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.