Dhanraj was a painter known for his bold, striking work. His canvases were filled with intense colours and chaotic strokes that seemed to leap out at anyone who looked at them. People admired his art, often saying it was alive with emotion. But Dhanraj knew the truth. His paintings came from his anger.
It started a few years ago when he moved to Delhi to pursue his dream of becoming a famous artist. But fame didn’t come as easily as he had imagined. Gallery after gallery rejected his work, and soon, he found himself struggling just to pay rent. The frustration built inside him like a pressure cooker, and one day, it exploded.
He had been working on a calm, peaceful landscape—something he hoped would appeal to a wider audience. But when yet another gallery sent him a rejection email, Dhanraj snapped. He grabbed a brush and angrily slashed across the canvas, ruining the soft scene he had been painting.
“Why is nothing working?” he yelled, his voice echoing through the small studio.
For hours, Dhanraj let his anger out on the canvas, throwing colours at it, smearing paint with his hands, and shouting in frustration. But when he finally stepped back, breathless, what he saw surprised him. The painting wasn’t ruined. In fact, it was one of the most powerful pieces he had ever made. The raw emotion in his strokes, the boldness of the colours—it was magnetic.
The next day, he hesitantly showed the painting to a local gallery owner. The man stared at it for a long time, then finally said, “This… this is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ll display it immediately.”
Dhanraj was shocked. For the first time, someone appreciated his art. From that moment on, his anger became his greatest tool. Each time he felt frustrated or defeated, he would channel it into his paintings, creating wild, intense works that drew more and more attention.
But as Dhanraj’s fame grew, so did his anger. The smallest things began to irritate him. A wrong delivery, a noisy neighbour, or even a failed phone call—everything triggered a storm inside him. His friends noticed the change.
“Dhanraj, you need to calm down,” his best friend, Neeraj, said one evening after Dhanraj had smashed yet another phone in frustration.
“Calm down? Do you know how much pressure I’m under?” Dhanraj snapped. “Everyone expects me to create these masterpieces, and I can’t do it without the anger! It’s the only thing that works!”
Neeraj shook his head. “But at what cost? You’re pushing everyone away. You haven’t even spoken to your parents in months.”
Dhanraj knew Neeraj was right, but the truth was, he was addicted to the feeling his anger gave him. Every time he lashed out, it fuelled his art. The rush of emotion, the sense of control, the power—it was like a drug he couldn’t give up.
Weeks passed, and Dhanraj’s art continued to draw attention. But inside, he felt empty. His studio was a mess, his friends had stopped calling, and his health was starting to suffer from the constant stress. Still, every time he picked up a brush, he needed the anger to paint.
One night, after yet another fight with a gallery over payment delays, Dhanraj found himself alone in his studio, staring at a blank canvas. His hands trembled as he reached for the paint, but this time, something was different. The anger didn’t come.
He clenched his fists, trying to summon the rage, but nothing. No fire, no frustration, no overwhelming surge of emotion. Just an emptiness.
Confused, Dhanraj sat down, his brush still in hand. He realized that he had been draining himself for years, pouring all his emotional energy into his work. The anger that once gave him power had now consumed him so much that there was nothing left to feel. He had used it as a crutch, a way to push through the pain and frustration, but in doing so, he had burned himself out.
The anger wasn’t just absent; it was spent. Dhanraj had relied on it for so long that he didn’t know how to function without it. His body and mind, exhausted from the constant emotional highs and lows, simply refused to summon the familiar rage.
He looked around the studio. The once vibrant space was now littered with broken brushes, discarded canvases, and empty paint tubes. The chaotic mess mirrored the state of his mind—drained, lifeless.
In the eerie quiet of the studio, Dhanraj finally realized the cost of using anger as his fuel. It had once given him power and passion, but now, it had left him numb, empty, and alone.
He sat there in silence, staring at the blank canvas. For the first time in years, he felt something other than anger—an overwhelming sense of loss.
Dhanraj had lost himself to his own anger, and now, there
was nothing left to fuel his art.