\"What is freedom,
away from the jargons?\"
Asked the boy,
seated in the back bench.
---
The teacher looked,
irritation contorting
his face.
If he could
throttle his scrawny neck,
and teach him some respect!
He wished
the job allowed that freedom.
---
His agitated voice,
shrill yet forcibly controlled,
rang out with irritation
but no conviction:
\"A question not to be asked.
Believe what told-
You have freedom\"
The whole class echoed:
\"Isn\'t that enough?\"
---
The boy looked on,
fixed stare:
\"What is freedom?\"—
again the same question.
No agitation,
a firm conviction
not to be bullied.
---
Amidst
shattering silence of intellect,
another question lands:
\"Show me any scripture
that lets one choose his path
with no dagger plunged
in his back.\"
---
Enraged and outraged
at desecration of Nation and God,
everyone stood up,
walked up to his desk.
Dragged and spread-eagled him
on the floor,
their boots pressing on
hands, feet, and torso.
---
Teacher clapped in appreciation,
signaled \"Go.\"
The boy smiled with mischief.
The mocking smile
enraged the choir,
they stamped on his throat.
---
At last the job was done.
The teacher\'s victory smile
clicked for posterity.
The boy\'s mutilated remains
stand forever-
Symbol of Nation\'s freedom.
---
The face still shows a twisted smile.
Perhaps one last kick to erase it forever?
A choice of democratic ideals.