The One Who Questioned

"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.