"The Illusion of Freedom: Beneath the Shattered Veil of Independence"

Freedom, freedom, freedom...

Who is free? Is it you, or is it me?  

Freedom—where shadows of ancient caste chains still shackle the feet of millions, unseen but ever present, binding some to servitude while others walk freely, indifferent to the suffering beneath them.  

Freedom—where mobs feed on communal hatred, while blood spilled in the name of faith silently stains our streets.  

Freedom—where men become monsters, lurking both in forests and in cities, preying upon the weak, the vulnerable—feeding off the despair of those whom society deems expendable.  

Freedom—where the cries of the untouchable remain unheard, silenced by the weight of centuries, where their voices are lost amidst the deafening roar of progress that never truly reaches them.  

Freedom, that leaves countless brave souls abandoned in the night, some known, some unknown, but all forgotten as freedom is celebrated.

Freedom, built upon the broken spines of those who stood tall, whose blood paved our roads, yet whose sacrifice is now but a memory.

Freedom, where gods once worshiped for love now rip apart the hearts of their followers in violent spectacles—where love bleeds into blue, green, red, and saffron, shattering the hearts of mothers everywhere.

Freedom, reduced to currency, where the face of Gandhi, imprinted on notes, mocks the very ideals he once stood for—while those who fought for freedom lie buried beneath the weight of their betrayal.  

Freedom—where rivers that once nourished our soil, like the Ganga, Sindhu, Kaveri, Narmada, Yamuna, now carry not just water but the weight of our collective guilt. These rivers, once symbols of life and unity, now rush with the blood of division, flowing violently through the fractured veins of a broken nation.

Freedom, for the differently-abled, is an illusion, bound not by chains but by the indifference of a society that refuses to see beyond our disabilities. Freedom is a distant cry as we navigate a country that is not built for us—where simple acts like crossing streets or entering buildings become insurmountable obstacles. In a nation that celebrates its 78th independence, our freedom is stolen by the silence of a society that refuses to break these barriers, leaving us trapped in invisible cages.

How many more empty declarations of freedom must we endure?  

How many more Independence Days will pass before this land, heavy with the weight of caste and communalism, can truly rise?  

Justice, law, equality—they are nothing but words, as hollow as the promises made over the last seventy-five years, lost in the endless echo of speeches and celebrations.

In this land, where justice is auctioned like a commodity, and the powerful feast on the suffering of the weak, where does freedom truly exist? It is in the silent struggles of those who remain oppressed, in the tears of the downtrodden, in the screams that no one hears.  

These unspoken cries are where I find my freedom.  

These are my Independence Days—not in celebration, but in mourning for those left behind.  

There are millions of eyes, wet with tears that will never dry, and in those tears lie my hopes—as a communist, as a human being. In their pain, I see the truth of this nation.

How many more critiques? How many more interpretations? How many more laws and judgments?  

How many more years must pass before a woman, regardless of her caste or faith, can walk freely in this land without fear—without being preyed upon, stabbed, or silenced by the decay of politics and religion?  

How many more years until this nation rises, not in slogans, but in true dignity—where caste and communal divides no longer enslave us?

If the saffron that has replaced our tricolor hasn’t strangled you yet, if the walls of caste, religion, and division haven’t crushed your soul, if your children haven’t been raised to hate in the name of faith—  

If I survive until the next August 15th, let us meet again at the crossroads of this so-called freedom.  

And in the ever-shifting sands of this chaotic freedom, we will ask ourselves—have we betrayed our own people? Or have we allowed a false freedom to become our truth, blind to the suffering it perpetuates?

This is not freedom.  

This is the lie we have built, brick by brick, on the foundations of oppression, caste, and communalism—wrapped in the illusion of independence while the chains of division grow tighter.

But if I am still here next year, we will stand again, together, at the altar of this fractured freedom.  

And then, we must ask—have we failed ourselves? Or is this the broken freedom we have allowed to take root, blind to the suffering it perpetuates?

Until we shatter these chains of division, our freedom will remain incomplete. As Dr. B.R. Ambedkar once said:  

"Freedom of mind is the real freedom. A man whose mind is not free, though he may not be in chains, is a slave, not a free man."

Jai Hind.

- ✍️ Athul Krishna

This is what I wrote for last year’s Independence Day. Another year has passed, and still, nothing has changed.  

I write again today, not from hope, but from a deeper fear—what if, this year, we are celebrating a freedom that no longer exists, a freedom we’ve lost in the shadow of caste, creed, and communalism?