The Burns Which Demand Justice

Photo credit: Vecteezy

One Shutdown

And it feels like my entire life is shut down.

This might read like a complaint, because, yes, it is a complaint. But keep reading, okay?

A girl, or let’s say a student, can only hope for a perfectly organized, perfectly coordinated schedule. You know those Pinterest boards where we save our manifestations? Snippets of our future selves? Pictures of successful people stepping out of expensive cars, striding into massive buildings, a Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, while an assistant hovers beside them reading out a color-coded calendar? That’s the dream.

But that could never be me.

Because the moment I decide to have a perfectly scheduled plan, the immortal being sitting up on the top floor decides to have a mood swing. Hmm, how is she managing these beautifully coordinated plans, he wonders. And then, with the flick of a cosmic finger, he hurls down a reality check: “Life isn’t fair, sweetie,” in big, bold, inescapable letters.

I have a conference lined up for the last weekend of June. My exam was supposed to wrap up just before that, with no overlap; the perfect arrangement so I could enjoy both. Fair enough?

Apparently, not for whoever’s running things up there.

Tomorrow brings a state lockdown—July 17th, 2025. The result? My exam, scheduled for tomorrow, is now postponed to July 26th, which is, of course, the second day of my conference.

Yeah.

This is where my little rant takes a turn.

Naturally, I tried talking to my teachers. They gave me a tiny branch of hope. I lamented, I cried, I pleaded “Why me, God?” I did everything a desperate student does.

Then I looked up the reason for the strike. The same one I’d been complaining to God about.

It turns out, it’s for a 20-year-old college student. After months of sexual and mental harassment from her professor, after shouting her lungs out to the authorities, after being a martial arts trainer who inspired courage and self-defense in others, she immolated herself. She bought petrol and set herself on fire in front of the college principal’s office, just after he gave her abuser a clean chit.

Her fault, you ask? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She was bright, lively, took part in student organizations, taught women self-defense, and lived boldly. When she asked her professor about her academic backlogs, she was shamed and propositioned. She was asked for sexual favors. And the callousness of society didn’t stop with her death. Even then, people spun stories; she was careless, she didn’t attend classes, it was her own fault she “couldn’t cope.”

Victim shaming, even beyond the grave.

Ridiculous, isn’t it?

There I was, half an hour ago, in tears over a mere misallocation of my schedule. And her? She wrote to every authority, screamed herself hoarse demanding justice. And in the end?

A girl had to set herself on fire to be heard.

Maybe she also had vision boards. Maybe she imagined an ambitious, thriving future for herself. But it ended with her lying in a hospital bed, succumbing to 95% burns on her body. How is that fair?

How often have the gates of justice truly opened for the cries of the helpless? They remain tightly closed, until blood is spilled or, in this case, until the smoke from charred flesh finally reaches their doors.