Permission Poem by ashok jadhav

(A narrow beam of light. The speaker stands at its edge, hesitant, as if waiting for a signal.)

I was taught to wait—
for permission.
To speak.
To act.
To become.
So I stood at thresholds,
holding my breath,
watching others walk through doors
I was afraid to touch.
"May I? "
I asked with my eyes,
my posture,
my silence.
Permission became my habit.
Approval—my language.
I measured myself
by how easily I was allowed.
But tell me—
who decided my life
needed a signature?
I delayed dreams
until they felt outdated.
I softened opinions
until they sounded like echoes.
I mistook politeness
for purpose.
The cruelest part?
No one was stopping me anymore.
The gate was open.
The guard had left.
Still, I waited.
Because when you ask for permission too long,
you forget how to choose.
Tonight, I step forward
without raising my hand.
Without asking the room
to agree with my existence.
This is not rebellion.
It is remembrance.
I do not need permission
to breathe,
to speak,
to claim my own becoming.
(The speaker steps fully into the light. Blackout.)