When Nishanth Wrote a Letter to His Mother That the World Was Never Supposed to Read

Freedom is misunderstood.

Most people think it's movement.

Travel.

Laughter.

Access.

But sometimes,freedom lives in a page.

Especially for those who can't leave a locked gate.

It started with a letter.Written in neat Telugu.

No stamp. No signature.Smuggled out from the Warangal Central Prison library desk.

"To whoever built the roads I can't walk on—

Thank you for the secondhand books.

I'm a convict.14 years in.But inside these torn pages,I remember being a boy who once wanted to read under a mango tree.

I don't want redemption.I just want a little more silence with meaning."

Nishanth read it twice.Then didn't tell anyone.He simply packed a box.

Then another.Then two dozen more.

Books.His childhood ones.

Collected from dusty trunks.Old shelves.

Libraries across Telangana.Some had torn covers.