Colors of freedom

When the fresh, tiny droplets of rain fall down from the vast, dark sky upon the tilled and thirsty earth below, I wonder if they ever miss being huddled together in the safe cocoon of the fluffy clouds, out into the world all by themselves. Now that they have a path to follow, a task at hand, a responsibility to fulfill, a niche to prove, would they rather stay back and float around in the womb of the clouds? Or do they wish to venture back into the earth where they originated from and nurture the supple soil with their sweet, essence? Most importantly, were they even asked if this was indeed what they wanted? Would they have wished to have befallen somewhere else or not to have fallen at all? Was their desire a matter even worthy enough to be considered?



When a baby bird flies out of its nest for the first time, the parent is filled with a contrasting range of emotions. First, there is the feeling of pride and joy that the child who was unaware of the means to feed itself is finally old enough to brave the winds and spread out its wings and fly. But at the same time, there is a twinge of grief reminding them that their baby is no longer theirs. Neither the old nests nor the parents’ embraces that had been its home for so long are capable of reining its advancing spirits anymore.





Next is the fear that delves much beyond the obvious concerns for its health and safety. What if the child fails and comes home? Or for that matter, what if it succeeds and never comes home? Or even if it does, what if it is due to compulsion rather than choice? An offspring succeeding to build its own home can be both a beautiful and terrible thing.



Lastly, there is the hope that governs and propels everything and everyone in this world. Hope is that dream yet to be seen, that wish yet to be made, that goal yet to be aimed, that reward yet to be claimed. But sometimes, it simply refers to that belief that all will somehow be well and despite the trials and turmoil of the day, the dusk will turn out to be just as perfect as the dawn used to be.



As beautiful or perilous as it may appear to be, freedom, is rather subjective. It is, more often than not, a double edged sword. That which may be protectiveness, might just be possessiveness; that which may be care, might be oppression; that which may be love, could be discrimination. It is almost like perceiving the world through a multihued lens where different shades tend to overlap. Who knows what color might happen to be reflected under what circumstances? Perhaps that depends on the position of the lens wearer or the angle of the light rays at that point of moment. Also, how much of it is real and precisely where the realm of illusion begins is also difficult to establish.



Freedom is the oasis in the midst of a desert, that forlorn star at the end of the sky, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the breeze which always changes its course, that elusive moon which beckons the ocean waves but never allows them to linger close enough. And even if someone manages to lay their hands upon this grand treasure, would it be that easy to handle? Or would it be tricky and difficult? Will this carefully constructed tower tumble like a park of cards?



Would that which has been existing without a glitch so far be erased like the letters in the sand with fresh waves? Or would it continue to remain like those coral reefs that bear the brunt of all fluctuating weathers and yet dare to stand bold and upright? Notwithstanding the specks of ambiguity and skepticism, I wonder how the word ‘free’ would be punctuated in its different colors and forms—if it was achieved, cherished, feared, lost or forgotten.

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