It is 15th August today. A day too much special for each Indian. But when it comes to its celebration, I feel most of us have our most special memories caged in our childhood. Those school days. Those ironed white uniforms. Those morning parades. Those tiny trirangas.Those patriotic songs. Those repetitive speeches. And that one packet of seo bundiya. Life was so simple back then. Just like being sad for waking up so early, getting ready, and walking miles. Just like being happy for tracing more red bundiya in your packet than your friend and getting a day off from studies to play a little more. Studies were simple those days. Just like distinguishing the significance of 15th August from that of 26th January. Just like knowing that India got freedom because of that kind man with bald head & round goggles holding a stick, that brave man wearing a green military uniform and that intelligent man pinning a rose in his shirt pocket. Because activities during both of these days used to be very similar. Years got younger. And we got older, with each class, a little more. The list of historical dates and events to remember got longer. Amount of names and contributions of freedom fighters got bulkier. Still, charm of independence day remained unchanged. Infact, with each passing year that pride of being Indian got stronger. Place of patriotism in the heart got wider. All thanks to those thin books of “ମହାପୁରୁଷଙ୍କ ଜୀବନୀ”, those nationalist songs in each prayer class, and those repeated broadcasting of movies like Border & Lagaan. Me being that introverted kid never became able to show my love for India with a heartwarming speech or soul-soothing song, in front of all. All my prepared speeches and mugged-up lyrics never got independence and became martyrs inside my head, everytime. Anyways, my literary and artistic hand used to help me in conveying my love for my motherland infront of a paper.

Our ancestors got freedom on this day after years. This day marks their end to pain and suffering. But every year, independence used to draw a fullstop to our week-long cancellation festival of post recess classes. For parade. For preparation. The parade used to have its own charisma in the celebration. That fortune of having your best friend on your side in the parade lines and feeling no tiredness of walking long while gossipping with her. And that bad luck of being caught by seniors while altering your position in rows for coming close to your group. That irritation when someone steps on your shoes by mistake while parading and those parading heartbeats when you do the same with a quarrelsome girl. That zeal of saying “Jay” after “Bharat maataa ki” & “Mataram” after “Vande”. And that awkward moment of turning right on the command of “bayein mud”. Haha. So stupid, yet so much fun was there. But things got serious after joining NCC. Now no more follower behaviour, fun aspects and discussion about incomplete syllabus of math, Hindi teacher’s accent, most beautiful girl’s new boyfriend were allowed. NCC cadets can’t take parade in a light note. Lifting knees up and down perfectly & walking miles wearing those hard boots was not an easy task. After returning from school, whether to pick Volini or betadine first became a confusion. Whether to bandage the wounds first or to relieve the tendons. But tougher was that unexpected calling of your name to command. For a kid like me with a low voice, giving commands was nothing less than torture on vocal cords. Aaaand in the class, that sacrifice of side seat for seven days continuously. In a school that is more into Indian culture, it is impossible to hide your feminity in cadet uniform from the penetrating eyeballs of those boys classmates interested in you. So altering seats with salwar-wearing benchmates was a wise option or maybe a weapon for own awkwardness. Never realised that with those high jump of classes, time was also running a marathon. But every student feels like the time of 10th class runs a sprint. It just flies. I was no exception. Had completed ten years of schooling, ten years of studying sincerely. Had accumulated some rewards for my efforts and more expectations for the 10th result. When the cost of expectation is high, you weigh our time, effort, and worth way too much, too often. I was doing that too.

15th August was a day away. The scars on my feet which were gifted by my oversized boot during the last republic day were still there. Parade practice was not on the shoulders of the students who belonged to the 10th scholar group due to extra classes. I was one among them. Still, Prabhati Guruma had ordered to come for the parade on independence day. We were not interested. That feeling of being senior. That feeling of not devoting time to this thing, getting tired, and losing one day of study. So juniors should handle the stuff this time. We have already done a lot. We are not coming tomorrow. We should not also. Some of us decided. I had been suffering from a fever for a month at intervals. So one extra reason was there for me. Maybe not a reason, but an excuse.

It was the 14th August night. I was not feeling well. So I decided to sleep early, to wake up early, to read for some hours and to attend the flag hoisting in our colony. Flag hoisting in the colony used to seem more rewarding. No parade. No speech. Just reciting the national anthem and getting a packet from Priya. Too good for a morning tiffin. I planned my schedule for the next day and went to bed. Sleep was not coming to me. A different kind of pain was there. I was experiencing that for the first time. Sibu was asleep. Baba mami were talking about something. Our bed was not too small for four people back then. I was not tossing and turning. I was lying as if I was asleep, really. The pain was increasing. I was unable to bear it. Suddenly I woke up from the bed. Mami asked me what happened. Baba was also asking the same. I didn’t answer and came straight to the drawing room. Mami said to baba- ” Are you seeing! How Ruchi is becoming adamant!” But I didn’t have an answer to her anger. I was standing in the drawing room. Pictures of Ganeshji, Saibaba and Jagannath Balabhadra Subhadra were there. I was looking at them. I was feeling pain. I used to stand there and look at them whenever I face any difficulty. I don’t find any answer. But i question Them. i seek answer from Them. But this time, the pain was different. It was too much, too new. I was unable to decipher it. I sat on the sofa. I was crying. Babamami came and asked me what happened. I said nothing. Pain was growing. Night was growing. Something was traveling inside my left back, my left waist. I was feeling that sensation. Baba was tensed. Mami had kept her hand on my head. Baba called to some hospitals. Whether to consult a medicine specialist or gynaec. Whether to go to a private hospital or govt. Amidst the dilemma, it was decided to wait for the morning. The Sun came and saluted the Indian land. Ghosh sound from my school had started coming, loudly. Maybe louder was my groaning in pain. At least I was feeling like that, my parents too. The flag hoisting was going on in our colony. And in that way, I was going to the hospital. When we were coming out of the colony gate, our school parade was just passing by. We found a side way. Pupils were moving in the rhythm of ghosh. Flags in their hands were also flowing in the rhythm of the morning breeze. A mixed sense of feeling was running in my body, in my mind. I was wearing a green and white nightsuit. Just orange was missing.

We reached at capital hospital. Don’t know exactly if my pain had been reduced a bit or my mind had been shifted from my body to those patients, to their sufferings. That accident met guy with many rakhis in his hand. That kid who was crying so loudly with the dose of injection. Those patients and their dear ones in the corridor. That peep-poop-washed corridor. That vomit smell and that vomit-arousing smell. Those eyes of hurt and hope. How these people can take part in this big day of our nation? Is our freedom meant only freedom from those britishers? What is freedom actually when we all are caged in the prison of destiny, at some point in our lives? I was thinking while moving from this department to that.

Baba brought a cake for me. No seo bundiya, no sweets, no priya packet this time. With some injections and medicines, my pain subsided. And from that day, my journey towards unbearable ache in body and unsolvable agony in mind continued for some months. In the most crucial year of my school life, I got the punishment for the sin I had been committing for the last ten years. By suppressing the signal of my urinary bladder. By cracking sarcasm in front of friends saying “ହସାନି ବେ! ମୋ ଟାଙ୍କି ଫୁଲ୍ ଅଛି”. By emptying my water bottle on road, on plants while returning from school. Anyways, I experienced the unexpected. The wrath of destiny. The mercy of the Almighty too.

During our childhood, we never try to decode everything. We accept things, instead and try to solve them. I think that’s the most beautiful thing. But as we become adults, we try to find answers to everything. That’s why we become restless. We become caged in our own thoughts. We aim for financial freedom. We get angry if our parents put any restrictions on us. We wish to break the shackles that society throws on our lives. And in this process, we sometimes forget to unlock our own minds from all the tensions, frustrations, complaints, and from everything that hurts us. I know mind is a monkey. It jumps, jumps and goes anywhere if you don’t chain it. But doesn’t this monkey deserve to taste freedom today? You decide. I hope your monkey is not bad and violent. It must be cute and sensitive who observes a lot, for long, takes away the sweetness(goodness) from everyone’s platter(persona) without harming(hurting) them and makes them smile.

See how I gave freedom to my mind. And instead of writing something exquisite about our freedom struggle, our victory, and our development in every sphere over all these years, it ended up writing a kiddish story. Maybe on this independence day, I am not writing for others to read me, not writing as an adult with high thoughts and heavy vocabs. But as that brave kid who has the power to give some hope to the vulnerable adult writing this. That kid who didn’t blame destiny for showing such harshness in return of her ten years of sincerity. That kid who didn’t answer to those suspicious eyes who were searching for her name in the test exam result fixed on the notice board. That kid who stood strong when everyone in the medhaa class was doubting her potential. That kid who didn’t give up on herself when everyone was moving ahead of her, crossing her. That kid who believed in God firmly and experienced the miracle. Now when this adult is dealing with an existential crisis every single day, only that kid can say to her “If God has saved you during that time, He must have assigned some duty to you. Maybe some big duty. All that you need to do is to give your all to make yourself capable of performing that duty. And to leave rest of the things in the hand of that Almighty.” And lastly, the kid should remind her that the progenies of mother India are never cowards, they fight with dedication till the end.
©ruchiabhisikta

Some fav lines that fit into today’s mood-
//आँखों में कुछ आँसू हैं कुछ सपने हैं
आँसू और सपने दोनों ही अपने हैं
दिल दुखा है लेकिन टूटा तो नहीं है
उम्मीद का दामन छूटा तो नहीं है
हम लोगों को समझ सको तो समझो दिलबर जानी
थोड़ी मजबूरी है लेकिन थोड़ी है मनमानी
थोड़ी तू तू मैं मैं है और थोड़ी खींचातानी
हममें काफ़ी बातें हैं जो लगती हैं दीवानी
फिर भी दिल है हिन्दुस्तानी
फिर भी दिल है हिन्दुस्तानी //