“Meri bheegi bheegi si palkon pe rehna…”
“Ghir ghir baadal barsange, jad teer milan do raawan de…”
My playlist has commitment issues.
It starts with heartbreak, casually strolls into Punjabi folk, takes a U-turn through old Bollywood, and somehow convinces Apple Music that I need therapy instead of music recommendations.
Maybe the algorithm knows me better than I know myself.
Independence Day is around the corner.
The entire country is getting ready. Flags will be sold at every traffic signal. WhatsApp University professors have already started forwarding HD tricolours with 480p grammar. Companies are drafting LinkedIn posts about freedom while making employees work on 15th August because “client deliverables.”
Freedom.
Such a beautiful word.
Such an expensive subscription.
Every year we celebrate Independence Day. At least that’s what we call it. But I sometimes wonder—how many people are actually celebrating?
Some are remembering a grandfather who fought in a war.
Some are remembering a father who never came back.
Some are remembering a relationship that ended exactly on this day because apparently freedom has different meanings depending on who is breaking up.
Imagine losing the love of your life on Independence Day.
Every year the country shouts, “Happy Independence Day!”
And somewhere, someone’s playlist quietly whispers, “Meri bheegi bheegi…”
That’s either poetic or incredibly rude.
Then my brain, which has never met a normal thought in its life, asks a stupid question.
Do crimes decrease on Independence Day because it’s a national festival?
Or do they increase because everyone suddenly feels…
…independent?
Imagine getting arrested.
“What was the motive?”
“Sir… patriotism.”
The police officer just sighs and writes, ‘Overdose of freedom.’
What the fuck even is independence?
Is it a feeling?
A legal status?
A public holiday?
Or is it just one day every year when we pretend the rest of the year doesn’t exist?
We proudly say we’re independent.
Really?
Try leaving your phone at home for an hour.
You’ll discover you’re not independent.
You’re Bluetooth-enabled.
We’re dependent on notifications.
Dependent on validation.
Dependent on salaries.
Dependent on people who reply with “K.”
Dependent on people who don’t reply at all.
Dependent on coffee.
Dependent on alcohol.
Dependent on that one person who said “take care” three years ago and somehow still occupies premium real estate inside our heads.
We’re independent only until the Wi-Fi disconnects.
Then suddenly democracy itself feels threatened.
And then there’s society.
Ah yes.
India’s favourite unpaid consultant.
Society has opinions about everything.
What you wear.
What you eat.
Who you love.
When you marry.
Why you don’t have children.
Why you have only one child.
Why you’re earning too little.
Why you’re earning too much.
Society doesn’t even pay my electricity bill, yet somehow it has lifetime administrative access to my personal decisions.
It’s fascinating.
We proudly celebrate freedom every year while spending the remaining 364 days asking complete strangers,
“Log kya kahenge?”
Who exactly are these log?
Do they have jobs?
Do they sleep?
Or are they standing outside everyone’s house with a clipboard conducting annual audits of morality?
And caste.
Religion.
Background.
Family name.
The oldest software bugs that humanity refused to patch.
Two people fall in love.
Society opens Excel.
“Hmm… different caste.”
“Different religion.”
“Different community.”
“Application rejected.”
Congratulations.
Your emotions have failed document verification.
The irony?
I laugh at society.
Then I ask myself something that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
Would I be completely okay if my own child married someone from another faith?
My first instinct is to say yes.
My second instinct asks another question.
Would I hesitate?
Would I secretly calculate what relatives would say?
Would I become the very uncle I make fun of every family wedding?
Damn.
That’s the problem with satire.
Sometimes the punchline is staring back at you in the mirror.
Maybe society isn’t just outside us.
Maybe society rents a one-bedroom apartment inside every one of us.
Some of us simply charge it less rent.
We’re born into families.
Raised with values.
Protected by rules.
Conditioned by fears.
Rewarded for obedience.
Punished for curiosity.
Then one day someone announces,
“Congratulations. You’re independent now.”
Independent?
Brother, I still ask my mother whether the food in the fridge is safe to eat.
The only thing truly independent in my life is my anxiety.
And relationships…
God.
We talk about independent women.
Independent men.
Independent choices.
But love has always been the least independent thing ever invented.
You don’t schedule it.
You don’t approve it.
You don’t run a background verification before your heart starts behaving like an unpaid intern.
It simply happens.
Then society arrives wearing a tie and carrying rejection stamps.
Rejected.
Rejected.
Rejected.
Not because love was wrong.
Because the surname was.
Or the god was.
Or the postcode was.
Or because somebody’s uncle had an opinion.
Amazing.
We built rockets that touch the moon.
But two adults still require a committee meeting to hold hands.
Progress.
Every Independence Day we salute the flag.
Maybe we should also salute the invisible prisons we’ve decorated so beautifully that we mistake them for culture.
Maybe freedom isn’t something a country wins once.
Maybe it’s something a person has to fight for every single day.
Against fear.
Against guilt.
Against expectation.
Against family.
Against strangers.
Against themselves.
And sometimes…
against the version of themselves that sounds suspiciously like society.
Anyway…
This entire thought started because my playlist decided heartbreak songs were an appropriate warm-up before Independence Day.
Maybe Apple Music knows something.
Or maybe I’m just overthinking after one beer too many.
Who knows?
Some people will celebrate Independence Day with parades.
Some with selfies holding tiny plastic flags.
Some with long weekend trips.
Some with silence.
And somewhere…
someone will quietly delete old messages, archive old photographs, pretend they’re over it, smile during the flag hoisting, clap at the national anthem…
…and mourn a freedom they never really had.
Happy Independence Day.
Or condolences.
Depends on what you’re trying to free yourself from.
