What makes it easier for someone to tell stories from their past is being totally unaware of the surroundings at that moment, risking it on magic to happen. Making it interesting, and magically realistic. This story is about how I started my walk towards the definition of freedom.
I was seven years old, living in the most beautiful place I have ever connected with. It was Tuesday, and I decided to do something stupid, which would make me happy. I bunked my tuition, the first class I ever bunked.
“Drop me at the Banyan Tree, near the Temple” I said to the driver who gave us a ride from school to a dingy house every day, for the tuition. I expected him to be suspicious, he confirmed it by asking “Why?”. “Mom told me to get down at the tree. She will pick me up from there” I lied with confidence. “But, I haven’t heard from them” he replied. “Yeah. That’s why she sent me this” I said, giving him the fake letter I wrote at school. I knew that the driver didn’t go to school, being the reason why I wrote it in English. A poem would have worked. He surrendered to the language. And, there I was at the Banyan Tree – with the pride of my success running around my shoulders.
I went to one of the bridges in the woods, and climbed down the rocks to a stream. I wouldn’t let the portion of my leg above the socks to get wet, because I didn’t know how to swim. Running around, touching every tree I could, as fast as I could – I was inhaling the freedom around me. It was at this moment, where I centralized myself to the very moment I was living in.
And, that is my definition of freedom. To be living the moment, with no other connection except for you and the moment itself. Whenever the dark thoughts come at me, I go in search of a Banyan Tree. But, they are bound to end up being the Neem Tree – where my mom waited hours in search of a seven-year-old.