A
story
Sohini
Bhattacharya
BAJMC SEM 2
She was named Swadhinata, a name that
meant freedom. The night she was born, her small house in Kolkata glowed in the
soft light of oil lamps, a sudden power cut wrapping the neighbourhood in
darkness while inside, a quiet promise was made. Her mother had held her close
and whispered that this child would not inherit silence, that she would live
according to her will. As a child, Swadhinata believed freedom was simple. It
lived in running barefoot through narrow lanes, in shouting “pakad ke dikha!” as she outran boys, in
climbing gates just to see what lay beyond. Through her eyes, the world was
open, unfinished, hers to explore. But slowly, almost invisibly, the lines
appeared. A fall from a wall became a reminder— “ladkiyan aise nahi Karti’’. A loud laugh drew stares that lingered
too long. One afternoon, when she was asked to come inside while her brother
kept playing, she stood at the threshold, confused, watching freedom exist just
a few steps away but not for her. She did not protest loudly: she simply
stepped back. That was her first lesson—freedom doesn’t always disappear,
sometimes it is quietly redirected until you stop reaching for it.
As she grew, the boundaries grew
sharper, more personal. Puberty did not just change her body—it changed the way
the world saw her, and in turn, how she began to see herself. The same streets
now demanded caution; the same people carried different eyes. Instructions
replaced encouragement—"seedha chalo”,
“zyada mat bolo”, “der mat karo”. Once, on her way back from tuition, she
noticed how she instinctively shortened her laughter while walking past a group
of men, her body adjusting before her mind could even question it. Another day,
she was stopped from joining a school trip because “it’s not safe for girls,”
while the boys discussed it freely the next morning. Freedom of movement, she
realized, was conditional: freedom of expression, negotiable. She began editing
herself mid-sentence, choosing silence over confrontation, “theek hai” over “kyun?”. At a family gathering, when she was told to “sit properly”
and “not argue too much,” she felt something deeper than anger—she felt
recognition. This wasn’t one moment. It was a pattern. And yet, like many
girls, she adapted. She told herself it was easier, safer, expected. Freedom,
through her lens, was no longer about doing what she wanted—it became about
avoiding what might invite restriction.
Adulthood brought a different kind of
illusion—the idea that she now had choices. Courses were suggested, careers
were “guided,” and eventually, her life began to follow a path that felt chosen
but not owned. “Ye safe hai’’… “ye better
hai”… “Shaadi ke baad sab theek ho jayega”. Marriage didn’t cage her
loudly, it refined her boundaries. Her time, her voice, her decisions—none were
taken away, yet none were entirely hers. One evening, during another power cut,
as oil lamps flickered again like the night she was born, she found an old
notebook. Inside it, her childhood handwriting declared, “Main badi hoke jo
chaahun woh karungi.” She stared at it for a long time, feeling something
stir—something she had not felt in years. It wasn’t anger. It was awakening.
For the first time, she saw her life not as a series of rules, but as a series
of quiet submissions. And in that moment, something fierce rose within her,
something inherited yet buried and she began questioning herself —“Hum sab to Kali Maa ka jaat hain, haina? humare
andar Durga jag sakti hai….to main kyu aise logon ki hare ek bat sunke jiyun?”
It was not a declaration to the world, but to herself. A realization that
strength had never been absent: it had only been subdued.
From then on, her resistance did not
come as rebellion, but as reclamation. She began to question—why must safety
mean restriction? Why must respect mean silence? She spoke a little more, held
her ground a little longer, stepped out without explaining every movement. The
world did not transform overnight; the stares remained, the expectations
persisted. But through her eyes, freedom began to change its meaning again. It
was no longer the carefree running of childhood, nor the constrained
negotiation of adolescence. It became something quieter, stronger—an internal
refusal to shrink. She understood that freedom is not always something given or
taken—it is something remembered, reclaimed, and lived despite resistance. And
as she moved forward, carrying both the weight of her past and the strength of
her awakening, Swadhinata finally began to become what her name had
promised—not a life without barriers, but a life that questioned them. A life
that, in its own quiet defiance, echoed the dream and as Tagore said – “where the mind is without fear and the head is held high.”
(An excerpt published in the 2nd edition of ASCO TIMES)
