Nasir Hussain Journalist
Rohith Vemula sits quietly in the stillness of heaven, a place he never thought he would find himself in at such a young age. His soul, once filled with the burning desire to change the world, now drifts, weightless, through the clouds, far from the land that gave him life and took it away. The eternal realm, so distant from the earth, holds no bitterness, no anger, yet his mind remains restless. He finds himself looking down at the world he left behind his home, his people, the struggles he once lived through. It is a strange feeling, to be separated from a world that feels like both his own and yet not his own.Below him lies India, a land of contradictions and paradoxes, a country that taught him about both hope and despair. It is a land he loved but could not escape from, a land that claimed him as one of its own but, time and again, pushed him to the margins. As his spirit hovers in the silence, he cannot help but reflect on the bitter day when his journey was cut short not by fate, but by a system so entrenched in its violence, so deeply embedded in its prejudice, that it refused to allow a person like him to exist.”My birth is my fatal accident,” Rohith had written in his final note. It was a declaration that reflected the brutal reality he had come to understand all too well: that in a country like India, the very nature of one’s existence is determined by caste, religion, and identity. For Rohith, born a Dalit, it was a fatal accident he could not outrun. The walls of caste were higher than any dream he had ever held. The education system, a supposed space for equality and opportunity, had relegated him to the shadows, treating him as less than, as disposable. And in the end, the institution that promised enlightenment had only delivered despair.”The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing.” His words reverberate in the air, and in heaven, they feel heavier than ever. Rohith had hoped for more—more than what society had allowed him to be. He had dreamed of breaking free of the chains that had bound him from birth, but the world, it seemed, had a way of pulling him back to the place it had defined for him. He had fought to claim his right to a future, but his life was snatched away before he could see the fruits of that struggle. In the stillness of the afterlife, he cannot help but wonder if anyone still remembers him. Does his story, and the stories of so many others like him, still have any meaning?As he floats in the quiet expanse, his mind turns to the teachings of B.R. Ambedkar, the architect of the Indian Constitution and the man whose life had been a beacon of hope for millions of Dalits. Ambedkar’s words had been a lifeline for Rohith: “Educate, Agitate, Organize.” These three words, so simple yet so profound, had guided him in his own fight for dignity. Education, Agitation, and Organization—these were the weapons with which a marginalized person could challenge the very systems that sought to crush them.But now, from his vantage point, far above the conflicts and struggles of the earth below, Rohith wonders whether those words still have the power they once did. The voices of resistance, which had once filled his soul with hope, now seem muffled by the weight of nationalism, a nationalism that increasingly seeks to erase the voices of the marginalized. The tide of history seems to have shifted, and the forces of oppression feel stronger than ever. It seems to Rohith that the walls of caste, once porous and permeable, have grown stronger, thicker, and more impenetrable with time. The fight for equality, which had seemed so imminent in his life, now seems a distant dream, fading further and further with each passing year.His thoughts drift to the issue of Kashmir. The region’s pain, its strife, its cries for justice—these are thoughts that occupy his mind more and more as he floats above. Kashmir had always been a land he had heard of, a land of stories and whispers, a place that seemed distant and foreign to him. But now, from this high vantage point, he sees the struggle more clearly, sees the people whose names he had only vaguely known.The situation in Kashmir, like the situation for Dalits, is one of oppression, resistance, and suffering. It is a place where identities are fought over, where the pain of the people is ignored by those in power, where the fight for freedom is met with unyielding violence. The Kashmiri people, like the Dalits, are caught in a web of history, politics, and religion, and their cries for justice seem to be drowned out by the overwhelming tide of forces seeking to erase their identity.Rohith sees the parallels—between his own fight for dignity and Kashmir’s fight for autonomy, between the denial of his humanity and the denial of Kashmir’s right to self-determination. He recalls his brief study of Kashmir during his life, the stories of the region’s people, their longing for freedom. He thinks of Sharjeel Imam, another young soul whose life was marked by his resistance against the status quo, who, like Rohith, found himself labeled a threat for speaking too boldly, for challenging the system.”I always wanted to be a writer. A writer of science, like Carl Sagan. At last, this is the only letter I am getting to write,” Rohith had written, his final note a tragic irony. He, a young man who once dreamed of the cosmos, had his life extinguished by a system that sought to keep him bound to the earth. His final act, a letter that would become a symbol of the struggle of a generation, was written not in defiance, but in resignation. He had been silenced, but not without first making his mark on the world, even if that mark was written in blood.As he floats in heaven, watching the earth below, Rohith ponders the philosophy of resistance. He turns to the works of Hegel, who believed that history unfolds toward human freedom. But does it? Does history truly unfold toward freedom, or does it simply recycle the same patterns of oppression, generation after generation? Marx, too, had called for the oppressed to rise against their oppressors, to create a world in which the chains of exploitation would be broken. But in India, in Kashmir, in the world at large, those chains seem only to have tightened over time.Rohith thinks of the world he left behind—of the thousands of young men and women like him who still fight for dignity, for equality, for freedom. He remembers his own struggle—how it was filled with hope at first, how he believed that change was possible, how he believed in the power of education and organizing. But now, in this strange afterlife, he wonders if the struggle will ever end. Will the marginalized ever be free? Or are they doomed to repeat the same cycles of suffering, year after year, generation after generation?He recalls the Buddhist concept of samsara, the endless cycle of birth, suffering, and rebirth. Is this the fate of the oppressed? Will they always be born into suffering, or is there a way to break free from the cycle? Rohith does not have the answers. He never did. He only knows that the struggle must continue. The voices of the oppressed cannot be silenced forever, even if it seems that way sometimes.The fires of resistance burn brightly in the hearts of those who refuse to bow down, even when the weight of history presses down on them. As he watches the earth from his vantage point, Rohith sees that the world below may be torn apart by conflict, but it is also fueled by an unbreakable will to survive, to fight for justice, to create a world where the oppressed are no longer invisible.In this quiet heaven, surrounded by the whispers of saints and angels, Rohith finds peace, but it is not a peace of contentment. It is a peace tinged with sorrow. The fight for justice is far from over, and it may take years, decades, or centuries, but the dream of a world free from oppression, free from the chains of caste, free from the wounds of Kashmir’s struggle, must persist. And though he may never live to see that world, he knows that the struggle will continue, carried forward by the voices of those who remain.”I am not hurt at this moment,” he had written in his final note. “I am not sad. I am just empty.” In the emptiness, however, there is a flicker of hope. Hope that one day, the fight for justice will bear fruit. Hope that one day, the world will be a place where the value of a man is no longer reduced to his immediate identity or his nearest possibility. Hope that one day, the ministry of utmost happiness will be more than just a distant dream.And so, in heaven, amidst the echoes of saints and angels, Rohith watches the world below, waiting for the day when justice will finally arrive. His spirit remains part of the struggle, his story far from finished, for the struggle for justice is eternal, and as long as it burns in the hearts of those who fight, Rohith Vemula will never be forgotten.
