I am not the ghost of bygones, not the fire cracks in sky, I am neither cruel laws of any rule. I am an open road ahead, a vast and wide horizon. I am the air so you can breathe freely without hesitation. I am the breeze that soothes the burning souls and I am that soil upon which one will make them proud. No longer fear and trembles of strangers
I was not there till 1947, I was chained for a long period. I was living only on the tongues of the rebels, only being whisperied. I was hidden in the tears of innocents, the folds of mothers' saree ,the pain of our strong men , I was scribbled in the letters for the prisoners.
I was haunted ,laughed ,taunted, mocked , cursed , still I did not leave the shadows of those who did not let me die.
From pre-plassey to post partition I was merely an illusion in the eyes of people, a hopeless hope. I was unable to get what's going on initially, I was deceived for a moment by looking at the calmness of the sea and turned blind to see its depth.
How can I forget any of the events from minute to vast movement. It will take oceans to write a minute detail. Looking at the people of India too happy, I just want to recall in brief to celebrate 78 years of my rights.
I remember the fearless attitude of Mangal Panday which gave me a ray of hope to have my right. Hazrat Mahals and Rani Laxmibhai's courage was more sharp and shiny than their swords.I travelled from villages to towns, This ray of hope welcomed me in many of the houses , I remember the Rani Gaidinliu who did not bow her whispers of courage to me was firm. Birsa Munda's chains could not hold me. I call him the boss of a great tumult. How can I forget my peaceful home where Gandhi ji's simplicity, peace, nonviolent truthfulness, care and so on gave me peace and tranquillity. The threads he used to spin the blood vessels that connected every corner of India.
I remember Bhagat Singh's pen like blood flowing. They can kill me but not my ideas make me stronger . How firm ideas can change the winds. How can I forget the cells of Andaman and Nicobar? How Can I forget the pain of prisoners whose letters were posted but returned unopened ."Some letters smelled faintly of home ,of burnt wood and mango blossom yet they were returned unopened, their words starving for eyes that would never read them. In narrow lanes, wives would wait each postman’s arrival, pretending not to hope, until the day the waiting itself grew too heavy and broke their backs in silence. Children pressed their faces to dusty windows, asking when their fathers would come, and no one in the house had the courage to answer
There was not only pain in the cardiac muscles, there was pain in the wounds, the rivers, the mountains, the forests , birds and animals. Every minute things attracted to me were unhappy. People usually fetch water from the wells but the massacre still fetch the worst nightmares of the innocent blood and bodies .Although there were no sole kings, nor generals, just weavers, farmers, teachers, mothers, students lawyers dreamers. Yet, when the chains of foreign rule tightened, common people rose like a tide no empire could hold back.In the villages, weddings were postponed for years, not because there was no love, but because there was no man left who was not in prison or underground. In the cities, girls wore bangles made of clay, because glass was too expensive when all the coins went to feeding the movement. The fragrance of harvest never reached some homes, because the hands that should have cut the crops were busy cutting through tyranny.
Economically, farmers in Champaran, led by Mahatma Gandhi, refused to grow indigo for British profit. Salt-makers, following C. Rajagopalachari, walked barefoot to the sea, defying the salt tax. Markets saw shopkeepers like Dadabhai Naoroji raise the cry against the “Drain of Wealth.” Women like Kasturba Gandhi spun khadi tirelessly, making self-reliance a silent rebellion, while Matangini Hazra, an elderly widow, marched with a spinning wheel and a flag until bullets claimed her.
Socially, teachers like Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar spread education as an act of defiance, knowing ignorance was the colonizer’s strongest weapon. Savitribai Phule braved stones and abuse to teach girls. Annie Besant stirred minds through the Home Rule Movement. Begum Hazrat Mahal, a queen without a throne, led the masses of Awadh against unjust laws, while Aruna Asaf Ali hoisted the flag during the Quit India Movement when leaders were jailed.
Politically, ordinary lawyers, peasants, and clerks became voices of the nation. Subhas Chandra Bose mobilized the INA from every corner of the land. Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel rallied farmers in Bardoli into a non-violent army. Women like Sarojini Naidu, the “Nightingale of India,” led processions, endured arrests, and carried the weight of hope.
They did not fight with tanks or planes; their weapons were spinning wheels, protest marches, poetry literature, nonviolence, and truth. Their sacrifice stitched the torn fabric of a nation into the tricolor we hold today, a reminder that freedom was not given, it was earned, inch by inch, by common hands and uncommon courage.

"یہ داغ داغ اُجالا، یہ شب گزیدہ سحر،
وہ انتظار تھا جس کا، یہ وہ سحر تو نہیں۔"

The midnight of 15 August was not only a night we will remember forever, it was a fabric of thousands of knits that was completed on that day with blood, beliefs and bravery.
In Delhi Jawaharlal Nehrui spoke of trust and destiny. The chants ,hume aazadi mil gaye,
Humare bachay ab ghulam nahe. In diverse and beautiful languages people expressed happiness. In Bengal farmers were not believing the grain harvested is only theros, the land belongs to only Us now no any white man will put us in oppression and brutality furthermore. There were not tears of happy souls but a bit of pain from separation of people at borders. The Punjab woman hearing shots which side Shall we go.
This midnight was not possible without the unity in diversity, !

بول کہ لب آزاد ہیں تیرے
بول زباں اب تک تیری ہے
Do you think I was born speech less

Let me speak, I was born in jails, torchers, brutality, candlelight’s, blood rivers, underground presses, inked pamphlets, from the sepoys who drank from same lota defying position of division i was born in ghadar party sailed long , in sorrows of the women waiting for their husbands to return unimaginable Pain mothers to return to their homes. I aam born from the hinger from the droughts from.the scroying pains
Do you want to celebrate only this day?
Do you think I bought victory alone not the loss?
Remember the fighters who never reached to their homes because bulleys foind them in alleys, hoe can we forget when Indian woman fed children with grass still hoping ,Aazadi is coming.
How can one forget Mophlah rebels their bodies unclaimed, sikhs of Komagatamaru their eyes still on homeland they couldn’t retouched. I am freedom stitched with the pain stitched with funerals,
I am freedom O people of India Sometimes it aches you have forgot me you wear me like badge not the burden Am I meant to get frames photographer videographed mere in a a year . No i am meant to be lived in schools, streets, towns, villages, in courts, in dignity of labours ,in respect of women in bravery of man in strength of diverse people the love of every childs innocent eyes in brave and young hearts of nation builders.
I am happy to see the youth carrying books rather than bricks, to see farmers growing tonnes of difference, the choices of women without fear of harmony, the understanding of education and peace. I feel I am young and I won't turn old, rather the negative lapse rate of my age. I will become more youthful day by day by seeing India growing.
There are not few there are thousands of fighters who fought for this land . Their names combined make me rise up. They are not with us but feel the breathes they are
So today do more than rise a flag rise voice, for voiceless raise hands for helpless raise children to love not only for the land but for people of land. Live beautifully , live peacefully with harmony and see how my reflection will make you shine in universe
"I was born not just from the roar of protests, but from the whispered goodbyes at railway stations, from mothers hiding tears in the folds of their sarees, from lovers who promised to meet after ‘it is over’ and never met again. My heartbeat carries the echo of those who dug their own graves so others could live, who drank water from cupped palms on endless marches, who died under foreign boots but kept their faces turned towards the tricolour they had never seen flying free.
If you forget me in the everyday rush, I will not vanish — but a part of me will wither, and you will find yourself poorer in soul without knowing why."
Thats why Allama Iqbal said, saray jahan se acha Hindustan humara
I am freedom
You called me at midnight once
Call me everymorning

"لازم ہے کہ ہم بھی دیکھیں گے
وہ دن کہ جس کا وعدہ ہے

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