Artist's Journey- Neha Ajayan

 You know, sometimes it takes just one moment — one quiet, painful moment — to change how you see everything. For me, that moment came when I was just a kid trying to figure out where I belonged.

Back in primary school, I always felt a little… off. I couldn’t draw a straight line no matter how hard I tried. My circles were always wonky, and my handwriting? A total mess. I used to look at the neat drawings and beautiful notes my classmates made and wonder, Why can’t I do that? What’s wrong with me?

While others were confidently sketching sunsets and trees and cute little houses, I was still stuck trying to make my sun look like a proper circle. My best friend, Aysha, on the other hand — she was amazing. Everyone called her the “little artist” of our grade, and she deserved it. Her drawings were like something out of a storybook.

And then there was me. Always in the background. Quiet. Watching. Wanting. I didn’t think I had a real talent. I felt invisible next to everyone else’s shine.

But the truth was — I loved drawing. I just never thought I was good enough. I was too shy to show anyone, afraid they’d laugh or roll their eyes. I hid my sketches like they were secrets.

Except for Aysha. She saw them. She always encouraged me, even when I showed her something I thought was awful. She never made me feel small. Honestly, her support meant more than I could ever say.

Bit by bit, I started drawing more. Just for myself. Slowly, I began to enjoy it — even when my lines weren’t perfect. Flowers, trees, mountains — I filled my notebooks with them. Then one day, I tried drawing something harder. A portrait. Faces are tricky, but I liked the challenge.

And then came the day I’ll never forget.

I decided to draw my dad.

He’s always been someone I deeply respected and looked up to. I spent hours on that sketch, carefully shaping every line, and putting everything I had into it. When I finished, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time — pride. Pure, bubbling happiness.

I couldn’t wait to show him.

But when I did, he just looked at it… and laughed.

He didn’t mean to hurt me, I think. But he said, “That doesn’t even look like me,” and chuckled like it was nothing. For him, maybe it was. For me? It shattered something. I ran to my room and cried like I’d never cried before. That night, I seriously considered never drawing again.

But something changed in me. Somewhere in that heartbreak, a new kind of fire lit up. I made a silent promise to myself: One day, I’ll draw so well that even he will be proud. One day, I’ll show him what I’m capable of.

That was the turning point.

From that moment on, I didn’t just draw for fun. I drew with purpose. I practised every single day. I studied faces, learned about light and shadows on my own without going to any classes, and worked on every little detail. Year after year, I kept improving. And every year, I tried drawing my dad again — always a little better than the last time.

Fast forward to 7 years.

It was his birthday. I had spent weeks on a new portrait — the best one I’d ever made. My hands were shaking as I wrapped it. Part of me was still that little girl hoping for his approval.

When he opened the gift and looked at the drawing… he went completely quiet. Then, he teared up. He looked at me and said, “I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, everything came full circle. All the pain, all the effort, all the silent hopes — it all came rushing back. But this time, I was crying tears of joy.

Since then, my world has changed. People started noticing my work. I got my first commission. Then another. And slowly, people began calling me an artist. It still feels surreal.

But the most beautiful part? Realizing that the same moment that once broke me was also what built me. My father’s words — though painful at first — pushed me to grow. To fight for something. To become someone.

Now, I’m no longer that shy girl afraid of being judged. I’m an artist. I own my story. And I’m proud of every step that brought me here. And I know — this isn’t the end. I still have so much more to learn, to create, and to share. My journey isn’t over.

It’s only just the beginning.