Author: snerala

The chalk dust in Masterji’s classroom was the smell of dreams, and for a long time, Rohan felt he wasn’t allowed to breathe it in. At ten years old, his world was a silent scream of frustration. The letters on the page were a malevolent swarm of black ants, shifting and swarming, refusing to make sense. Each school day was a fresh humiliation, a parade of whispered “dunce” and poorly concealed sniggers that felt like physical blows. He was the boy who couldn’t read, the son of the widow who stitched clothes until her eyesight blurred, and he wore the shame like a leaden coat.

His fortress was silence. He spoke only when necessary, his answers mumbled to the floor. He believed the lie the world told him: that his mind was a barren field where nothing would ever grow.

But Mr. Suresh, ‘Masterji’, a man whose own dreams of university had been buried under family obligation, saw the fracture in the boy’s spirit. He didn’t see a dullard; he saw a prisoner. One afternoon, he found Rohan in the empty classroom, not crying, but methodically snapping every piece of chalk in his tiffin box, his small body rigid with a fury he couldn’t articulate.

“They are just words, beta,” Masterji said, his voice soft as worn cotton. “They are not monsters.”

Rohan didn’t flinch. “They are to me,” he whispered, the admission tearing out of him like a shard of glass. “I am broken inside.”

The raw pain in those words struck Masterji to his core. He knelt, his old knees protesting, and placed a gentle hand over Rohan’s chalk-dusted ones. “No,” he said, his voice firm with a conviction that brooked no argument. “You are not broken. You are a different lock. And I will spend every day I have helping you find the key.”

And he did. While other teachers went home, Masterji stayed. He brought in clay for Rohan to form letters, scented leaves to associate with vowels, and smooth, river stones to trace the curves of ‘ओ’ (O). He told him stories of great men who had struggled, not with textbooks, but with life itself. He spoke of a boy climbing an impossible mountain to bring light to his valley, and for the first time, Rohan looked up from the slate, his eyes wide, forgetting the war with words. “I want to read that story,” he breathed, a tiny, defiant ember igniting in the darkness.

Masterji fanned that ember. He gave up his evenings, his own small supper often shared with his starving student. He saw the light slowly return to Rohan’s eyes, the hunch in his shoulders begin to straighten. The day Rohan read a full sentence aloud, his voice trembling but clear, Masterji turned away to the blackboard, pretending to wipe dust from his eyes.

Years became a river, carrying Rohan away to a world of degrees and achievements. But the boy inside the man never forgot.

On Teachers’ Day, Rohan returned. The village school was brighter, but Masterji’s classroom still held its sacred, dusty air. And there, at the same wooden desk, sat his teacher. He was frailer now, his hands more gnarled, his glasses thicker. He was patiently guiding another small, frowning child’s hand over a worksheet.

Rohan stood at the threshold, his expensive city shoes silent on the familiar stone floor. His heart hammered against his ribs. He cleared his throat.

Masterji looked up, a polite, slightly weary smile on his face for the visitor. The smile faltered. The eyes behind the spectacles squinted, and then, slowly, filled with a dawning, disbelieving wonder. “Rohan?” The name was a whisper, a prayer.

Rohan could not speak. The weight of the gratitude, the memory of the boy who thought he was broken, overwhelmed him. He crossed the room, and in a movement of pure, ancient respect, he sank to his knees and touched his forehead to Masterji’s worn leather chappals. He stayed there, his shoulders shaking with silent, cathartic sobs, wetting the dust from the feet of the man who had taught him how to fly.

“Masterji,” he choked out, finally looking up, his face streaked with tears. “You gave me everything.”

With trembling hands, he held out a book. On its cover was a beautiful illustration of a boy on a mountain peak, holding a shimmering sun. The title read: The Boy Who Brought the Sun. Masterji opened it. On the dedication page, he read:

For my first and greatest teacher, Mr. Suresh,

Who found the key to my locked mind.

You did not just teach me to read.

You taught me I was worthy of the story.

With eternal gratitude,

Rohan.

Masterji’s breath hitched. He removed his spectacles, wiping them uselessly as tears streamed freely down his wrinkled cheeks. He wasn’t just looking at a book. He was holding the tangible proof of his life’s work, the answered promise to a broken little boy. He pulled Rohan into a tight embrace, the student and the teacher, held together by the unbreakable bonds of a gratitude that had finally, beautifully, found its voice. In that quiet classroom, a lifetime of sacrifice was repaid not in money, but in the profound, emotional currency of a dream fulfilled.

In our residential colony tucked into the folds of suburban Mumbai, where I spent my childhood, the Ganpati festival was not just a religious observance…….it was a transformation of space, spirit, and sound.

The lanes, usually humming with the quiet rhythm of school-going children and evening news bulletins, would burst into life. For ten days, our neighbourhood became a living theatre of loudspeakers blaring filmy and devotional songs, display of different styles of devotion, joy, and collective memory.

The arrival of the idol was a spectacle. A grand procession wound through the colony’s narrow lanes, led by dhols, conch shells, and a sea of marigold petals. Children ran ahead, announcing the arrival like town criers of joy. The Ganpati murti, regal and serene, was placed in its temporary sanctum…….often a bamboo-and-tarpaulin mandap that, despite its modesty, radiated reverence. From that moment, time bent around rituals and revelry.

Morning and evening aartis became the heartbeat of the colony. We gathered barefoot, palms joined, eyes flickering between the flame and the idol’s gaze. Prasad…….modaks, sheera, bananas…….was more than food. It was a gesture of grace, passed from hand to hand with quiet delight. Visiting every Ganpati in the colony became a ritual of its own. We’d hop from house to house, collecting prasad like pilgrims of joy, each idol offering a slightly different mood…….some playful, some regal, some tucked into corners with quiet dignity.

But the evenings were our true theatre. Cultural programmes turned the colony into a stage. A cloth screen stretched across the road became our cinema under the stars. We sat cross-legged on the asphalt, the flicker of the projector casting shadows on our eager faces. And then…….drama. The projector, a temperamental beast, would sometimes act up. The reel would jam, the bulb would flicker, and the screen would go blank. A collective groan would ripple through the audience. Children would giggle, elders would mutter, and someone would inevitably shout, “Chalu kara re!” The delay in changing reels often led to impromptu performances…….someone would start singing, mimicry would erupt from the back rows, and laughter would fill the void. What began as disappointment often turned into a moment of shared hilarity.

One night, the film stopped mid-scene…….just as the hero was about to deliver a punchline. The projector operator, a local teenager with more enthusiasm than expertise, scrambled to fix it while the audience speculated on the ending. That pause, that communal suspense, became more memorable than the film itself.

The final day arrived like a crescendo. The immersion procession was both celebration and farewell. Professional lezim dancers, with their rhythmic footwork and jingling belts, led the way. Their movements…….part drill, part dance…….etched themselves into memory like a folk poem.

We followed the idol, chanting, dancing, feeling sad. It was as if we were escorting a beloved guest to the edge of the world.

And then, silence.

The day after immersion felt hollow. The mandaps were dismantled, the streets swept clean, and the colony returned to its usual rhythm. But something lingered…….a residue of joy, a whisper of togetherness. We waited, knowing another festival would come. Yet none quite held the magic of Ganpati, where even the projector’s hiccups felt fun.

Ganpati for me was anchored in the rhythm of drums, the shimmer of streetlight on sequins, and the shared heartbeat of a neighbourhood briefly transformed. It was the spectacle, the camaraderie, the theatre of festivity that lingered—long after the idol had departed, and after the silence had returned.

This June, after the horrible dowry death case of Vaishnavi Hagawane in Pune, I wrote of the dowry system not as a relic of tradition, but as a living wound …..festering beneath the surface of domesticity, masked by rituals and respectability. Today, that wound has bled into public consciousness once again.

In Greater Noida, on the night of 21 August 2025, a woman named Nikki was allegedly assaulted, dragged by her hair, and set ablaze by her husband and in-laws over a ₹36 lakh dowry demand. Her six-year-old son witnessed it all. “Meri mumma ke upar kuch dala, fir unko chanta mara fir lighter se aag laga di,” he told reporters. A child’s memory now carries the weight of unspeakable cruelty…..etched not in metaphor, but in fire.

This foreword is not an update. It is an indictment.

The dowry system is not merely transactional…..it is theatrical in its violence, generational in its complicity, and systemic in its silence. Nikki’s death is not an exception. It is a symptom. And her son’s testimony is not just evidence….it is a mirror held up to a society that still negotiates love through ledgers.

The rain wasn’t falling; it was a solid, shuddering wall of water. For three days, it had bludgeoned Mumbai, turning streets into raging, brown rivers.

For Arvind, the test was simple: find dry land.

The pavement he, his wife Priya, and their two-year-old son Chotu called home was gone, submerged. Their cardboard shelter was a pulpy mess. Their world had shrunk to the narrow, slick steps of a closed shop’s entrance, huddled with a dozen others, watching the water creep up.

“Pani, Papa!” Chotu whimpered, pointing at the filth lapping two steps below. His playground was now a monster.

“Shhh, beta,” Arvind murmured, pulling the boy closer. The thin plastic sheet he held was a pathetic joke. The water claimed everything, seeping into their bones, leaching away warmth and hope.

Priya clutched a sodden bundle …….. a change of clothes for Chotu, now wringing wet. Across their tiny island, an old woman, Meenakshi, sat perfectly still, eyes closed in profound resignation. The water had taken the basket of trinkets she sold. It didn’t matter.

Ahead, a family fought the current. The father, chest-deep, held a child wrapped in pink over his head. The mother clung to him, her mouth a silent ‘O’ of terror. Arvind held his breath. He wasn’t watching strangers; he was watching his deepest fear.

They made it across, scrambling onto a curb. The collective breath on the steps was released.

The monotony of cold returned. Chotu’s whimpers became a ragged cough that shook his small frame.

Arvind looked up. In the tall apartments above, lights were on. A man stood on a balcony, a steaming cup in his hand. He looked down with mild curiosity before turning inside. The separation was thirty feet of air, a chasm wider than the ocean.

That image broke Arvind. The heat of a shame and fury so intense it almost warmed him.

Priya’s hand found his. Her fingers were ice. “He is burning up,” she said, her voice a flat, terrifying fact.

He made a decision.

“Stay here,” he told her, his voice new and strange.

He waded into the knee-deep, filthy current. The cold was a visceral slap. He pushed towards the apartment building’s dry entrance. A security guard stood under the awning.

“Bhai sahab,” Arvind begged, voice cracking. “My son… fever. Just one dry towel. A little space. I will work for free tomorrow, I swear.”

The guard looked him over, weary. “Cannot, bhai. Rules. If I let one in, I have to let all. What to do? It is the situation.”

The situation. The rain. The rules. Forces with no appeal.

Arvind waded back. The water was heavier. Priya looked at him. She hadn’t expected anything else. Her lack of expectation was the final blow.

He sat, defeated, pulling Chotu onto his lap. The cough was worse.

Then, a movement.

The old woman, Meenakshi, was unfolding her sari pallu. Inside was a small, miraculously dry handkerchief, clean and white. She leaned over and, with a tenderness that shattered Arvind, gently wiped the mucus from Chotu’s nose.

It was nothing. It changed nothing about the water, the fever, the indifferent city.

But in that utter destitution, it was an act of breathtaking grace. A shared humanity more visceral than the flood.

Arvind bowed his head. Tears he didn’t have to hide mixed with the relentless rain. He wasn’t crying for a towel. He was crying for the handkerchief.

The real flood was the drowning feeling of being unseen. And the only life raft was the fragile kindness of someone who had even less.

I’m not one for religiosity, nor do I seek to promote any faith. But epics like the Mahabharata, Bhagwat Purana etc. speak to something deeper than belief ….. they speak to the human condition. On this Janmashtami, here’s a reflection on Krishna ….. not as a deity, but as a quiet presence in our everyday lives………

You don’t need a battlefield to meet Krishna. He’s already in your home …. in the laughter that defuses tension, the silence that speaks volumes, and the choices that shape relationships.

As a child, Krishna was mischievous ….. not to disrupt, but to delight. He reminds us that homes thrive not on perfection, but on play. A spilled glass of milk or a harmless prank can be the glue of memory, not the crack in discipline.

As a sibling and friend, he was loyal, teasing, and always present. Today, he’s the one who remembers birthdays without reminders, who shows up with chai when words fail, who knows that love isn’t loud ….. it’s consistent.

His romantic grace wasn’t about grand gestures ….. it was emotional fluency. He’d be the partner who listens without fixing, who understands that affection is a daily rhythm, not a dramatic crescendo.

In family dynamics, Krishna was a tactician of harmony. He’d be the elder who mediates without judgment, the cousin who bridges generations, the son who sees his mother’s fatigue before she says a word.

He protected dignity quietly ….. like the one who shields others from gossip, who defends without drama. Respect, he teaches, isn’t a rule …. it’s a reflex.

And in moments of crisis, he didn’t offer platitudes …… he offered perspective. He’d be the one who says, “Let’s sit,” when everyone else says, “Let’s solve.”

Krishna here isn’t a figure of faith ….. he’s a metaphor for emotional intelligence, relational depth, and everyday grace. The quiet force that turns homes into sanctuaries, conversations into healing, and routines into rituals.

In the chaos of domestic life, perhaps what we need is a little more Krishna.

Who’s the Krishna in your life?

Which moment at home felt like a lesson in grace?

Seventy-nine years free. The flag flies. Pride swells. We breathe sovereign air, speak unchained minds. Yet beneath the anthem’s echo, a deeper tremor: shame.

Our freedom is scarred by self-inflicted wounds.

Look……..

• Women, revered as goddesses in myth, stalked as prey in streets.

• Animals, embodiments of grace, met with casual, crushing cruelty.

• A caste system – humanity’s oldest degradation engine – still grinding souls.

• Bigotry and lack of tolerance of other faiths – shamelessly growing everywhere.

• Garbage-choked rivers reflecting our civic apathy like a filthy mirror.

• Elders fading in silent homes, discarded chapters in our family saga.

• Children’s potential extinguished by neglected, ground-level education.

• Roads: anarchic death traps where basic courtesy died.

• Corruption: the rot in every pillar, freeing the powerful, crushing the poor in forgotten cells.

This is our inheritance. Promises postponed. Potential crushed. Dignity denied.

The anguish is real. It’s the bitter aftertaste of celebration. We broke foreign chains only to forge our own – chains of indifference, prejudice, and selfish decay. Our hard-won liberty feels… hollowed.

But despair is the enemy’s fuel. This stain demands our hands.

Freedom wasn’t a gift to receive, but a covenant to build. Every… Single… Day.

• See the woman. Be her shield. Demand her safety. Act.

• Feel the animal’s pain. Extend kindness. Refuse cruelty. Act.

• Smash the caste lens. See the human. Honour dignity. Act.

• Give up hate. Respect all faiths. Embrace all. Act.

• Pick up the trash. Own your street. Reclaim your space. Act.

• Touch an elder’s hand. Offer time. Listen. Act.

• Demand real learning. Support the teacher. Enable the child. Act.

• Breathe on the road. Yield. Be patient. Drive humanity. Act.

• Refuse the bribe. Demand accountability. Be incorruptible. Act.

The temple of our nation remains unfinished. The corrupt, the cruel, the indifferent – they thrive on our silence. They win only if we stand still.

Let this Day ignite not just pride, but fury for justice. Let anguish become action. Brick by brick. Act by act.

Your hand matters. Your voice counts. Your choice defines us.

Freedom is a DAILY VERB. RISE. REFUSE. DEMAND. BUILD.

The true celebration begins when we become the light.

Carry it……. Now.

From August to December, the river became a calendar.

Raksha Bandhan arrived with the first bell of the ‘Riverschool’ boat. Neela, the teacher, tied rakhis made of river reeds on every child’s wrist. “This boat will protect you,” she whispered. Chotu, the boy with eyes like monsoon clouds, didn’t speak. But he held his wrist like it mattered.

The boat wasn’t just a school. It was a lifeline. Every morning, it picked up children from scattered riverbank homes—some barefoot, some shy, all hungry for something more than food. By noon, they were laughing, learning, eating warm meals, and playing games that made the river echo with joy.

On Ganesh Chaturthi, they sculpted clay idols on the deck. Chotu made one with ears too big. “So he can hear my sister’s prayers,” he said. She hadn’t spoken since their father drowned last year. But that day, she hummed a tune while painting the idol’s crown.

Then came Eid-e-Milad. Amina, a quiet girl who always sat near the edge of the boat, brought dates wrapped in cloth. “My Abba says sharing makes everyone smile,” she said. Neela asked her to tell a story. Amina spoke of kindness, of a man who forgave even those who hurt him. The boat was silent. Even the river seemed to listen.

By Diwali, the boat was strung with lanterns. Neela gave each child a diya. “Light it for someone you miss,” she said. Chotu lit his and placed it gently on the water. “For Baba,” he whispered. The flame didn’t flicker. It floated.

Christmas came with woollen caps and banana-leaf-wrapped books. Chotu read aloud for the first time. His voice cracked, but he finished the story. His sister clapped. Amina smiled and handed him a drawing—three children holding hands under a star. “That’s us,” she said.

Neela cried quietly behind the steering wheel.

And on the last day of the year, the boat docked for the final time. Chotu stood at the edge, holding a notebook. Inside was a drawing: a boat, a bell, a diya, a crescent moon, and a girl smiling.

He handed it to Neela. “This is the river beneath my skin,” he said.

She didn’t reply. She just hugged him.

And somewhere, on a quiet riverbank, a diya still floats—steady, soft, and glowing. A crescent moon rises behind it. And a bell rings, not to summon, but to remember.

Dayasagar didn’t go looking for heroes; he looked for ghosts. He saw them everywhere, in the quiet corners of the world, in the eyes of people who were present in body but absent in spirit.

They were the men who sat on park benches in the middle of a sun-drenched afternoon, staring at nothing, a silent monument to a loneliness that could not be articulated.

Dayasagar had once been one of them. He knew that this loneliness was not a lack of people, but an inability to connect, a deep, internal fog that made the vibrant world feel distant and unreal.

He found Vidyadhar in the community garden. Vidyadhar sat every day on the same splintered bench, surrounded by the hopeful green of new life, yet a world away from it. He would watch the gardeners, with his hands limp in his lap. He was a man drowning in a desert.

Dayasagar, a man of quiet, consistent action, began his work. He didn’t approach Vidyadhar with a friendly smile or a platitude. He simply began tending to a garden plot adjacent to the bench. Day after day, he would dig, weed, and plant, his presence as a silent anchor in Vidyadhar’s world. He didn’t ask questions; he just existed.

Their first interaction was a small, almost accidental thing. Dayasagar dropped a small gardening shovel, and it clattered on the stone path. Vidyadhar’s eyes flickered toward it, and Dayasagar simply picked it up and returned to his work. The message was clear: I see you, but I do not expect anything from you.

The friendship didn’t bloom overnight. It grew slowly, like a resilient seed pushing through hard soil. It began with shared silence, the kind that isn’t awkward but comforting. It evolved into shared comments on the weather, then a discussion about the best way to grow tomatoes.

Dayasagar discovered that Vidyadhar was an incredible botanist, a man who spoke with passion and poetry about the lifecycle of a plant, but had lost the will to care for a single leaf.

He didn’t fix Vidyadhar. He just brought him a small, struggling basil plant and set it on the bench next to him, saying nothing. He gave him an excuse to re-engage with the world, a small, tangible piece of life to tend to.

The true test came months later. Vidyadhar had a setback, an invisible wave that pulled him back under. He disappeared from the garden. For three days, the bench was empty, and Dayasagar felt a familiar, sickening fear. He didn’t send texts or make calls that would feel like an interrogation. Instead, he went to the garden and tended to Vidyadhar’s basil plant, watering it, talking to it, a silent promise that its caretaker would return.

When Vidyadhar finally came back, his face gaunt and his spirit broken, he found the plant thriving, a small act of faith waiting for him.

And that, Dayasagar knew, was the true essence of their friendship. It wasn’t about saving Vidyadhar. It was about creating a space where Vidyadhar could find his own way back. Dayasagar’s constant, unwavering presence had been a lifeline. He wasn’t a therapist; he was a friend.

And in that simple, profound act, he realized that the greatest service to mankind isn’t a grand, sweeping gesture. It is a quiet, persistent love that says, “I see you, and I will sit here with you until you are ready to stand.”

On this Friendship Day, let us abandon the notion that friendship is only for the joyful and the strong. There is a sacred, vital friendship waiting to be forged in the quiet spaces of our world. It is a friendship with the person who is a ghost in their own life, with the man on the park bench, the woman in the library, the student in the back of the class whose silence is a cry for help. They do not need your pity; they need your presence. They do not need you to fix them; they need you to sit with them.

The world needs more than just friends; it needs allies in the fight against loneliness that can be as deadly as any disease. It needs you to be the voice that says, “You are not invisible.” This is not a service to them alone. The moment you extend a hand to another, when you willingly sit in the quiet with a soul in pain, you perform an act of profound self-love. In that moment of selfless empathy, you reconnect with your own humanity, your own capacity for grace.

On this day, seek out a lonely soul. Befriend them. For in the act of being a friend to another, you become your own best friend.

The rain hammered Ramprasad’s black and yellow taxi like bullets on metal. Through the windshield wipers’ frantic dance, he could barely make out the neon chaos of Mumbai’s streets. It was past midnight, and he was desperately hunting for one last fare. His daughter Priya’s surgery was scheduled for following morning – ₹85,000 that he didn’t have.

The moneylender’s words echoed in his ears: “No money by morning, and your wife pays the price, samjha?”

At Nariman Point, a young man in his twenties stumbled toward his taxi – designer clothes torn, face bruised, blood on his shirt. “Bandra… anywhere in Bandra,” he gasped, collapsing into the back seat.

“Bhai, what happened?” Ramprasad asked, alarmed by the boy’s condition.

“Kidnapping… they held me for three days,” the young man whispered, his voice shaking. “I escaped tonight. My father… he doesn’t even know I’m alive. They told him I was dead.”

As they raced through the empty streets toward Bandra, Ramprasad noticed the boy’s hands trembling uncontrollably, his clothes reeking of some basement or warehouse. During a sharp turn near Worli, something heavy slid across the taxi floor with a metallic thud.

When they reached a residential building in Bandra, the young man – who introduced himself as Arjun – stumbled out. “I have no money,” he said desperately. “They took everything. But my father will pay you. Please wait two minutes.”

He disappeared into the building. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Ramprasad was about to leave when he noticed something glinting under the passenger seat.

A small leather pouch had fallen out during the journey. Inside – ₹3 lakhs in cash, tightly bundled, along with a note in Hindi: “Ransom money – final payment. Keep son alive.”

Ramprasad’s heart pounded. This was the kidnapping money – probably what the boy had grabbed while escaping. Three lakhs. More than enough for Priya’s surgery, the moneylender, everything.

His phone buzzed – Sunita’s message: “Doctor called. If we don’t deposit money by 6 AM, they’ll cancel Priya’s surgery slot. Next availability is after 15 days. Doctor says we can’t wait that long.”

Ramprasad stared at the money. The boy was clearly traumatized, probably wouldn’t even remember dropping it. His kidnappers certainly couldn’t file a police complaint. This money would disappear into the system anyway – why not save his daughter’s life with it?

He imagined Priya’s weak smile, her pale face, the way she whispered “Papa, will I be okay?” The money felt heavy in his hands.

But then he thought about the terror in Arjun’s eyes, how he’d spoken about his father not knowing he was alive. What if this money was all the family had scraped together? What if they had sold their house, borrowed from everyone they knew?

Twenty-five minutes later, Arjun returned with his father – a middle-aged man in a worn kurta, eyes red from sleepless nights. “Beta, I thought… I thought you were…” The father couldn’t finish, pulling his son into a desperate embrace.

“Sir,” Ramprasad approached quietly, holding out the pouch. “Your son dropped this in my taxi.”

Both father and son stared at the money in disbelief. The older man’s legs nearly gave way. “This is… this was everything we had,” he whispered. “We sold our shop, our wife’s jewelry, borrowed from the entire community. If this was gone…”

Arjun looked at Ramprasad with wonder. “You came back. With all this money, you came back.”

“My daughter is having surgery today,” Ramprasad said simply. “I know what it means when everything depends on money you don’t have.”

The father’s eyes filled with tears of understanding. He tried to give Ramprasad half the money, but Ramprasad refused. “This belongs to your family, uncle. You’ve already suffered enough.”

“Then let me help differently,” the man insisted. “I owned a small transport business before this nightmare. When I rebuild, you’ll be my first driver. ₹30,000 per month, with medical insurance for your family.”

As dawn broke over Mumbai, Ramprasad sat outside the hospital, having somehow arranged Priya’s surgery through a medical charity his wife had found. His phone rang – it was Arjun’s father.

“I spoke to my brother-in-law. He runs a private hospital in Andheri. He’ll do your daughter’s surgery free of cost. It’s the least we can do.”

In a city where survival often meant grabbing every opportunity, Ramprasad had discovered that sometimes the greatest strength lies in choosing humanity over desperation. The newspapers would never write about it, but that night, one taxi driver’s choice had created a chain of goodness that would ripple through two families forever.

Money has power and can multiply sometimes,….. but goodness has the power to multiply always and many times more.

The recent tragedy that shook Pune—a young woman, overwhelmed by despair, choosing to end her life rather than endure the relentless torment rooted in dowry—has once again pulled back the curtain on a brutal truth that many would rather ignore. Behind the glossy façades of modern India, beneath the veneer of progress and prosperity, lies a festering wound that refuses to heal. It is a truth that many of the richest families—those flaunting their wealth in ostentatiously vulgar weddings, flaunting gold, cars, and grandeur—are often the very ones perpetuating this evil. Their display of ostentatious splendor, their blatant disregard for economic disparity, and their insatiable hunger for social status fuel a vicious cycle that drags countless vulnerable families into despair and death.

This grotesque spectacle—weddings that seem more like showdowns of wealth than celebrations of love—exposes a moral rot at the heart of our society. When the wealthy flaunt their riches with reckless abandon, it sends a dangerous message: that material excess is a symbol of success, that the worth of a woman is measured by her dowry, and that exploitation is an acceptable price for social standing. This grotesque display, coupled with a scant regard for the impoverished, fuels a culture where families seeking to ‘keep up appearances’ push their daughters into the jaws of greed and despair. The exploitation of the girl’s family—demanding more and more, squeezing every last penny—ultimately leads to collapse, tragedy, and death.

This is an uncomfortable truth that we cannot afford to ignore. Yes, many girls and their families suffer silently, their pain hidden behind closed doors and veiled conversations. The tragedies—so numerous that they are often hushed—are like silent screams echoing through our society. But what if we dared to know? What if we shed light on these horrors? Would it inspire action? Or would we become indifferent again, lulled into complacency by the comfort of ignorance?

The stark reality is this: awareness alone is insufficient. Knowledge of these tragedies must ignite outrage, compassion, and a relentless demand for change. We need to confront the greed that drives families to seek dowry, the display of wealth that normalizes exploitation, and the societal norms that allow such practices to flourish unchecked.

So, what must we do? How do we transform this uncomfortable truth into a catalyst for radical change?

First, we must hold the mirror up to the wealthy and powerful—those who flaunt their riches and turn weddings into spectacles of excess. Laws exist, but enforcement remains weak when it comes to curbing ostentatious displays of wealth intended to shame or manipulate others. We need stringent regulations and public accountability—penalties not just for those demanding dowry but also for those who indulge in or endorse such vulgar displays. We must make it socially unacceptable to parade wealth in a manner that fosters greed and exploitation.

Second, societal attitudes must change. We need to foster a culture that values humility over ostentation, dignity over display. Celebrating marriages based on love, mutual respect, and simplicity should become the norm—an aspirational ideal that we actively promote through media, education, and community dialogue.

Third, economic empowerment of women remains crucial. When women are financially independent, their vulnerability to dowry demands diminishes. Education, skill development, and access to opportunities must be prioritized so that women are not seen as commodities to be bought or sold.

Fourth, the legal framework must be reinforced with swift, uncompromising action. Cases of dowry harassment and death must be prosecuted with rigor, and perpetrators must face exemplary punishment. Victims should be protected and supported—legal aid, counseling, and safe spaces should be accessible to all.

Fifth, we need collective responsibility. Every individual, family, community, and institution must stand united in rejecting dowry and the greed that sustains it. We must create social movements that challenge and dismantle the normalization of exploitation—where the wealthy publicly denounce such practices and set a precedent for others to follow.

Finally, we must remember that change begins with awareness and empathy. The stories of those who suffer silently, the young girls robbed of their dignity and lives, demand our attention and action. If we choose to look away, we are complicit. If we ignore these tragedies, we allow this malaise to persist.

The Pune case, and countless others like it, are painful reminders that our society still harbors an insidious greed—one that corrupts hearts and destroys lives. But they are also calls to action. We cannot let the shameful display of wealth and the silent suffering of countless families continue as normal. We owe it to her, to every girl and woman who endures such injustice, to rise with unyielding resolve.

Let her death be the last tragedy born of greed and silence. Let it ignite a fire within us—a fire that demands radical change, that refuses to tolerate exploitation, that champions dignity, equality, and love over greed and shame. Only then can we hope to rid our society of this malignant malaise and build a future where no girl’s life is sacrificed on the altar of greed and social pretension.