autobiography of a freedom fighte
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Autobiography of a Freedom Fighter
Buried deep inside my mind is a sepia colored scene from early childhood, its hues taken from the films we used to see on the streets during festival time. In the scene, I am sitting beside my father Dada on a plywood divan in the front room of our three-room flat in the old city and he is telling me that I was born on January 26, the Republic Day of India. I was named after Aruna Asaf Ali, the freedom fighter, he is saying. My birth name, it turns out, is indeed Aruna. I am destined to do great things in this world, he is telling me, and an incredible feeling is sweeping over me. I am special; I am to change the world, I believe.
I wonder sometimes if my mind has amalgamated disparate incidents to create this singular memory or if it just happened this way. Whichever the case, the words are real, and so are the details. Throughout my childhood, my father repeatedly reminded me that I was named after a freedom fighter; that I was to have a life different from that of other women in India