NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 7, 2026
The Blank Canvas
The Blank Canvas
“Sometime the expression of inner turmoil &
shrieks is…silence”
The power cut was sudden. Above, the ceiling fan
began to slow with a cranky groan, its blades dragging
against the humid air just as the rhythm had died in
Nirav’s own mind, leaving no resonance between him and
his consciousness. Out of a billion glowing windows in
the city, his was the only one where the light didn’t just
flicker—it faded. Nirav Jain was losing a wealth no bank
could hold: the raw thoughts born from a past of too
much comprehension. He wasn’t just a fifteen-year-old
boy in a dark room; he was a painter whose colours had
finally turned to white, mirroring the blank canvas beside
him that held no sign of paint.
Nirav stared from the window, watching the chaos
of traffic—a thunderous surge of cars rustling for
position like scarab beetles. Even with the uncertainty in
the sky, the darkness of the night was engulfing the
sun’s radiance, mirroring how Nirav was introspecting
within his own character, seeking his true self in the
withered darkness of loss. The weather grew
unpredictable; a sudden, violent gust caught the frame,
slamming the window shut with a crack that echoed like
a gunshot in the hollow room. Nirav hardly heard it, lost
deep in a trance. He dwelled within an abstract world
that was full yet blurred, difficult to comprehend, yetrecognizable to him with a hurtful clarity. His pain was
not about the death of a loved one, nor any stereotypical
teenage drama caused by peer pressure or bullying.
The paintbrush, forbidden by the bonds of his
principles, sat isolated in a corner beside a canvas
exposing a silent act of murder: a chaotic splash of cobalt
blue and a rain of red strokes falling from the firmament,
touching the foundation. This was the painting he had
finished a month ago, surrendering his entire memoir
into the bristles. The work seemed to stare back at him,
forcing him to recall mistakes that had never even taken
place. It was an act of self-sabotage, where his outdated,
orthodox principles were hacking away at an unleashed
creativity that screamed to be showcased rather than
enclosed.
Outside his door, Mr. and Mrs. Jain—his
“guardian angels”—were busy with their own errands.
Nirav always wore a mask of smiles that tricked them all,
yet his inner turmoil remained visible in his art. His
hidden self was confined to that room with the door
closed; elsewhere, everything was a familiar routine. His
mother, who never failed to understand her child, had
failed this time. Both parents were perfect in their own
spheres, providing him with whatever he wanted, yet
Nirav kept himself in a pitch-dark, confined cell,
convinced the world was too toxic to appreciate his
unidentified thoughts. Because he believed his conflictwas beyond their scope of comprehension, the only
witness to his turmoil was his painting.
Unknowingly, he stood up and marched with
determination toward the blank canvas, resolved to
create a masterpiece by pouring out his pent-up
emotions. Suddenly, the room lit up. The fan began
spinning again with its original velocity, dragging Nirav
back to the persona he never truly was. His mind fell
silent, and his painting followed suit. Yet his internal
conscience continued making noise—more disturbing
than the traffic outside. The room became his mind and
Nirav became his thoughts; he lay back on his bed beside
the canvas, which remained blank, unlike his mind,
which roared with turmoil.
