I AM FREE, THATS WHY I AM LOST
- Madhukar Dama
- 1 hour ago
- 6 min read
— The Fictional Life of Madhukar, the Man Who Walked Out of Every Cage
---
Everyone wants freedom.
Until they have it.
Until the marriage ends,
the salary stops,
the phone dies,
the town forgets,
and the only person left to answer to is the one in the mirror.
Madhukar was once a man with a respected name, a job that paid well, a profession that mattered — veterinary doctor, professor, researcher. He had answers. He had titles. He had language to hide behind.
But deep inside, he knew —
he was living a rented life.
Rented morals.
Rented goals.
Rented identity.
So one day, he walked out.
Not in rebellion.
But in exhaustion.
He gave up the doctor’s coat, the concrete home, the pension plan.
He left the city.
And stepped into the forest.
Everyone called him brave.
But no one saw what followed.
---
THE FIRST YEAR: THE CAGE OF NO CAGE
In the beginning, it felt like flight.
Waking up to birdsong.
Bathing in rivers.
Growing his own food.
Sleeping under stars.
No one to report to.
No emails. No ranks.
No neighbours watching.
But soon, the silence grew teeth.
He realised:
Freedom is not an escape.
It is exposure.
There was nothing left to blame.
No institution to fight.
No boss to curse.
Just himself.
And that self…
was not ready.
---
NO PURPOSE TO HIDE BEHIND
For decades, Madhukar had said,
“I’m doing this for society. For the sick animals. For the students. For the system.”
Now, there was no society asking.
No patients calling.
No praise waiting.
The question arrived quietly one morning, with the dew:
“Now that no one needs you… will you still move?”
---
THE TERROR OF UNMEASURED DAYS
In the city, time had a shape.
Wake. Rush. Work. Earn. Plan. Impress. Repeat.
In the forest, time was water.
It slipped.
It spread.
It didn’t care what you achieved.
Madhukar would sometimes sit for six hours, watching ants.
Then weep in the evening, unsure why.
“Am I wasting my life?”
He asked the trees.
They didn’t reply.
Because nature never praises or punishes.
It just reflects.
And what it reflected was terrifying:
A man who had never really known himself.
---
THE DEATH OF IMPORTANCE
There was a point when Madhukar realised
he was no longer “someone.”
In the village, he was just the barefoot man who didn’t use plastic.
In the forest, he was just another mammal.
His degrees meant nothing.
His ideas meant nothing.
Even his goodness meant nothing.
He began to understand:
You can be right all your life
and still live without truth.
---
THE BIRTH OF NOTHING
One night, a jackal cried for hours.
Madhukar listened, and something inside cracked.
He wasn’t sad.
He wasn’t enlightened.
He was just… empty.
For the first time, he didn’t need to teach, save, prove, or be useful.
He lay on the ground.
No prayer.
No goal.
And in that nothing — peace arrived.
Not happiness.
Not meaning.
Just space.
---
THE FREEDOM THAT UNMAKES YOU
People think freedom is having choices.
Madhukar learned: freedom is having nowhere to hide.
No role.
No mask.
No external enemy.
He was free.
Which meant every mood, every mistake, every moment of laziness — was his.
He could no longer say,
“It’s because of the government.”
“It’s because of my wife.”
“It’s because of deadlines.”
There were no excuses left.
That’s why freedom makes people panic.
It burns away fiction.
And leaves you naked.
---
THE MAN HE BECAME
Today, people visit him.
They call him “healer,” “hermit,” “wise one.”
But he laughs inside.
Because he knows:
he did not reach somewhere.
He simply stayed long enough
to stop pretending.
He no longer wants to be good.
He no longer seeks peace.
He just tries not to lie.
He doesn’t offer salvation.
He just listens without need.
He teaches nothing.
He only says:
> “I am free. That’s why I was lost.
But in getting lost, I finally found what was mine.
Not knowledge.
Not language.
Just silence that doesn’t demand to be explained.”
---
CLOSING
So the next time you envy the one who lives freely —
Remember this:
Freedom will not save you.
It will dismantle you.
And if you survive that…
what’s left is not joy,
not purpose,
not pride…
But something quieter, older, truer —
A life without mirrors.
A heart without agenda.
A man who no longer needs to be anything.
Because he finally met himself.
And didn’t turn away.
---
---
“FREEDOM ROTS DIFFERENTLY”
they called him free.
said he had guts.
a man who walked out.
left salary.
left screens.
left that glass house called purpose.
they called him brave.
but no one saw
how freedom doesn't explode —
it erodes.
---
the first morning,
he woke to bird songs
and cried,
not out of joy —
but because there was no reason to wake.
he boiled water.
no tea.
no newspaper.
no headlines to rage at.
just steam
and the sound of his own breath
accusing him of nothing.
---
he picked up a hoe,
tried to grow food
like a man trying to become soil
out of guilt.
he burned all his ID cards,
but the real fire
was the one that burned him every time he sat still.
---
people thought he was meditating.
he was dissociating.
he was peeling off
the hundreds of labels
that let him pretend he mattered.
professor.
doctor.
husband.
citizen.
saviour.
man.
now he was just
another breathing sack of questions
feeding ants.
---
freedom doesn’t come with fireworks.
it comes like a leak.
you don’t know it’s breaking you
until your dreams stop making sense.
---
some days, he talked to trees.
not because he was wise.
but because they didn’t ask him to prove anything.
some days, he missed the traffic,
the noise,
the pressure —
that beautiful anesthesia
of modern life.
---
you don’t realise how much you depended
on being needed
until no one needs you.
---
he was free.
no clocks.
no mirrors.
no inbox.
no appraisal.
just him and the rotting log
that looked more alive than most people he used to know.
---
at night,
he didn’t sleep.
he stared into the sky
asking the stars:
“what do I do now?”
the stars blinked.
not because they had answers —
they just didn’t care.
---
one day a girl from the city came,
asked him if he had “found himself.”
he wanted to laugh.
wanted to ask,
“which self?”
the achiever?
the lover?
the fool?
the man who cried over burnt rice?
freedom didn’t reveal a self.
it just dissolved all the fake ones.
---
now he was nothing.
and for the first time —
it didn’t sting.
---
he didn’t want to write books.
he didn’t want to be followed.
he didn’t want to be labelled “off-grid sage.”
he just wanted to not pretend.
---
freedom
took his ambition
and gave him silence.
took his identity
and gave him wind.
took his meaning
and gave him mud.
and he stayed.
not because it made him happy.
not because it healed him.
but because it was finally real.
---
so next time you say
“I just want to be free,”
know this:
freedom
is not a holiday.
not a TED talk.
not a YouTube channel.
not a garden with lemon grass and compost.
freedom is
waking up with no one to blame.
no boss.
no god.
no market.
no lover.
just you
and the silence
asking what the hell you really are.
---
he is free.
that’s why he was lost.
but now
he doesn’t need to be found.
he just sits,
breathing,
as the leaves fall
without permission.
---
