By Suchismita Ghoshal
Freedom is similar to flowing water,
a beautiful amalgamation of hydrogen and oxygen.
Nobody ever dares to prevent it from flowing.
Freedom is the gentle torture,
an inch more can choke your breath
and an inch less can belittle you.
Freedom is like the summer sun
The sharper it gets, the more you screech.
But today the world before me
seems to lose its power.
Freedom of speech—a distant dream.
I am sucked into it every time.
The first time was when I learnt
to stop my tongue running
against my puritanical father,
the second time was when I saw my
mother shattered on the floor
and I didn’t let my words come out
of a mouth, bandaged,
the third time when I let my teachers
not know the true reason for my chronic absence,
the fourth time when I willingly let my lover abuse
me for the way I dress
the fifth time when I chose to run
from the bullies rather than speaking up on the spot,
the sixth time when I saw my best friend
accused me of a nefarious reason
of snatching her boyfriend and all I did was
offer her a ‘freedom of speech’,
the seventh time when I let my scream
stick in the pillow for my voice tasted bitter
in the vulnerable hours of night,
the eighth time when I crumpled the paper
in which I drew a woman resembling
just like me with all the bittersweet flaws,
the ninth time when I almost
sucked my depression against my will
to provoke my anxiety for a dangerous
torment almost to death,
and the tenth time when I wrote this poem
freeing my thoughts on how I let the
‘freedom of speech’ chop my wings
for the ‘freedom of living’,
part by part, day by day!
Copyright© 2020 by Suchismita Ghoshal (storytellersuchismita)