bhaskar saikia

Freedom.

We speak of it as if it is a single, solid thing—one unbroken ray of light.

But in truth, it is a spectrum, refracted by who we are, where we stand, and what we dare to see.

For some, freedom is political—a voice unshackled, a vote cast without fear, a street walked without the weight of watching eyes. For others, it is personal—the quiet decision to leave a job, to end a toxic relationship, to live unapologetically as oneself.

And then there is the inner freedom: the hardest and most elusive of all.
It is the power to be at peace with one’s own mind, to not be chained to past mistakes or to the approval of others. It is the courage to live without rehearsing every move for an invisible audience.

But here is the paradox: freedom is never complete. It is always in negotiation—with laws, with responsibilities, with the needs of others. Too much of it, and we risk chaos. Too little, and we lose the oxygen of the soul.

So perhaps freedom is not a place we arrive at, but a room we keep building—stone by stone, choice by choice. A room with windows wide enough to let in the wind of possibility, and walls strong enough to keep out the storms that would destroy it.

In the end, freedom is both a gift and a craft.

We inherit part of it. We fight for part of it. And, quietly, we shape the rest with the life we choose to live.