Born to be Free

Freedom was what she tasted with her first breath in this world so free.

Many ears anxious to hear, many eyes waiting to see.

Few in anxiety, few in curiosity, but all eager to know if it is HE or SHE.

And then spread the news of a new soul on earth,

Moments of gaiety but absence of glee.

Born to be adorable, born to love.

Born to be adorned, that little dove.

It was a world so beautiful to her sparkling eyes.

Doting, amicable, benevolent and wise.

Everything around her seemed so pleasant and nice.

She loved evenings and to stare at the glittering stars at night.

A prettier doll was the only thing she thought worth to fight.

Hugging the fresh air with opened arms was what she liked.

Aimed to be ‘herself’, not ready to be typed.

Colorful like flowers,

Unconquered like the wind,

Ebullient like the rivers,

Innocent like the dew,

She didn’t know, her moments to live were few.

The world was ready to erase the dreams she drew,

To chain her in norms not so new.

‘Why’ was what she demanded for every do’s and don’ts.

But all rationales seemed irrational to a free mind she possessed, which in future she won’t.

Soon the skeptic air creating commotion in her head vanished.

And she learned to learn things, without reasons valid.

She learned to have Fears.

She learned how to bear.

She learned to have tears.

She learned to stay mum and hear.

She was taught everything required to be a part, of a part, of this society.

But was never taught to be just, fair and mighty.

Prepared, Molded, Constructed.

Broken, Controlled, Restricted.

She learned to be delicate.

She learned to have etiquettes.

She leaned to live in locked gates.

She learned to accept everything as her fate.

The colorful flowers in her now faded.

The unconquered wind was tied.

The ebullient river was quiet.

And the innocence of dew dried.

The world was still beautiful to her sparkling eyes.

Yes, it was doting, amiable, and altruistic but only in disguise.

Evenings became deadlines,

As roads became chancy after nine.

She no more stared at the glittering stars at night.

No more opened her arms to hug the fresh air tight.

Cause for a cultured woman, it was not a gesture so right.

Yet she was free since her first breath, in this world that preached freedom.

There was nothing she was not allowed, except following her heart’s rhythm.

 

Anushka Yadav is more a thinker than writer. She contributes through her natural skill of quiet interest in pain not her own.

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