In the small village of Rangpur, lived a young woman named Lisa. She loved colours—bright, deep, soulful. As a child, she would spend hours painting the village scenes, capturing the golden fields, the blue sky, and the playful birds with strokes of magic on her canvas.
But life had different plans for her.
When she was sixteen, her father fell ill. The cost of his treatment drained their savings. Lisa’s mother, once full of laughter, became a shadow of her former self, working day and night to keep the house running. Lisa, too, had to step away from her dreams. She left her brushes untouched, her canvases gathering dust, and took up stitching work for the women in the village.
Years passed, and the burden of responsibilities settled on her shoulders like an old, tattered shawl. Every night, she would sit by the dim lantern, sewing clothes for others, her fingers moving mechanically while her heart longed for the forgotten joy of painting.
One evening, as she walked past a small tea stall, she noticed a group of children huddled around a newspaper. The page had an announcement—an art competition in the city. The prize? A scholarship to an art school, along with a stipend for living expenses.
Her heart pounded. This was her chance.
But as she touched her rough, needle-pricked hands, doubt crept in. She had not held a brush in years. Was she even capable of creating anything anymore?
That night, unable to sleep, she sat before her old wooden trunk and lifted the lid. Inside lay her old sketchbook, yellowed with time. As she flipped through the pages, the memories came rushing back—the joy of mixing colours, the thrill of completing a piece, the way her father’s eyes had shone with pride when he had called her “his little artist.”
Tears blurred her vision. She looked at the lantern flickering beside her and whispered, “A painful present proves that the past was not right. If I don’t change now, I will secure the same future.”
The next morning, she took the biggest decision of her life. She bought a set of paints with the money she had saved for months. Instead of stitching that evening, she sat with a blank canvas, her heart racing. She dipped the brush into deep blue and dragged it across the white space. The colour bled, blending, spreading—alive.
She painted every night after finishing her chores, her fingers aching but her heart dancing. The day of the competition arrived. With trembling hands, she submitted her painting—a village girl, sitting under a lantern, stitching with one hand but holding a brush in the other.
Days later, a letter arrived. She had won.
The scholarship meant she could study art in the city while receiving a stipend, freeing her from the endless sewing. It was a path to a better future, one where she could earn through her passion instead of labouring over stitches. As she held the letter close, she knew—had she not decided to change, she would have remained trapped in the past’s mistakes.
And now, her colours would never fade again.