I read a Hindi short stories book around at least 8-10 years ago. One of the stories I still remember (some of it), as I found it very strange/disturbing. I remember some of it, but want to read the complete story as it was written, again.
The story was something like there was a famous painter in a village who was also a teacher in the village school. He made several important paintings in his life for the schools, temples and other important places.
When he got retired from his school job, his fame was at its peak, but after retirement he felt his value was somewhat lessened. He was getting old, there were new young painters.
Then one day, after many efforts from the village school's staff, a big painting competition was arranged, where students and teachers from nearby villages would also participate.
He was invited as the chief guest and judge for the competition. As part of this event, he was asked if he could make a drawing or painting for the event (not as a participant).
He felt very honoured and felt like this was the time to make the painting of his lifetime. But he probably thought too much and couldn't decide what he should paint. Due to creative block syndrome probably.
He was so engrossed in always thinking about what he should paint, how he should make it the best, that he wouldn't even listen if someone called him. He wouldn't even eat properly, wouldn't pay any attention to anything around him.
He wouldn't even pay heed to his wife when she told him that there son was not well. His son's health deteriorated day by day, but he looked only half concerned about it.
One day, his wife came to him and asked him to go and get the village doctor because the son was seriously ill. She even shouted at him in anger. He came to his senses, realised the seriousness of the situation and got ready to go to the doctor. His wife ran inside in the inner room where their son was lying and put his head in her lap. She was crying and mumbling things in tension.
The painter hurriedly got his slippers on, while glancing at his wife and son, that they were okay. He was passing through their outer room, which had a window, through which he could see his son lying in his wife's lap. He suddenly stopped and kept looking at them for a while. His son was really very ill. He took off his slippers, took out his painting stand, pencils, brushes, and got ready as if he was going to paint something. After a few minutes, his wife cries out loud, because his son had passed away. He draws her wife, crying with their dead son in her lap.