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The burden of freedom

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She sat at her favourite place again–looking at the sky from the window bars after all her work was completed. The vivid colours of blue turning into an orange or a deep purple saddened her at times. Why do dark colours always chase away happy ones, like in life.

Her eyes grew moist thinking of the times when her husband pulled her by the hair and dropped her on the floor; her parents refused to help saying she was a forgotten burden and was disposed and her siblings drowned in the ideas of their wife who they had to wake up with everyday never sought to help her.

They wanted to, once they wrote a letter–their handwriting never changed stating how they love her and wish they could help but family ties and responsibilities have bound them.

My life sounds like a movie story, she thought, looking out from the window bars. Those times when her siblings and she invented games, played all day and laughed aloud, carefree. Years later when they got married and she was stubborn on the right man, she still remembers the whispers. She was labelled “adamant, too independent,” and soon, her parents who buried their love for her under the thoughts of the society, married her quickly to some “known” person.

He was a stranger in the beginning but grew stranger as they walked together. Their paths were never the same; their ideals; their aims. But her parents like other parents she knew said, “adjust” “have a baby, he will be fine.”

She could never subscribe to their ridiculous remedies of having a baby for any problem. If confronting and being beaten was the ticket to freedom then she sought that. Of course, labels, names were offered free of cost too but nothing could beat the feeling of savouring the first drop of rain, the cool breeze that ran through her hair, the joy of playing with children in her classroom and inventing new games.

Freedom was sometimes a burden. Paying the rent to the bill to cooking, she was a one woman family but the burden of freedom was a pleasure.

 

 

Note: After an year, I wrote prose. This is written for few women I know who can never take the step of walking out for understandable reasons. And this is dedicated to those women I know who took the plunge and are living a life of freedom along with the pleasure of its burden.

Categories: Short Stories
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