One of the states that has always claimed to be at the forefront of education and women’s empowerment comes the news of a gangrape of a medical student out with her friend. It tears apart the facade of West Bengal, which has lagged in all parameters, be it economic or otherwise, but always claimed to be intellectually superior and the safest place to live. This is not just a story but a series of events unfolding over the past few years, tearing apart the veneer of a state that was once called great. The Chief Minister of the state, A woman lauded for her fierceness and standing up for the oppressed, comes out with a statement, trying to deflect her inability to provide safety to her citizens, but rather questioning the morals of the people going out at night. She is doing so, because the elections are just around the corner and it is much more important for her to show strength rather than surrender to the people’s need and demand for security.
It’s hard not to notice how this horrific incident in Durgapur has barely stirred national outrage. Contrast this with the widespread media coverage of the rape and murder of a doctor in Kolkata last year. That case gripped the country, not just because of its brutality, but because it happened in a metropolis with a vibrant nightlife, targeting someone who represented the urban, educated, aspirational class, people like us, the so-called middle class, who often see ourselves as immune to such dangers. Durgapur, by comparison, is a quieter town, and its victims don’t fit the media’s preferred narrative. When we ignore stories from smaller towns, we reinforce a hierarchy of empathy that leaves countless victims unheard.
This is a story oft repeated, no matter where you live in India. It saddens me more deeply because this happened in my native state—one that was once considered better and safer for women. When will we wake up? When will we admit that our system is broken and that we’ve failed to educate our boys? Why don’t politicians talk about reforms that begin with education and stay embedded in the curriculum throughout our lives? Why are we still unable to deliver justice to victims in a way that actually deters future crimes? Our police system is too broken to investigate these cases quickly or emphatically. Why do we make the process itself a punishment for victims, while perpetrators with even a hint of power or money often walk free? Why is it that, in the name of justice, these cases drag on endlessly?
We often say “never again” after each brutal incident, but the silence between those moments is deafening. The Durgapur case may not dominate headlines, but it should get the national headlines. If we only react when the victim resembles us: urban, educated, middle-class, we fail the very idea of justice. Safety cannot be selective. Reform cannot be reactive. And empathy cannot be reserved for the elite. It’s time we stop treating these stories as distant tragedies and start seeing them as urgent reminders of what still needs fixing. From classrooms to courtrooms, from streetlights to mindsets. Change must be relentless, not occasional.






