Born Free - By Kanchana Perera

Written By: Kanchana Perera

Category: Short Story: Literary/Environmental Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In a deeply evocative short story titled "Born Free," Kanchana Perera masterfully explores themes of memory, survival, and freedom within the rich tapestry of environmental fiction. This compelling narrative is part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, where writers and poets from around the world share their unique voices and stories. Set against the backdrop of Sri Lanka's majestic landscapes, the story delves into the poignant experiences of an elephant, reflecting on life, loss, and the indelible connection to the land.

About the Work

"Born Free" weaves a tapestry of nostalgia and introspection, evoking a profound sense of place and belonging. Kanchana Perera's narrative is rich with vivid imagery and emotional depth, portraying the struggles of an elephant amidst environmental challenges and human encroachment. The story is imbued with a sense of longing and reverence for nature, inviting readers to reflect on the intricate relationship between humans and the natural world. Through a lyrical prose style, the story underscores the timeless themes of memory, survival, and the quest for true freedom.

Born Free

Original Submission by Kanchana Perera

Born Free

Shell-shocked I stand motionless in the thicket, hidden amongst the tall shrubs. The air is heavy with the scent of iron and dust.

Every breath, drags pain deeper into my chest, and at this height of agony, anger, despair, and grief, I contemplate my life. My next move…

Do I charge? Do I retreat? Do I forgive? ….

Somewhere in the haze, a melody surfaces from memory, fragile and faint.

My grandmother used to hum it when I was a calf, my ears flapping clumsily as I nuzzled close to her side.

"Born free, as free as the wind blows,

As free as the grass grows,

Born free to follow your heart."

Is this what they mean by your life flashing before your eyes? Am I dying?

I am forty-eight years old today, and nothing in the last two decades has made it possible to relate to this song. The irony stings sharper than the wound.

Grandmother Rani.

Just thinking her name brings a wave of longing so fierce it nearly buckles my legs.

She, was my safe haven, the one who always had my back. When I was being naughty and oh, I was naughty!

She helped my mother bring me back in line with such tenderness, gently nudging me in the right direction with her trunk, never with force. I cannot recall one time when she raised her voice or her trunk in anger at us.

Gentle. That is what she was.

The humans who came to watch us from their metal boxes called her "the gentle giant." My family and all the other adults in our clan called her the matriarch.

I was not quite sure what that meant back then. But even as a calf, I knew it meant something big, something grand, something powerful.

When she moved, we all moved. When she spoke, we listened. Her wisdom ran deeper than the tank itself.

"This land knows," she used to tell us, her voice like distant thunder before rain. "The trees, the soil, the water, all hold our stories. We are not just passing through. We are this place."

My family and I have lived here in this beautiful space called Minneriya for centuries, cradled between lush forests, our favourite grasslands, and the vast reservoir the humans call "Minneriya Tank." It was built by King Mahasen of Sri Lanka over two thousand years ago. The humans still speak his name with reverence. We too remember his kindness; through the water itself, which he meant to share with all beings, including the elephant and man.

This is where we drink, bathe, graze, and court each other. This is where I met my Juliet - and no, my name is not Romeo. My name, I fear, is not going down in history for being brave or compassionate or kind. I feel defeated, and for this reason, I shall remain anonymous. Let the song remember what I could not become.

We, are apparently world-famous for something called "The Gathering." Every year during the dry season, when the rains stop and the waters retreat, hundreds of us converge at the tank. These gatherings can last three to four months, a proper celebration of survival. Last year, we had over four hundred elephants. It was magnificent, like one of those human festivals Bhathiya told me about. What did he call it? Tomorrowland?

I was chuffed when my cousin Bhathiya told me we were truly unique for this reason. The humans would converge from across the world just to watch us. They would whisper in awe, click their strange black eyes at us, call us majestic. To them, it was fascinating… To us, it was life itself.

Bhathiya. Now there was a character. Strange, that one - always on the move, always wandering to the edges of our world where trees gave way to fields and fences.

A loner, like most of us males once we "come of age." We didn't visit our mothers or the ladies often, but when we did, they seemed to enjoy our company. Well, for the most part, at least.

I never really knew my father for this reason. I remember him being quiet, stoic, rather grumpy. It was only later, when I was older, that I understood why. The world wore him down, as it wears us all down……The weight of survival, of loss, of watching the boundaries shrink year after year—it changes you.

But Bhathiya, four years my senior, had ventured out early. I envied his experiences, his tales of nearby villages; the villages that must not be named, as if speaking of them would make the tragedy more real. Perhaps the relationship between us and them was a tragic relic of what once was, and that's what made the elders unable to speak of it.

"The humans once lived with us," Bhathiya told me one evening by the tank, his voice faltering. "They followed our paths. They knew our migration routes, our habits, our patterns. They sang when we bathed. They used to leave fruit by the trees for our young—as offerings, not traps."

I laughed at him then, young and foolish. "You dream too much, cousin."

But he only smiled, that sad, knowing smile.

"Perhaps. But dreaming is how we remember what was lost."

Grandmother Rani never contradicted him, though she wore a sadness in her eyes whenever he spoke of the humans. "Those days are gone," she murmured. "And forgetting has cost them more than it has cost us."

Bhathiya told me that only his mother, my grandmother Rani, and a few other aunties could still recall any kindness from "the likes of them." The memory was fading, like water evaporating under the relentless sun.

I didn't believe him.

And for that, I pay dearly today.

My skin hangs loose on my bones.

I have not fed in days. I cannot anymore. There lies a gaping hole where once my mouth was - a mouth that trumpeted joy, that wrapped tenderly around my Juliet's trunk, that used to strip bark and pluck fruit.

It happened on a fateful day in October. The air shimmered with heat, and the tank had shrunk to a shadow of itself.

Hunger gnawed at me; slow, insistent, cruel.

I followed the scent of ripening fruit that drifted from the edge of the village, the one Bhathiya had warned me about, the one the elders told us to avoid.

There it was: a single golden pumpkin, lying innocently near a fence.

I hesitated. The warnings echoed in my head. But hunger silences wisdom, drowns out caution. I took one step forward, then another. My trunk - always so careful, so clever brushed its smooth surface. It seemed like a gift. A mercy.

I took the first bite.

The sound that followed still rings ominously in my ears. A blinding flash, then thunder from within. My world shattered in a fireball of agony.

I could not understand what was happening, only pain. That blinding, searing, all-consuming pain, and the rage that followed - rage at my own stupidity, rage at the cruelty, rage at a world that had come to this.

When I came to…, the air was thick with smoke and my own blood. My mouth: or what was left of it burned. I stumbled backward, dazed, unable to breathe, unable to scream, unable to call for help.

The pumpkin was no fruit. It was a bomb.

That was days ago. Or weeks. Time blurs when you can no longer eat, no longer drink. Flies gather at the edges of my wound.

I move only when I must, and even then, only a few steps.

The herd has gone. They had to. The calves need water. The mothers need safety. I heard my Juliet calling for me in those first days, her trumpet breaking with grief. But I could not answer. I could not follow. To follow would be to lead danger to them, and I love her too much for that.

I do not blame them for leaving. This is the way of things. The strong survive. The weak fall behind. I am now the weak.

Sometimes, when the wind shifts, I hear the distant sound of engines, humans coming to watch us again, their voices bright with admiration during "The Gathering." They will call us majestic, magnificent, mighty.

They will return home with photographs to prove they witnessed something extraordinary.

I wonder if they know what lies behind their photographs, the bones hidden in the grass, the traps buried beneath the soil, the silence where once a matriarch sang. I wonder if they connect the ‘show’ they love, with the suffering they must surely know exist?

The forest is quiet now. The sky bruises purple and gold.

I have found my resting place - a small clearing beneath an ancient kumbuk tree, its gnarled roots spreading like arthritic fingers into the earth. The tree must be centuries old, perhaps as old as the tank itself. Its broad canopy provides shelter from the harsh afternoon sun, and now, in the fading light its leaves whisper secrets, to the evening breeze.

Around me, the land lives…. Tufts of dried grass poke through the stubborn red earth. A fallen log slowly surrenders itself back to the soil. Termite mounds rise like miniature fortresses, and the distant call of a peacock announces the end of day.

This place for me is sacred. Filled with generations of my ancestors who have passed through here. The worn elephant paths crisscross the clearing, and I imagine I can see them: great bulls with ivory spears, mothers guiding wobbly calves, matriarchs like Rani leading their families to safety.

The earth beneath me has cooled now drawing heat from my failing body. It smells of rain, though the clouds have not yet come. The air is pungent and promises renewal. I press my side against the ground, feeling its permanence.

When I am gone, this earth will remain. The kumbuk tree will continue its patient vigil. The termites will build. The peacocks will call.

Life, as it always does, will go on.

I can just make out the glimmer of the tank at a distance, reduced now to a silver thread in the growing darkness. How many times did I stand at its edge, trunk dipping into cool water, feeling the mud squelch between my toes? How many sunrises reflected off its surface while Rani told us stories of old kings, of harmony, of a time when this land held space for all of us?

A breeze stirs the kumbuk leaves above me, and for a moment, I swear I hear her -not just in memory, but here, now, her voice carried on the wind like pollen.

"This land knows."

I close my eyes.

I now can feel no pain.

The clearing embraces me. The tree shelters me. The earth holds me.

This, is where I was always meant to return.

Perhaps freedom is not about walking unbound across endless plains. Perhaps it is not about following your heart wherever it leads. Perhaps freedom, real freedom, is about letting go of anger, of fear, of sorrow.

When the rains come, they will wash the blood from the soil. The grass will rise again, green and alive. The young will return to play where I once stood, their trumpets filling the air with joy they do not yet know is temporary.

We are lives. We are stories. We are memory made flesh.

The world will forget my name. But not, perhaps the song.

"Born free, as free as the wind blows,

As free as the grass grows,

Born free to follow your heart..."

I hum it now in my mind’s eye as the light fades and my breath grows shallow,

I understand what she was trying to teach me all along.

Freedom is not the absence of suffering. It is the choice of how we meet it.

And so, I choose forgiveness. Not for them - but for me.

I close my eyes, and I am free.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the diversity of voices in literary arts. It invites participants across the globe to present their works of poetry, short stories, and creative writing, fostering a global community of writers. The competition showcases a wide range of themes and styles, encouraging writers to push boundaries and explore new horizons in their craft.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Kanchana Perera for sharing "Born Free" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your story's profound exploration of memory and freedom offers rich insight and reflection. We are grateful for your contribution and are honored to feature your work on Hashtag Kalakar.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.