“My dear friend, if you are reading this, I am no longer here. But don’t mourn me. Celebrate the fact that I got to die for something bigger than myself.”
That’s how I imagine the last letter of a young revolutionary in 1930s Bengal might have read.
They were ordinary boys and girls – students, teachers, poets – who decided that living under chains was worse than dying free.
They didn’t have social media. They didn’t have hashtags. They had only courage and the belief that their small lives could help birth a free nation.
Every time I complain about my problems, I think of them. And suddenly my worries feel very small.
Freedom wasn’t given. It was bought with blood, sacrifice, and letters like this one.
