Perchance To Dream: Is this the Freedom We Dreamed Of?

We protested. The police used lathis at first. Then, they fired at us. But we held firm.

And we brought them to their knees.

It was 1946. Eighty years ago. And I was only seventeen.

The sun hangs low on the western horizon, as I settle back in my rocking chair. Small wisps of clouds, tinged with a melancholy yellow, flit across the purple emptiness. The setting rays of the sun glance off a gleaming skyscraper to form a gentle halo on the landscape around it.

And, with the creeping darkness, comes a mist within my mind, severing the tenuous bond that keeps me conscious of my existence. I am transported to the past, to my youth, when the fire of ambition within me was stoked by the cumbrous yoke of subjugation.

I hailed from a family of good position, and enjoyed the privilege of higher education. I was betrothed to the girl I loved. But somewhere within me was that urge to fight for my motherland.

And fight I did.

What glorious dreams we had dreamt: we would be freed from vassalage, our beautiful country would recapture her lost glory. No amount of repression could still the emotions that raged within our zealous breasts.

We would sing songs of love, of glory, of purity and innocence, of the meadows, the hills, the vales of our glorious land, and long for the day we would drink of the happiness and contentment that would flow through the land.

Freedom. Of thought, of speech, of expression. That was what we longed for, and fought for.

A refulgent comet streaks through the black expanse above me, leaving a luminous trail of scattered sparks.

Without warning, I am back in the present. My dreams dissolve around me and melt into the gloomy murk. I glance upwards and watch the stars twinkle, accentuating the obscureness of the void around them.

‘Where is the happiness we fought for?’ I wonder, as I watch a frail woman drag her half-starved, semi-clad child through the deserted street, under the glare of the streetlights.

Images from the television set from a few weeks back flash through my mind. Those youngsters protesting, demanding their rights, asking for a better future for themselves. Just like us, eighty years ago.

‘Where is the contentment?’ I ask, as I think of those youngsters, their discontentment manifest in their slogans, as they seek a dream just like we did, all those years ago.

And, watching them gather, I am reminded of how we stood shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, and demanded our birthright. Never did we question who flanked us on either side. It did not matter if the people who thronged with us belonged to a different religion or community. Or even caste. We were all in it together, born of the same earth, fighting for an even more sublime future. All struggling to achieve the same objective.

Yes, there was Partition. Yes, there were communal riots. And people died. Ourpeople, irrespective of which God they worshipped.

But those riots, that Partition, were imposed by a foreign colonial power. The divisiveness was not from within. The hatred was stoked by outsiders, who did not belong in our country. Divide and Rule. That was their motto. And a very successful one at that. But the poison they sowed did not go away with them. It lingered and still lurks at the fringes of our collective consciousness, waiting for an opportunity to pounce and tear us apart once more.

‘What were the sacrifices for?’ I ponder. My grandson worries for the safety of his daughter whenever she comes home late at night from college or from a friend’s house. In a country where most of us worship goddesses and pray for their blessings, we are still unable to keep our daughters, sisters, and wives safe. We take away their freedom to keep them safe, closeting them in the confines of our homes, worried that if they step out, something bad will happen to them.

We were always proud of our past. And justifiably so. Our accomplishments as a people, andourcontributiontotheworld’sstoreofknowledgehasbeenimmeasurable.And we fought to restore that.To bring back the glory that had been cruelly crushed by the iron-shod heel of colonialism. To restore our rightful place in the top echelons of science, medicine and innovation, where we had been in the past.

And, our time will come. If we focus more on the future—on what we must accomplish—and less on the past.

The mist creeps up again, engulfing my weary mind.

I will be one hundred soon. But there is still a dream.

When I was young, I would gaze up at the firmament and dream of a free country, a land of unending love and joy.

Now,I dream of the time when our sacrifices will realize their eventual reward. As the world sleeps, and the stars wink down on a dreaming globe, an ocean of silence engulfs the heavens, and my dream unfolds, emerging from a mire of ignorance and chaos.

I see my motherland rise from the ocean of purity and beauty—newly baptised, resplendent in all her beauty and glory. The stars and breeze echo our song of hope and love for our motherland.

I see myself now, sitting by the fire, singing with my fellow patriots. The words echo through my mind, the mist grows deeper, and my eyes grow moist.

Someday, somewhere, my dream will come true. And that day will be a day of triumph for my motherland.

My thoughts are interrupted by a gentle touch on my shoulder. It is my great-granddaughter, asking me to come inside, as it is growing cold. I gather my shawl and my walking stick, and look around me, searching for my dream.

The night is fading, the stars have dimmed, and a soft glow lights up the eastern horizon. Another day has begun.

Another hope. Another dream.