By Christina K Sangma
The administration offices were packed with lions and wolves, along with many other animals on duty. Over time, the city had become wonderfully diverse. Animals who once followed strict family traditions had begun chasing their own dreams.
There was Mr. Murphy, the most spectacular penguin, who was once believed to be the next great magician during my grandfather’s time. Instead, he became the first doctor in his family. Soon, his relatives followed different paths too, teachers, musicians, engineers. Everywhere I looked, animals were building lives on their own terms.
Everywhere, except in my family.
For generations, the hyenas in my line had been morticians. We handled farewells. We prepared the departed with care and dignity. It was respectable work. Trusted work. My father, Mr. Markus Hyne, was the most cherished mortician in the city.
And I was his firstborn son.
My twin siblings, my sister Elara and my brother Derick were still young. But everyone knew I was meant to inherit the family business.
The problem was… I didn’t want to.
While others saw silence and sorrow in our work, I saw something missing, colour. Since I was little, I had been fascinated by strokes and lines, hues and shades. I painted on scraps of paper, on walls of our shed, even on old wooden boards. Art was the only thing that made my heart feel alive.
I was good at mortuary work. Careful. Steady. My father often said I had the hands for it. But my heart belonged to art. One evening, I finally told him.
I don’t want to be a mortician, I said softly. I want to be an artist.
The disappointment in his eyes hurt more than I expected.
For weeks after that, my father barely spoke to me. The house felt heavy and quiet. I wondered if chasing my dream meant losing my family.
Then one night, while sitting in the workshop, an idea struck me. What if I didn’t have to choose?
The next morning, I approached my father with a proposal.
I will continue the business, I said. But I want to change something.
He listened, though his face remained stern.
I want to paint portraits of those who have passed. Beautiful, personal portraits. Not stiff, formal ones. I want to capture their laughter, their warmth, the way their families remember them. We can give them something lasting. Something filled with colour.
My father was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “Show me.”
The first portrait I painted was of an elderly tortoise who loved gardening. I painted him surrounded by bright marigolds, smiling softly. When his family saw it, they wept — not from sadness, but from gratitude.
Word spread quickly. Within a year, our family business transformed. We became known not only for care and dignity, but for remembrance through art. Families travelled from across the city. And slowly, my father began introducing me proudly:
This is my son, Anthony, the artist.
I did not give up my dream.
I simply found a way to weave it into my roots.
And I learned something important: sometimes we don’t have to abandon where we come from. We just need courage to colour it differently.
