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Democracy Cannot Survive if It Stops Listening
There are moments in the life of a nation when politics must step aside and humanity must take over.
This is one of those moments.
For more than two weeks, Sonam Wangchuk—an engineer, education reformer and one of India’s most respected public intellectuals—has been on an indefinite hunger strike at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar. His fast is in solidarity with students demanding accountability after repeated examination failures, including the NEET-UG paper leak controversy and wider concerns over the integrity of India’s examination system. Among the demands being raised are the resignation of Union Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan, comprehensive examination reforms, and accountability for failures that have affected millions of students and, according to the protest movement, contributed to immense psychological distress for many young people. (Reuters)
As I write this, reports indicate that Wangchuk has lost significant weight during his fast, prompting medical concern and even intervention from the Delhi High Court, which has directed authorities to monitor his health and act if medically necessary. Yet the larger political response remains one of silence rather than engagement. (Reuters)
Whether one agrees with his demands or not is almost beside the point.
What matters is that in a democracy, peaceful protest deserves to be heard.
Not necessarily accepted.
Not necessarily agreed with.
But heard.
This Is Bigger Than Left or Right
One of the saddest developments of our times is that every issue is immediately forced into a political box.
If you speak, you are labelled.
If you question, you are branded.
If you protest, you are presumed to belong to one camp or another.
But democracy is not meant to work that way.
You can be right-wing.
You can be left-wing.
You can be a centrist.
Or you may reject political labels altogether.
Yet if citizens undertake a peaceful democratic protest, particularly one involving a hunger strike, the government of the day has a constitutional and moral responsibility to engage with them.
Engagement is not surrender.
Dialogue is not weakness.
Listening is not defeat.
It is democracy functioning exactly as it should.
We Have Seen This Before
Many people have forgotten what happened during Anna Hazare’s anti-corruption movement.
Whether one agreed with every demand or not, the government led by Dr Manmohan Singh did not pretend the protest did not exist.
There were discussions.
There were negotiations.
There was communication.
The administration recognised that when a citizen undertakes an indefinite fast, particularly on an issue that resonates with millions, silence is not an acceptable response.
The government engaged because democratic governments are expected to engage.
Today, many observers—including political leaders from across the spectrum—have drawn attention to what they see as a stark contrast between that approach and the response to Sonam Wangchuk’s ongoing hunger strike. (The Times of India)
The comparison is not about glorifying one government or demonising another.
It is about asking whether democratic norms should remain consistent regardless of who occupies power.
Students Deserve Better
Every examination paper leak is more than an administrative failure.
It is a betrayal.
Students invest years of their lives preparing for competitive examinations.
Families sacrifice financially.
Young people postpone careers, relationships and dreams.
When examinations are compromised, it is not merely a question paper that leaks.
Faith leaks.
Trust leaks.
Hope leaks.
This is why so many young Indians have found themselves standing beside Wangchuk.
Not because they agree on every political issue.
But because they believe accountability matters. (AP News)
My Voice, Too
Today I wanted to attend the CJB protest at Azad Maidan.
Life had other plans.
There was a death in the family.
I attended a funeral instead.
Sometimes grief rearranges your priorities before you have a chance to make your own choices.
But not being physically present does not mean remaining silent.
So I am writing.
Because expression matters.
Silence helps nobody.
I Remember the Delta Wave
Perhaps this affects me more deeply because I remember another time when ordinary people screamed into the void.
During the Delta wave of COVID-19, I lost my aunt.
I nearly died.
My sister nearly died.
Hospitals were overwhelmed.
Families begged for help.
People cried out in desperation.
Many of us felt unheard.
Many of us felt invisible.
Those memories never truly leave you.
They remind you that institutions exist for people—not the other way around.
When citizens cry out, the system must listen.
If it doesn’t, it slowly loses not merely efficiency but legitimacy.
The Cost of Refusing to Listen
History teaches us that democracies are not destroyed overnight.
They weaken gradually.
One ignored protest.
One dismissed concern.
One silenced voice at a time.
The tragedy is not disagreement.
Disagreement is healthy.
The tragedy is indifference.
When governments stop responding to peaceful dissent, citizens begin to wonder whether peaceful methods still have meaning.
That is a dangerous place for any democracy to find itself.
My Hope
I am not asking everyone to agree with Sonam Wangchuk.
I am asking that we defend something even more important.
The right of peaceful protest to receive a meaningful response.
That principle should not depend upon who is protesting.
Nor should it depend upon who is in power.
Governments change.
Democracy must endure.
If we fail those who peacefully seek accountability today, tomorrow there may be nobody left willing to believe that peaceful democratic action can still make a difference.
And that would be a loss far greater than any political victory.
Democracy does not die because people disagree.
It dies when those in power stop listening.
Three Days Apart
A partner going away for three days should, on paper, seem unremarkable.
People travel for work every day. They attend conferences, visit clients, take flights, stay in hotels, and return home. It is an ordinary part of adult life.
Yet for many people, such situations do not feel ordinary at all.
Three days can seem insignificant. A long weekend. A brief work commitment. Something that should barely register in a healthy relationship.
But relationships are not built on calendars.
They are built on histories.
And personal history often teaches that distance is never just distance.
For some, early experiences of love and loss create lasting associations between separation and heartbreak. Distance becomes synonymous with loss. Separation becomes the first chapter of every ending.
As a result, daily contact can become deeply important. Even a brief meeting, a touch, a glance, or a few words may provide reassurance.
Not because of possessiveness.
Because of fear.
Fear that love might disappear in the spaces between meetings.
Fear that absence might become indifference.
Fear that someone loved might simply drift away.
When relationships are built around extraordinary consistency, daily presence can begin to feel less like a habit and more like a law of nature.
Yet relationships evolve.
Sometimes intimacy that once felt effortless begins to fade. In some cases, betrayal follows. While infidelity can be deeply painful, what often proves even more unsettling is the gradual drifting away that precedes it—the sense that something precious has been slipping away long before it is recognised.
Such moments force difficult choices.
A relationship may end.
Or it may transform into something different.
For some couples, that transformation involves opening the relationship. For others, it takes a different form. Whatever the path, major changes often reshape not only the relationship itself but also future connections and expectations.
Many people who have experienced multiple relationships discover recurring themes. A desire for shared life. A need for presence. The comfort of knowing that someone loved will return home at the end of the day.
For queer people, these challenges can be complicated by family dynamics and social realities. A partner may be welcomed into one household while the same acceptance is not possible in another. There can be limits, boundaries, and compromises that heterosexual couples rarely need to consider.
When a relationship eventually includes living together, daily companionship can feel profoundly reassuring. Shared routines replace negotiated schedules. Presence becomes woven into everyday life.
Over time, life settles into a rhythm.
And perhaps that is why a sudden work trip can feel larger than it should.
Because it is not merely three days.
It is a reminder that life is changing once again.
Modern relationships are often shaped by work. New jobs bring rotating shifts, exhaustion, ambition, opportunities, and responsibilities. Couples may still share a home while seeing less of each other than ever before.
They sleep at different times.
They wake at different times.
They pass one another in hallways like travellers changing trains.
The relationship remains, but its shape changes.
Trust can further complicate these transitions. Even relatively small breaches of honesty can leave lasting cracks.
Trust is a fragile thing.
Once damaged, even slightly, ordinary events begin to feel threatening.
A work trip becomes more than a work trip.
A delayed message becomes more than a delayed message.
Silence becomes louder than it should be.
The mind begins supplying stories where certainty is absent.
When physical intimacy has also diminished, fears that might otherwise remain quiet often find a voice.
Questions emerge.
Has desire disappeared?
Has attraction changed?
Will distance create opportunities for someone else to occupy a place that once felt secure?
The mind starts constructing endings before anything has actually ended.
There is another layer to this dynamic.
Many long-term relationships eventually adapt to periods of separation. Partners travel independently. They pursue individual interests. They spend time apart while maintaining a strong emotional bond.
The longing may remain.
The missing may remain.
But distance becomes part of the relationship’s reality.
Yet accepting distance in one relationship does not necessarily make it easier in another.
Different relationships are built on different foundations. Some are rooted in independence. Others are rooted in shared space and daily presence. The loss feels more immediate when the closeness has been more immediate.
Perhaps what many people fear most is not the trip itself.
It is the possibility that it represents a broader shift.
A future in which work becomes the organising principle of life and love must fit itself around whatever remains.
The arguments in favour of work are easy to understand.
Work matters.
Financial stability matters.
Career growth matters.
People should not be shamed for ambition.
Yet many people live according to a different philosophy.
They do not look at a larger salary and see the meaning of life.
They look elsewhere.
At shared meals.
At conversations.
At affection.
At loyalty.
At the people who make a house feel like a home.
This difference in priorities can create tension.
Not because either perspective is wrong.
But because they speak different emotional languages.
One person may feel energised by achievement and advancement.
Another may feel most fulfilled by connection and presence.
Both desires are real.
Neither cancels the other out.
The challenge is that love often asks people with different emotional priorities to build a life together.
And that can be difficult.
Perhaps three days apart will prove to be nothing at all.
Perhaps there will be longing.
Perhaps there will be relief when the journey ends.
Perhaps life will resume its familiar rhythm.
Or perhaps such moments force a confrontation with something larger.
That love cannot be measured by proximity alone.
That seeing someone every day is not a guarantee they will never drift away.
That distance is not always abandonment.
And that the heart often reacts not only to what is happening now, but to everything that has happened before.
Maybe that is what these journeys are really about.
Not the destination.
Not the work.
Not even the three days.
They reveal the choice that exists at the centre of every meaningful relationship.
Fear urges us to treat uncertainty as evidence that love is already slipping away.
Faith asks something harder.
To accept that no amount of closeness can eliminate vulnerability, and no amount of vigilance can guarantee permanence.
Love has never been the absence of risk.
Love is the decision to remain open despite it.
So when someone we love walks out the door for three days, the real question is not whether they will leave.
It is whether we will allow fear to write the story before it has been lived.
The deepest act of trust is not believing that loss is impossible.
It is believing that love is strong enough to deserve our faith until proven otherwise.
And sometimes, that faith is as simple—and as profound—as trusting that the person we love will choose, once again, to come home.
When They First Come
When they first come into your bed,
Your fear is suspended,
By the way they look at you.
Like the flaws you see
Are invisible to them.
They want to touch you;
Feed off you;
Hold you and sway you
To the rhythm of their bodies.
You feel seen.
You make love.
Time changes that –
That look that drifts into routine
Is a result of repetition.
Here, practice makes boredom;
Perfection is boring.
So you once again look in the mirror
And see what you should not have missed,
All this time.
The mirror hasn’t changed.
Hearts Still Care 
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