The Art of Happiness

In a quiet village nestled at the edge of the mountains, there lived an old man named Rahim. He was a painter, but not one whose name echoed in galleries or whose works fetched high prices. His art was simple—landscapes of the valley, portraits of villagers, scenes from the marketplace. What made Rahim known far and wide wasn’t the value of his paintings, but the serenity in his eyes and the warmth in his smile. People said he was the happiest man they had ever met.

He lived alone In a small mud-brick cottage, surrounded by a garden of wildflowers. His clothes were worn, his meals were modest, yet he never seemed to want for more. Strangers often visited just to talk to him, to ask the question they all wondered: What’s your secret, Rahim?

But Rahim would only smile and say, “Happiness isn’t a secret. It’s an art.”

One summer, a young man from the city arrived. His name was Ali. Tall, well-dressed, and clearly used to a life of comfort, Ali looked out of place among the simple houses and slow pace of the village. His eyes were tired, and his shoulders carried invisible weight.

He found Rahim painting beneath a tree near the village spring.

“You’re Rahim, aren’t you?” he asked, slightly out of breath.

Rahim looked up and nodded.

“I’ve heard about you. They say you’re the happiest man in the region.”

Rahim chuckled lightly. “I don’t know about that. But I try not to be unhappy.”

Ali sat beside him. “I came from the city looking for peace. My life feels… hollow. I have a good job, money, friends, even followers online. But none of it makes me feel alive. Someone told me you could teach me something I’ve been missing—something about the art of happiness.”

Rahim dipped his brush in paint and replied, “Then stay a few days. Not to learn, but to observe. Watch the world without rushing. Speak kindly. Walk slowly. And perhaps—paint.”

Ali stayed.

The first day, he followed Rahim to the village well. Rahim greeted every person he met by name, often asking about their children, their crops, their health. His presence was calm, and he never seemed in a hurry. Later, Rahim invited Ali to his home. It was small, neat, and filled with art—dozens of canvases stacked against the walls, each telling stories of ordinary moments.

“Why paint such simple things?” Ali asked. “Don’t you want to paint something grand? Important?”

Rahim smiled. “The simple things are what matter most. A mother’s smile. A child’s laughter. A quiet morning. Happiness lives there.”

The next day, they visited the fields. Rahim walked barefoot in the grass, helping an old woman pick herbs. Ali stood aside, unsure of what to do. He had never picked anything in his life except his phone.

Rahim handed him a small basket. “Try it. Feel the leaves. Smell the earth. This is life, Ali. And life, if touched gently, gives back joy.”

Ali was puzzled, but he tried. As the hours passed, something in him shifted. The sun on his face, the roughness of the leaves, the laughter of the villagers—all felt real in a way nothing had in the city.

By the third day, Rahim handed Ali a paintbrush.

“I’ve never painted,” Ali protested.

“That’s fine,” Rahim said. “It’s not about skill. It’s about seeing.”

Ali dipped the brush and began. His lines were crooked, his colors uneven, but he didn’t stop. For the first time in years, his mind was quiet.

Each evening, they sat by the fire. Rahim would tell stories—some humorous, some thoughtful. He spoke of loss without bitterness, of mistakes without shame. To Ali, this was strange. Back in the city, people hid their flaws behind filters and silence.

“How are you so at peace?” Ali asked one night.

Rahim looked at the stars. “Because I don’t fight life. I accept what comes, and I let go of what goes. Happiness isn’t about having the most. It’s about needing less, giving more, and being present.”

Ali listened, truly listened.

A week turned into ten days. Then two weeks. Ali no longer reached for his phone every hour. He no longer needed noise to feel alive. He helped villagers fix broken fences, watched the clouds drift across the sky, and painted scenes that, though imperfect, felt full of life.

One morning, Ali said, “I think I understand now. Happiness is not a destination—it’s a way of being. A way of seeing.”

Rahim nodded. “Yes. It’s an art. You don’t master it in a day. You practice it in small strokes, every moment, every choice.”

Ali returned to the city, but he wasn’t the same.

He left behind his high-paying job and opened a small art studio. Not to become rich, but to teach others what Rahim had taught him—not just how to paint, but how to slow down, how to appreciate, how to feel.

And every morning, before the studio opened, Ali would sit quietly with a cup of tea, watching the sunrise, and whisper to himself:
“This, too, is the art of happiness.”