THE COST OF A DREAM

Part I: The Fracture

“Dad, I don’t want to be an architect. I want to pursue literature—I want to be a writer,” Abhi said, his voice trembling slightly, though his posture remained firm across the small kitchen table. “I don’t understand the language of architecture. It isn’t meant for me.”

A sharp crack echoed through the room. Abhi’s head snapped to the side as his father’s palm struck his cheek.

“I am breaking my back day and night to make you an architect, and you talk about becoming a writer?” His father’s voice trembled with fury. “Don't be a fool! Becoming an architect was my dream—a dream I couldn't fulfill because life didn't grant me the chance. What I failed to achieve, I want to see in you! What will you ever do as a writer? Walk around with an unkempt beard, carrying a cloth bag, spending every hard-earned penny just to get a few pages printed? And what will I answer to our relatives and neighbors when they ask about you? They’ll mock us!”

“Just because you couldn't pursue your dream doesn't mean I should abandon mine,” Abhi replied, pressing a hand to his burning cheek. “I will never be happy designing buildings. I will only find peace in words. I don't care what society says; I have to listen to my own heart.”

His father stood up abruptly, slapping him once more across the face. “If I say you are going to be an architect, you will be one! End of argument.”

Abhi opened his mouth to respond, but his father turned away, leaving his meal half-eaten on the plate as he stormed out of the kitchen. Across the table, his mother sat in silence, her eyes fixed on the floor, knowing all too well the futility of standing between her husband and his pride.

In the days that followed, Abhi forced himself to sit before heavy drafting manuals and structural blueprints. But the blueprints felt like blueprints of a prison. He stared at complex equations and spatial diagrams, but they remained alien symbols to him. He longed to hurl the textbooks out the window, yet fear kept his hands tied—for now.

Part II: Reduced to Ashes

When Abhi returned home late one evening from a friend’s house, the heavy atmosphere inside the living room instantly set him on edge. His father sat in the shadow of the dimly lit room, his posture rigid, breathing heavily with suppressed anger.

Abhi froze, unable to meet his father’s gaze. On the central coffee table lay a scattered stack of paperbacks—literary classics, narrative essays, and notebooks filled with Abhi's handwritten drafts.

“What is the meaning of this?” his father asked, his voice dangerously low. “I told you to study architectural engineering, and instead, you waste your time hoarding these silly storybooks?”

Before Abhi could answer, his father grabbed the books, walked over to the small heating stove in the corner, and threw them into the open flame.

“No! Dad, please, don't!” Abhi rushed forward, but his father shoved him back, striking him across the face once again.

The paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash before Abhi’s eyes—months of carefully hidden reading and midnight writing destroyed in seconds.

“How many times must I tell you?” his father roared, pointing a finger at the embers. “What will reading and writing bring you? Nothing but poverty! You will end up a beggar on the streets! I am tired of giving you advice, but you refuse to understand. I want to see you respected and successful, but you insist on being a fool!”

Tears of rage and grief welled in Abhi’s eyes, but he held his ground. “Dad, please... try to understand. Whether I become famous or remain broke, writing is the only path where I will feel whole. I am tired too, Dad. I am tired of living a life meant for someone else.”

His father stared at him, his face hardened with finality. “If you choose to be a writer, then you no longer have a place under this roof. Pack your things and leave.”

Part III: The Long Road

Three months had passed since Abhi walked out of his childhood home with a single suitcase and a notebook.

He secured a modest job as an English teacher at a local private school and took on extra evening tuitions to cover his rent and meals. Exhausted as he was, he enrolled in the Master’s Program in Literature at Rara Campus. His days became a continuous blur of teaching grammar lessons, attending university lectures, and spending long nights under the dim light of a desk lamp, researching and writing his manuscript.

The road was filled with isolation and financial anxiety. Every meal was budgeted to the rupee, and every spare moment was dedicated to his craft. Yet, despite the exhaustion, a deep sense of autonomy took root within him. For the first time in his life, his work belonged to him.

Gradually, months turned into years. Abhi completed his Master’s degree, earned a stable reputation across local academic circles, and finished the final manuscript of his debut novel.

Part IV: Rejection and Doubt

For over a year, Abhi carried his completed manuscript from one publishing house to another across the city. The response was almost always the same.

“The writing is decent, but it lacks a commercial hook.”

“Readers want light entertainment, not heavy reflection.”

“We don't take risks on unpublished authors without self-funding.”

Without the financial means to self-publish, Abhi felt every closed door as a physical blow. The quiet weight of failure began to settle over him. In his darkest moments, sitting alone in his rented room, his father’s voice echoed in his mind: “You will end up a beggar... You are a fool.”

He wondered if he had thrown his life away for a delusion. He came dangerously close to putting his notebooks away forever, unaware that a quiet turn of fate was already in motion.

Part V: A Voice of One's Own

Two years later, the grand hall at Hotel Everest was filled with soft murmuring, light music, and the rustle of program schedules. Banners displayed the title of a new release: My Struggle — A Novel by Abhi Adhikari.

Nitesh Baral, Director of Read Me More Publishers, stepped up to the podium and adjusted the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Baral began. “It is a rare privilege in publishing to stumble upon a voice that demands to be heard. Over the past year, our team reviewed hundreds of manuscripts, looking for authenticity—a narrative that speaks directly to the soul of our youth. When Abhi Adhikari’s manuscript reached my desk, it stood out immediately. It possessed a raw honesty, a mastery of language, and an emotional depth that brought us to tears. His story is a testament to perseverance, self-discovery, and the true cost of chasing one's identity. It gives me immense honor to introduce the author of My Struggle—Mr. Abhi Adhikari.”

Applause echoed across the hall. Abhi stood up, his legs feeling strangely weightless as he walked to the stage. Looking out at the crowd, the bright stage lights blurred the faces before him. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming in his small rented room.

He leaned toward the microphone, took a deep breath, and began to speak.

“Thank you... Today, standing here, reality feels entirely like a dream. It took a long time to reach this podium—a path marked by endless obstacles, quiet nights, and profound solitude.

To be honest, my father never wanted this for me. He wanted me to be an architect. He had once dreamed of that career himself, but life prevented him from pursuing it. And so, he tried to place that unfulfilled dream upon my shoulders. But his dream could never be mine. My heart belonged to literature.

For years, I hid storybooks inside my textbooks. I struggled through engineering concepts I could never truly grasp, until the day my father found my manuscripts and threw them into the fire. That night, I left home for good. For a long time, I carried bitterness toward him for valuing his projection over my individuality.

Leaving home meant facing reality raw. I taught school classes by day, gave tuitions by night, and studied literature in the gaps between. And when publisher after publisher turned my work down, I almost believed that my father was right—that I had traded security for foolishness. But Read Me More Publishers took a chance on me, and for that, I will always be grateful.

Whether this book becomes a success or fades away is beyond my control. But success was never my goal—satisfaction was. To write truthfully, to feel aligned with my own life—that is the only reward I sought.

Before I conclude, I want to leave a thought with everyone here tonight: let your children pursue their own truth. Parents often attempt to hand down their unfulfilled ambitions to the next generation, forgetting that a child is a unique individual, not a second chance at their own past. If I had yielded and become an architect, I might have forced my own unfulfilled literary dreams upon my children, perpetuating a cycle of resentment.

Every individual deserves the right to shape their own journey. Support your children in finding their own voice, even if it leads down an unfamiliar road.

Thank you to Read Me More Publishers for believing in my story, and thank you all for being here tonight.”

The applause that followed was warm and sustained. Within a month of its release, My Struggle became a national bestseller, capturing the hearts of readers across the country—not merely as a book, but as a manifesto for every young mind searching for the courage to live their own life.