By Brig Sarvesh Dutt (Pahadi) Dangwal (Retd)
Ankita Bhandari did not die alone. When her life was taken, something far larger and more disturbing was exposed—the deep, festering rot of power, privilege, and sexual exploitation that quietly thrives beneath the surface of urban modernity and political authority. The image of her grieving mother is not merely a moment of personal sorrow; it is a mirror held up to our collective conscience.
When a mother weeps for her murdered daughter, her tears carry generations of fear, sacrifice, and unspoken anxiety. That face—drained of hope, shattered beyond consolation—tells a story no courtroom argument or social media debate ever can. It is the story of parents who raise a daughter with love, dreams, and dignity, only to watch her reduced to collateral damage in the games of the powerful.
For the father, the pain is of a different, quieter kind—an unending guilt that asks impossible questions: Did I protect her enough? Did I fail her? A family does not merely lose a daughter; it loses its future, its laughter, its sense of safety. The house remains standing, but life inside it collapses.
What makes the Ankita Bhandari case particularly disturbing is not just the crime itself, but what it reveals. It exposes a pattern that many young, city-bred boys and girls often fail to see or choose to ignore—the exploitation of young women by men who enjoy political power, social clout, and institutional protection. Behind glossy hotels, party offices, and the language of “connections” lies a culture where vulnerable women are pressured, coerced, and silenced.
This is not a rural-versus-urban issue, nor is it confined to one state or one party. Yet, when those linked to the ruling establishment—particularly figures associated with the Bharatiya Janata Party—are named, implicated, or shielded, the silence becomes deafening. Power, instead of protecting the weak, turns predatory.
Young women working in hospitality, tourism, and informal sectors are especially vulnerable. They are promised security, careers, and “opportunities”, only to be gradually pushed into submission. Refusal often invites threats. Compliance invites repeated abuse. Silence becomes survival—until it doesn’t. For young men and women growing up in cities—surrounded by comfort, digital outrage, and fleeting hashtags—this reality may feel distant. But it is not. The phones we scroll, the resorts we visit, the political slogans we cheer for—all exist in the same ecosystem that allowed Ankita to be exploited and then eliminated. Awareness is not sympathy alone; it is responsibility.
Social media has recently brought forward disturbing conversations, testimonies, and patterns that suggest Ankita’s case was not an aberration but part of a larger, uglier truth. When such revelations emerge, the instinct of the powerful is to distract, deny, and deflect. Time is used as a weapon—because memory fades, outrage cools, and justice delayed quietly becomes justice denied.
This is precisely why Ankita’s mother’s tears must not be allowed to dry unnoticed.
Her grief is a moral summons. It asks every parent whether their daughter is truly safe. It asks every young man whether he will challenge exploitation or become complicit through silence. It asks every young woman whether she will recognise danger behind authority and charm. And it asks society whether power will finally be held accountable—or once again protected.
To deplore this trend is not enough. We must name it, confront it, and dismantle it. Political patronage that shields sexual predators must be publicly rejected. Institutions must be forced to act, not manage optics. And young citizens—especially those insulated by privilege—must understand that neutrality in such crimes always favours the oppressor.
Ankita’s life mattered. Her death must matter more—because if it does not transform our awareness, our politics, and our sense of justice, then her mother’s tears will accuse us forever.
The question stands before us, raw and unresolved: Will we still remain silent?
