The ceiling fan.

It's a Saturday afternoon in September—2024, and I’m lying in bed. It's almost sunny outside, soft rays of sunlight hitting my half opened glass window. There is a hushed noise of the whirling ceiling fan. I appreciate the calmness of my newly moved-in apartment in Bengaluru. Bengaluru — the city of dreams, the Silicon Valley of India. My flatmate is a machine learning engineer at a Y-Combinator funded company. Our cook has made a delicious meal for us. Life is good isn't it?

No. Something has been lingering in my mind. What is it? It has been keeping me up at nights and zoning me out mid conversations. For someone who has been a designer for last odd 3 years or even more, — I can't create anything new anymore.

"What?" — I asked.

But what does it mean exactly? Have I lost my interest in my work? Or it is my skills? What could have gone wrong? For the first time in last few years, I have been hit with what the people of creative industry call it — a Creative Block.

Like any other adult in their 20s, when they are hit with an inconvenience in their life, they try to resonate it at first. I did too. Not everyone sits with their problem right away and tries to solve it. No. We try to push it. Avoid talking about it, avoid thinking about it, avoid experiencing it. It's called escapism.

"There is nothing such as creative block" — I thought.

"Great designers don't get stuck just because they can't think" — I said.

Out of frustration, I found myself deep in internet rabbit hole. One article on Behance listed 7 types of creative blocks — The mental block, the emotional barrier, work habits that don't work, personal problems, poverty, overwhelm and communication breakdown.

I had already tried to ignore that particular problem at my hand for weeks. But not anymore. I went to my desk upon which my laptop was already opened. I crawled through 20 odd blogs and articles across internet trying to find out what I was dealing with. But what type of creative block was that? Was it a mental block? It definitely wasn't an emotional barrier. Personal problems — Ah! nope. After carefully evaluating the most critical dilemma at my hand on a lousy Saturday afternoon, I came to a closure. I was just burnt out due to excessive work and was always seeking escapism.

I seek escapism? — I thought

That evening, I took a stroll and ended up at my usual café on HSR 17th Cross Road. The place buzzed with energy — techies typing furiously, NIFT students gossiping over cold brews, conversations layered over lo-fi jazz. I walk up to the usual place on the right corner under a red neon sign that said "good vibes, great coffee".

I took up a part of the banquette seat. A banquette seat is a long bench accompanied by smaller tables. The café was designed to be worked from. I would stay for hours in that cafe on weekends and not return home till 11 at night. And that's only because they close at 11. What did I do? You may ask. Nothing. I did nothing.

Among all the chaos of techies debugging codes, writers writing scripts and artists on procreate making art, I was just sitting there doing nothing. Like a maniac. I would open up my laptop, put up headphones and pretend to be working. But in reality, I was just observing people, listening to music, watching movies. I watched a lot of movies. But my favourites were — Civil War (2024) & Whiplash (2014) — two completely different films, both about chaos and control. They made sense to me.

I had unknowingly mastered the art of escapism — and weirdly, it was helping.
I’d go to work, come back home, and then do absolutely nothing. Doing nothing became sacred. I’d spend hours at Agara Lake, sketchbook in hand — its pages rough and uneven, perfect for charcoal. I’d draw the lake from different angles, watching how the light hit the water, the island in the middle and how the trees whispered in the breeze.

For the first time in months, I felt light. I was slowly solving complex design problems again. Finding joy in small things. Rediscovering flow. But more than anything — I had peace of mind. This nearly went on for 2 months. Then I had to return to my hometown for Diwali. And that’s when my world turned upside down — I got diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma cancer.

It’s a Saturday afternoon in April. I’m lying on a hospital bed now, not in Bengaluru but in my hometown, Bhubaneswar. The sunlight still filters through the hospital window. There’s still a fan whirling quietly overhead. Life feels slower — heavier — but somehow, I feel more alive than I have in a long time. I think back to that café, to the lake, to all those days of doing nothing.

And I realise now — the creative block was never the enemy. It was just the beginning of something I hadn’t yet learned — how to sit still and feel again.