GUEST COLUMN
Kripa Nautiyal
The candles flickered in the winter evening at the condolence meeting for Angel Chakma, but they could not dispel the darkness that has descended upon Dehradun’s conscience. As I stood among my fellow Doonites, I saw something I had never witnessed in this city in all my years here—the face of collective shame. We were not just mourning a young life brutally cut short; we were mourning the death of everything we believed Dehradun stood for.
Angel Chakma came to our city with dreams in his eyes—dreams of education, of building a future, of contributing to the nation his father serves at its borders. His father, a Border Security Force personnel, stands guard at India’s frontiers, ready to give his life so that all Indians—including those who killed his son—can sleep peacefully in their homes. That father had to bury his child, a victim not of an enemy bullet at the border, but of hatred in a city that prides itself on being cultured, cosmopolitan and welcoming.
For nearly 40 years, I wore the uniform of this nation, serving alongside men and women from every corner of India—from Kashmir to Kanyakumari, from Gujarat to Arunachal Pradesh. We came in different shades, spoke different languages, worshipped in different ways and ate different foods. But in the barracks, in the battlefields, in the moments when death breathed down our necks, we knew only one identity—Indian. We didn’t check each other’s features, didn’t measure the slant of eyes or the texture of hair before deciding who was worthy of our protection, who deserved our sacrifice.
When we said we were ready to give our lives for India, it wasn’t an empty slogan. It meant we would die protecting every single citizen of this country, regardless of which state they came from, what language they spoke, or how “Indian” they looked to someone’s prejudiced eyes. The soldier standing guard at Siachen doesn’t ask for a photograph of the people he’s protecting before he faces the brutal cold. The pilot doesn’t demand to see ethnic credentials before he scrambles to defend our skies. The sailor doesn’t verify religious identities before he patrols our waters. We were all Indians. We had one religion—service. One ethnicity—the tricolor.
So when did we lose our way? When did we allow hatred to poison the minds of our children so deeply that they could beat a fellow student to death? When did “looking different” become a crime punishable by murder in a city that trains the future leaders of our military and civil services?
Dehradun, the city I have called home, the city I took such pride in, has always been different. It was a place where diversity wasn’t just tolerated—it was celebrated. People from across India came here and made it their home. We absorbed them, embraced them and grew richer for their presence. The Garhwali shared space with the Punjabi, the Bengali with the Tamilian, the Nepali with the Bihari. Our markets buzzed with multiple languages, our streets carried the aroma of cuisines from everywhere, our festivals belonged to everyone.
This was the Dehradun ethos—peaceful, cosmopolitan, cultured, warm. However, at that condolence meeting, I wondered if I had been living in a delusion. Had that Dehradun ever really existed, or had we simply been fortunate enough not to see the ugliness festering beneath the surface? Were we so blind that we missed the poison being fed to our children? So deaf that we couldn’t hear the whispers of hatred growing louder in our schools and colleges?
And it’s not as if Dehradun lacks educated, enlightened citizens. This is the city that is home to the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration in Mussoorie, where IAS officers are trained to serve all Indians without discrimination. We have ONGC, the Indian Institute of Petroleum, Forest Research Institute and numerous other institutions of national importance. Some of the brightest minds, most accomplished professionals, and wisest citizens of our nation have chosen to settle here. Yet, with all this institutional wisdom, all this education, all these role models, we could not prevent a barbarous attack on a young boy whose only crime was pursuing his education in our city. We could not instill basic humanity, tolerance, and respect for diversity in our own children.
Where did we fail? The university must answer. What kind of environment exists in its hostels and classrooms where such hatred can fester? What mechanisms are in place to address discrimination, to handle conflicts, to counsel students who show signs of prejudice? Or are we so busy with academic curricula that we’ve forgotten that education is also about building character, about creating citizens who can live together in a diverse society? Parents must answer. What are we teaching our children at home? What conversations are we having—or not having—around our dinner tables? Are we, consciously or unconsciously, feeding them stereotypes, prejudices, and a false sense of superiority over fellow Indians who look or speak differently? Are we modelling the inclusive values we claim to hold dear? Society must answer. Have we become so polarised, divided, quick to see the “other” in our fellow citizens that we’ve normalised hatred? Have we allowed public discourse to become so toxic that our children think violence is an acceptable response to difference?
We have all failed. Every single one of us who calls Dehradun home has failed Angel Chakma. Every institution, every authority, every citizen bears responsibility for creating an environment where such an atrocity could occur. But wallowing in guilt serves no purpose if it doesn’t lead to action. His death must not be in vain. His sacrifice—and yes, it is a sacrifice, much like those made by soldiers defending our borders—must wake us up. First, there must be a fair, transparent, and thorough investigation. No narrative-shaping, no protecting the powerful, no sweeping uncomfortable truths under the carpet. The perpetrators must face the full force of law. Justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done. The father who serves our nation at the border deserves nothing less. But punishment of the guilty, while essential, is not enough. We need systemic reforms on an urgent basis. Universities and colleges must establish credible mechanisms to prevent such incidents. This means zero-tolerance policies for discrimination and violence, mandatory diversity training for all students, effective grievance redressal systems, and 24/7 support for students facing harassment or threats. These mechanisms must be subjected to regular audits—not by government officials who might have their own agendas, but by independent experts and civil society organisations. Citizen groups must engage with the Governor, the Chief Minister and other authorities to demand accountability and reform. We cannot remain silent spectators anymore.
Parents must actively counsel their children, have difficult conversations about prejudice and privilege, and model inclusive behaviour. Our children learn more from what we do than from what we say. And each one of us must examine our own hearts and minds. What prejudices do we harbour? What stereotypes do we perpetuate? How can we actively contribute to making Dehradun—and India—truly inclusive?
We owe it to Angel Chakma, to his family and to every Indian who has ever been made to feel like an outsider in their own country, to do better. We must redefine what it means to be Indian—not by narrowing the definition to exclude those who look or speak differently, but by expanding it to truly embrace the magnificent diversity that is our nation’s greatest strength. Dehradun must find its soul again. India must reclaim its promise of being a nation where every citizen, regardless of their ethnicity, religion, language, or appearance, can live with dignity and pursue their dreams without fear. We are all Indians. We have one religion—humanity. One ethnicity—compassion. It’s time we remembered that. Before it’s too late. Before we lose more Angels.
(The author is a retired additional director general of Indian Coast Guard; views expressed are personal)
