As an English professor, I’ve long believed that literature reflects life in all its complexity—the tenderness, the turmoil, the quiet suffering. But some stories are harder to interpret, because they unfold not in books, but in headlines. And far too often, they end before anyone has the chance to turn the page.
Dheeraj Kansal wasn’t my student. I never taught him Shakespeare or Eliot or Plath. He was a 25-year-old chartered accountant, and by all accounts, accomplished, sincere, and hardworking. Last month, he checked into a Delhi hotel alone. Days later, his body was found—lifeless, beside a helium cylinder and a note. The Facebook post he had shared, later deleted, said no one was to blame, and that he wasn’t depressed. But another note, found in his pocket, revealed something far more fragile: the weight of losing his father and the emotional disconnection he felt from his own family.
It was a death that made the news for a day. But for me, it has lingered. Not because I knew him, but because I’ve seen versions of Dheeraj in my classrooms—young adults navigating ambition and alienation, responsibility and rawness, all while presenting a facade of being “fine.”
We often assume that pain wears a visible face. That those who suffer will somehow let us know. But many don’t. Some are so used to managing expectations—academic, social, familial—that they forget how to express their need. And sometimes, they no longer believe they have the right to.
India, heartbreakingly, accounts for 17% of global suicides. In 2022, over 10,000 students in India died by suicide, and the number is higher among young professionals. These aren’t just statistics—they are stories we missed, signs we overlooked.
I recall a former student, Ananya, who once submitted a deeply introspective essay on Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus. The theme of existential absurdity was handled with such personal urgency that I paused. I invited her for tea under the pretence of discussing her writing. That conversation meandered into her fears of disappointing her family, the pressure to pursue an MBA she didn’t want, and the guilt of not wanting what others did. Her story didn’t have a tragic ending—but only because someone asked, and she allowed herself to answer.
What happened to Dheeraj should remind us that mental health isn’t just a personal issue—it’s a social and familial one. We cannot outsource emotional care to occasional campaigns or motivational talks. Young people need consistent spaces—at home, in college, and beyond—where they feel safe being vulnerable.
As families, we must do better than just asking about results and resumes. Emotional connection is not a given—it must be nurtured. Grief, especially after the loss of a parent, can be disorienting. When left unspoken, it isolates. When dismissed, it deepens.
As educators, we must listen beyond the syllabus. A student’s silence, withdrawal, or even overachievement can be signs of struggle. We need to humanise our classrooms, so students know that being overwhelmed is not a weakness—it’s part of being human.
Mental health support cannot work in silos. It needs the collective effort of friends, families, teachers, and society. Not after the crisis—but before it begins.
To my students, and to those I never got to teach like Dheeraj: your life matters beyond your profession, beyond your productivity. You are allowed to feel lost. You are allowed to ask for help. And those around you—whether in homes or hallways—must be ready to hear you.
Because sometimes, all it takes to change the story is one moment of being truly seen. Because behind every composed face may lie a quiet cry—waiting not to be saved, but simply to be heard.
“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Well said, Rumi!
Dr. Ritu Kamra Kumar
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