”I had heard that life could change in a single night. Now, I’ve seen it. It wasn’t even a night—just one hour. A man left for prayers and never returned.” Ayesha’s voice was calm yet sharp as she spoke. Her husband, Nurul Hasan, had been killed in the violence at Pusesavali. Over two years have passed since that day. “I couldn’t even grieve his loss properly; so much kept happening,” she said. “Nothing made sense. I was numb.” That numbness is what she remembers most clearly. They had been married for just eight months. She was pregnant. Their days were filled with dreams—of a happy home, prosperity, traveling the world. They planned everything, from how to chase their dreams to what they’d name their child, boy or girl. But all of it stopped in an instant. It ended. After her husband’s death, Ayesha spent four months in iddat, a period of seclusion. Then she gave birth to a girl, Ashnoor, who toddled into their small 10 x 10 room, leaning on the doorframe. Mumbling “bikit” for biscuit. I handed her one from the tea tray in front of me. She smiled sweetly, clung to Ayesha, then immersed herself in eating her biscuit.
Looking at her 18-month-old daughter, Ayesha said, “Nurul wanted a girl, and here she is, but he is not. We were both only children. We didn’t want our child to grow up alone, but now she will. When she was born, so much was happening. No help reached me, but rumours spread that I was living comfortably with money. My in-laws abandoned me. My parents were under strain too. Some even blamed me for Nurul’s death. Then, the worst happened—my milk dried up just a month after Ashnoor’s birth. Breastfeeding stopped completely. The child had already lost her father’s shadow, and now this.” Ashnoor babbled on, pointing at her milk bottle.
Samreen’s daughter, two years old and a few months older than Ashnoor, has seen her father, Aamir. She played with him, teased him, and tired him out. She knows his face well. But she also saw him hanging from a fan, overwhelmed by a strangers’ cruelty. She doesn’t understand what it means. She asks Samreen, “Abbu went to the village. When will he come back?” Samreen pulls her close and pats her. What else can she do? Her wound is still fresh, from May 2025. In Latur’s Maidan Chowk, Aamir was beaten, called a Pakistani. They grabbed his collar, his belt, humiliated him, and recorded it on their phones. The label “Pakistani” shattered him. The next night, after 8 p.m., he took his life. It was a Sunday. Samreen said, “Every night from 8 to 9, I feel restless. Sad. How can I sleep in that room after his death? I stayed with my in-laws for 40 days, never sleeping before 3 a.m. Now, sometimes, I feel nothing at all. No one is truly yours. You carry your pain alone. Sundays used to excite me; now they scare me. Sometimes I think it was all a bad dream, and maybe it’s better that it broke.” Her voice trembles slightly. Her eyes well up. She removes her glasses, wipes her eyes gently, and with a mix of anger and detachment, says, “No one who promised help actually helped. Not even the police. Now I think, will doing anything bring him back? No. So I’m just trying to hold myself together.” For a moment, she stares into space, as if wrestling with herself.
“The situation in Vishalgad and Gajapur has been tense for years,” said Shaheen Mujawar from Vishalgad, her voice tinged with fear. “It gets worse during festivals like Shiv Jayanti and Mahashivratri.” Aggressive sloganeering by some groups creates fear and unease. “Last year, on July 14, 2024, the violence during the so-called Vishalgad anti-encroachment campaign still haunts us. Some slogans were so offensive, it’s hard to repeat them publicly. After that, many children on the fort fell ill. Women went silent. For days, they didn’t know what was happening. Many couldn’t sleep at night. With no jobs now, even salt feels expensive, and the stress on women is immense. That day, just the news of the attack gave one of our relatives a heart attack, and he died on the spot. This year, on July 14, the same fear returned. Sixty percent of the people on the fort left voluntarily. No one wants to die bit by bit,” Shaheen said, her words vivid, as if reliving it all.
In India, a country rich with diversity, communal tensions between religious groups sometimes turn violent. In recent years, openly provocative speeches against Muslims have increased. Muslim men are targeted, attacked, and killed in the name of cow protection. Social media is used to stir public anger, and Muslim men’s lives are taken coldly. Taking a life has become as casual as throwing mud online. But the wounds from these mob attacks aren’t just physical. They deeply affect the families left behind, especially women. Ayesha and Samreen, both in their thirties, lost their husbands to hate-filled attacks. Women like Shaheen have faced the terror of violent mobs and death. These events leave lasting scars on women’s minds. Social stigma, institutional failures, and financial strain add to their burdens. These factors undoubtedly impact their mental state. This report tries to understand how.
Ayesha Shikalgar’s Story: The Pain That Can’t Be Explained
I never imagined that Hindu-Muslim hatred could reach a small village like Pusesavali. Nurul Hasan was the president of the village’s Ganpati committee. Most of his friends were Hindus. Sometimes, during my pregnancy, I’d crave something sweet at night. Nurul’s friend owned a shop, and he’d open it after hours just for me. That’s how close their friendship was. But the same people he celebrated Ganeshotsav with, the ones he called friends, are now his accused killers, Ayesha says, her voice trembling with anger. She asks some hard questions: “No matter what happened, what did anyone gain by taking an innocent life? These people who chant Shivaji Maharaj’s name—what will they tell him? They didn’t just take a life; they destroyed my entire family!” Her voice rises slightly. “Would Shivaji Maharaj approve of such killers? There’s no reason to oppose anyone’s faith, but shouldn’t devotion bring joy to others? Two minutes of rage changed my life’s struggles and sorrows. At 8 p.m., he was with me, our private life just beginning. By morning, my life, my world, became public—caught in the media’s hands. But there was no space left to express what was in my heart. I couldn’t even grieve Nurul’s death properly. The pain of losing a person, that agony, I can’t put into words. It’s a strain I still feel, and now, whenever I see a saffron flag, my heart skips a beat.” A faint tension lingers on her face, framed by her headscarf.
Nurul Hasan, 31, was one of the educated Muslim youths in Pusesavali. In a village of 1,300 families, less than 10% are Muslim. Most run small businesses—grocery stores, mobile shops, or auto parts stores. Nurul was a civil engineer, taking on construction contracts and renting out his JCB machine. He was the sole breadwinner for his parents, their only child. He and Ayesha were married in November 2022. On September 10, 2023, Hindu nationalist groups from Pusesavali and nearby villages started violence, claiming a Muslim youth’s social media post had hurt religious sentiments. They attacked Muslim homes, shops, and mosques. The youth who posted wasn’t even in the village that day. Police later found his phone was hacked, and no evidence was found against him. But by then, the mob’s attack had changed Ayesha’s life. She was five months pregnant at the time. Just the day before, they’d gone for her sonography. Nurul had wanted a girl and had chosen the name Ashnoor, blending their names together.
After her husband’s death, Ayesha faced what many Indian widows do. She was blamed for Nurul’s death. Her in-laws said she was responsible because Nurul was praying on time while living with her. They claimed his going for namaz led to his death. Their words were a huge blow to her. Ayesha, a lawyer by profession, says, “It wasn’t even four days after his death, and they started saying such things. It broke my heart. I started facing mental distress.” The government and some Muslim groups collected aid for her, but none reached her. “I was in iddat, the four-month seclusion Muslim widows observe. I heard people were helping, but nothing came to me. I thought maybe my in-laws got it. Then rumours spread that Nurul was in debt and the money went to clear it. I had to publicly clarify he had no debts. I didn’t want aid, but I wanted the rumours to stop. My in-laws even said I took the money. That led to family disputes. They turned away from me. When I gave birth, they didn’t even come to see their only granddaughter. When I went to their house, they’d left for my mother-in-law’s village for good. They cut me off completely, as if their son’s death made me a stranger. I was fighting society’s rumours the one hand and my own family on the other. It was so stressful.”
Around that time, the stress took a toll on her father. He had a heart attack, his diabetes worsened, and gangrene forced doctors to amputate part of his leg. “No one was there to help. Even my own family turned away. The women’s WhatsApp group in Pusesavali removed me. They mocked me as a ‘gold digger.’ We didn’t even have money for my father’s treatment. People thought we were rich. Some even said I was living lavishly off my husband’s death money,” Ayesha says with a bitter laugh. There’s no anger on her face, just disappointment. She continues calmly, “When I needed society’s support the most, they abandoned me. They excluded me from family functions. They attacked my character. That defamation broke me. My mental health deteriorated. I started getting dizzy. I lost track of what was happening around me. My daughter needed her mother’s milk, but the stress dried it up within a month. It was such an injustice to her. My weight shot past 100 kilos. I developed thyroid issues, diabetes, and high blood pressure. We didn’t even have money for food. My father has some farmland, but no other income. People kept saying I had so much money—well, I’m still waiting for it. Maybe someone’s words will come true,” she says, laughing at her situation. It’s clear Ayesha has found the strength to smile despite her circumstances.
Even two years later, in August 2025, when we met, the financial struggle persists. Her father was hospitalised again. To manage the back-and-forth between hospital and home, her family moved to her uncle’s place in Miraj. Her father’s sugar levels were high, and his mental health had deteriorated too. Ayesha is trying to cope. She wonders if Nurul were alive, would she have to live this nomadic life. She’s also frustrated that she hasn’t gotten enough information about her husband’s case. She had to use her contacts to even get the charge sheet.
As she tries to move forward, Ayesha faces more challenges. “If I’m happy, people say I’m enjoying life after my husband’s death because I got money. If I’m sad, they say it is only because I didn’t get my in-laws’ property. If I focus on my daughter, they say I’m not interested in my husband’s case. People talk from all sides, and I don’t have the strength to explain myself anymore. I feel so alone. I can’t even work right now. My daughter is 18 months old. She’d be alone too. I worry about her. I don’t want her to grow up hating Hindus. I don’t want her to waste her energy on hate. That’s why I’ve started preparing for the JMFC exam. The environment around Ayesha is always tense and negative. I tried to find a house in Karad or Sangli, leaving my village, Rajachi Kurle. But as soon as people hear I’m from Pusesavali or Nurul Hasan’s widow, they say no. Being Muslim and a single mother doesn’t help. I’ve been looking for a house for four months. How do I describe the pain of rejection? Some say no one rents to Muslims after the Pahalgam attack. But my husband was killed here—how dare anyone say that? These experiences have broken me. People often say if Nurul hadn’t gone to confront those people, he wouldn’t have died. So, the attackers, the violent ones, aren’t at fault, but he is to be blamed for taking to task his so-called friends? It’s such an easy blame game. Nurul was a great friend, a great partner. He helped with my work and took care of me. I lost such a person. That pain will always stay. But let me tell you…”
Ayesha takes a deep breath and says, “I’m tired of being seen as a victim or a gold digger. Pusesavali’s incident and the label of Nurul’s widow have stamped my life. I want to change that image. I may fail as a wife, but I won’t fail as a mother. People keep looking at me through that same lens. When I try to move forward, they tie that image to my feet like a burden. It causes me so much mental pain.”
Samreen Pathan: Holding on Through Loneliness
Samreen and Aamir had been married for three years. They have a two-year-old daughter. Samreen works as an assistant manager at a bank, while Aamir was a relationship officer at a telecom company. Both were from Latur, and both had jobs there. But eight or ten months ago, Samreen got a job at a different bank’s branch in Dharashiv. Aamir, not wanting her career to stall, didn’t care about his own job and moved to Dharashiv with her. Once Samreen settled into her routine there, he returned to Latur for work, taking their daughter along. Samreen wasn’t used to living alone, having grown up in a big family. So, she’d come to Latur every weekend, spend two days with them, and return to work. Samreen says, “I’d wake up early, go to the office, meet clients, and spend weekends together. That was our routine. For years, we heard about the growing Hindu-Muslim tension and hatred in society, but it never touched our lives. Aamir’s closest friends were Hindus. At my office, we all worked together harmoniously. No big fights, no complaints, nothing. Everything was peaceful, simple, friendly. But now, something feels different. This incident shocked us. We were happy in our own world. Why us?” she asks, her voice heavy with pain, before falling silent for a moment. Even meeting her in Dharashiv wasn’t easy—she wasn’t eager to talk. It’s understandable. Reliving those memories, retelling her story, is exhausting. The police’s mishandling of her complaint only adds to her distress. When we met at her bank’s premises, Samreen, barely looking thirty, wore simple clothes and glasses. She buries her grief in work, pulling herself forward for the next day.
Since Aamir’s suicide, sleep has been hard for Samreen. The incident left him deeply traumatized, and his suicide is clear proof of that. Samreen recalls, “That day, I was nearing Latur and called him to pick me up. The bus stops at Maidan Chowk, where I was getting off. He’d reached the chowk on his scooter, crossing the road. A local journalist was driving by. Aamir signalled to him, ‘Wait two minutes, let me cross.’ But that hurt the journalist’s ego.” Samreen starts recounting that day’s conversation. The shouting, the voices, still create a fearful tension in her mind. It was a regular Saturday, a routine return to her hometown to see her family and daughter, to recharge and go back to work. A predictable, peaceful routine. But that evening was different. Samreen continues, “The journalist got out of his car, parked it in the middle of the road, and started beating my husband. He asked, ‘What’s your name?’ Aamir said, ‘Aamir Pathan.’ The journalist sneered, ‘What, you think you’re some big Aamir? You’re a Pakistani, a Kashmiri, unfit to live in this country.’ Then he kept hitting him, yanked his pants, took photos, and recorded videos. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he said. ‘This will be in the papers.’ I was on the phone, hearing it all. I asked who he was talking to. I could hear Aamir’s voice, shouting, ‘What did I do wrong? Why are you hitting me?’” The incident happened on May 4, 2025 and was reported a few days later.
The incident left Aamir under immense stress. He was terrified the journalist would call him a terrorist or worse in the next day’s paper. He wanted to file a police complaint but lacked the courage. He called friends for help, telling them what happened. No one responded positively. They told him not to make a big deal, to let it go, or they’d see about it later. The beating had already scared him, but the fact that a stranger could threaten and humiliate him, and his close friends didn’t care, hurt him deeply. The journalist had yanked his pants so hard it caused physical discomfort. Aamir kept telling Samreen about it. She says, “Until 2 a.m., he was on his phone, searching for information about the journalist. At 6 a.m., he checked the papers, worried something was printed against him, calling him a Pakistani. He was so scared. The stress lasted till afternoon. His scooter was damaged, so he got it fixed. We were supposed to attend a reception that evening. He said, ‘Go ahead, I’ll rest and join you.’ When we got there, his phone wasn’t reachable. My mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and I returned home, only to find he’d taken his life.” Samreen, trying to stay strong, has tears in her eyes. She complains the police delayed action. The journalist was influential, connected to politicians, so they wouldn’t take her complaint. The next day, they went to the station at 9 a.m., but the police kept them waiting until 6 p.m., asking for CCTV footage and more. Samreen says, “The police said they’d register a suicide case but wouldn’t mention ‘Pakistani’ or ‘Kashmiri.’ We gave them the car’s number, but they refused to name the journalist in the complaint. We didn’t even know who he was at first. It feels like the police helped him escape by delaying. It affected me deeply. At first, it was unbearable. Now, I feel nothing. Everything’s numb. People come, ask questions, gather information, but no one truly helps. I have no expectations anymore, especially from the police. They suppressed everything. Some even accused us, saying we had political connections and were framing the journalist. The thief calling us liars! We lost our loved one, and we’re the ones filing a complaint?” Her anger peaks as she speaks, her frustration clear in every word. Recalling it chokes her up. She steadies herself and continues, “If I keep thinking about this, how willI run my home? I bury myself in work. Otherwise, I’d have collapsed completely. Evenings make me restless, especially between 8 and 9 p.m. Sundays feel unbearable now. I feel so alone. But I hold on for my daughter.”
Samreen now lives alone with her daughter in Dharashiv. Her mother helps care for the child, but Samreen expects nothing from anyone. “There’s no one to share your pain with. Sometimes, I wish it never happened, like waking from a bad dream to a normal day. Aamir was so good. He’d say, ‘Do what you want, I’m with you,’ and he proved it. Now, there’s only loneliness.”
Ayesha and Samreen, both in their thirties, were busy weaving dreams of family, children, a new life, and stability. They had little sense of the hatred and violence beyond their safe world. Even if such things existed, they felt far away. They lived in a space of harmony, believing no harm could touch them.
What to serve for dinner to men returning from work?
Vishalgad-Gajapur, in Kolhapur’s Shahuwadi taluka, is a cluster gram panchayat. It includes the fort’s village, Gajapur’s Muslimwadi, Vanipeth, Sainath Peth, Baudhwadi, Kembhurnewadi, Bhattali, and small hamlets stretching to Pavan Khindi. The road from Pandhrepani to Gajapur winds through dense forests, with the Kasari dam’s water on one side. The area is breezy year-round but remote, with poor phone connectivity. Naturally, job opportunities are scarce. The main sources of income are tourism and visitors to the local dargah. But violence causes more than just human loss—it devastates livelihoods. The tourism that sustained these remote hamlets has collapsed, and rumours about safety have spread. When the economic balance crumbles, the burden falls on women. Whether a man earns enough or not, feeding the family is a woman’s responsibility, and the stress of figuring out what to cook weighs heavily on them. Shaheen Mujawar explains, “There’s never been tension among locals in Vishalgad’s villages. Even now, communities support each other. But for the last two or three years, the atmosphere has been deliberately poisoned. There’s a court case about encroachments on Vishalgad, yet mobs from outside came and disrupted everything. Worst of all, jobs have vanished. Families have left these hamlets for work elsewhere, facing burdens from rent to household expenses. Children’s schools have been disrupted or changed. Income and expenses don’t align, making it hard for women to run households. People literally don’t have money for salt. If the gas runs out, they wonder who to turn to. Men face work stress, so women can’t tell them about grocery shortages. Every day, they wake up wondering what to cook. By evening, they hope their man comes home, but they dread him asking for food because they don’t know what to offer. Many of us aren’t used to working outside, and some families don’t allow it. If we’re not safe at home, how can we face harassment outside as Muslims?”
A fact-finding report by Salokha Sampark Gat, the Centre for Study of Society and Secularism, and Women’s Struggle for Peace details the violence in Vishalgad and Gajapur on July 14, 2024. It describes the physical, mental, and economic toll, with chilling accounts from Muslimwadi’s women. That day, most men were away for work, leaving elderly people, women, and children behind. The report notes: “Women in Muslimwadi faced terror all day. A mob armed with knives and hammers stormed in. As they pounded on doors, women barricaded them with sofas, chairs, and beds to keep them out. To stop children from crying, women stuffed cloth in their mouths to keep them quiet. Attackers broke doors, entered homes, and smashed everything—TVs, fridges, mixers, beds, chairs, mattresses. They left nothing intact. Scooters and vehicles were smashed with stones and hammers. Six scooters outside one house were piled up and burned. Fifteen to twenty men invaded each home, breaking windows, tearing roofs, burning clothes. Kitchen supplies—grain, flour, food—were thrown out. The entire settlement was destroyed. Women watched their life’s work turn to dust in moments. Attackers asked women their names, insulting those with Muslim names. One woman gave a Hindu name, but when they demanded her Aadhaar card and she didn’t have it, she locked herself inside. They broke the door, entered, and beat her. Reshma Prabhulkar, who runs a small bangle and clothing shop next to her house, didn’t open her door. The mob broke into her shop, detonated her cooking gas cylinder, and set her home’s contents ablaze.” Even without deaths, such incidents push women into a shell, layering pressure on them—worrying about their men’s safety, then their own. Women who’ve fought for freedom retreat, prioritizing others over themselves. This can lead to clinging to religious norms or societal pressures, starting a cycle of isolation, suppression, and disconnection from society, harming their mental health.
Rehana Mursal from Shantisathi Mahila Sangharsh Manch (Women’s Struggle for Peace) shared a haunting observation: “Visiting homes in Gajapur and Vishalgad, I saw children clutching their mothers’ saree ends and stuffing them in their mouths. When I asked why, the women said that during the attack, as men were beaten outside, children hiding with their mothers understood what was happening. Terrified and trembling, they wanted to scream. To keep their hiding spots secret, mothers stuffed saree or scarf ends in their children’s mouths to silence them. The kids struggled to breathe, but the cloth stayed until the chaos subsided. Now, scared children do this themselves when strangers come, stuffing their mothers’ sarees in their mouths. What kind of present and future are we giving these kids? How do we erase this trauma?”
Talking to Ayesha, Samreen, and the women of Vishalgad-Gajapur, one thing stood out: Islamophobia and patriarchy leave Muslim women isolated. Ayesha and Samreen both lost their in-laws’ support—treated as irrelevant once their husbands died. Their Muslim identity made filing complaints difficult, and they were kept away from their cases. They’ve had to take on family responsibilities, including jobs, while raising children alone. Financial strain suffocates them. Women wearing hijabs or burqas face barriers in education and jobs. Such incidents create fear, stopping bold girls from stepping out. Muslim vendors face boycotts, crippling their businesses. Finding homes is tough, with Muslims facing discrimination. Workers endure unequal treatment. Amid these social injustices, mental health is side-lined. The fear, loneliness, and constant vigilance Muslim women face are deep scars of communalism, yet these emotional wounds are rarely discussed.
From Social Othering to Social Suffering
These incidents may seem rare, sparking debates about why discuss them. But in recent years, Muslims, especially men, have been systematically targeted. Hate speeches, calls to displace Muslims, cow vigilantism, and mob killings are rising, as shown in the 2024 India Hate Lab and Hate Crime Report: Mapping First Year of Modi’s Third Government. These reports highlight how anti-Muslim hatred is growing organised, political, and normalised. India Hate Lab recorded 1,165 hate speech incidents in 2024, with 1,050 targeting Muslims, occurring in political rallies, religious processions, and election campaigns. Of these, 266 involved BJP leaders. Terms like “love jihad,” “land jihad,” and “vote jihad” were joined by new ones like “mazar jihad,” “UPSC jihad,” “fertilizer jihad,” and “rail jihad,” spreading false narratives to fuel hatred. Uttar Pradesh saw the most incidents (242, up 132% from last year), followed by Maharashtra with 210 hate speech cases, a 78% rise from 118 in 2023. Of Maharashtra’s cases, 195 targeted Muslims, 14 targeted both Muslims and Christians, and one was anti-Christian. May’s Lok Sabha elections and November’s assembly elections saw peaks, with 32 incidents in May alone. Political leaders and Hindu nationalist groups used these periods to inflame religious sentiments. From August to November, 90 incidents were recorded.
The Hate Crime Report notes 947 hate crimes from June 2024 to June 2025, including 602 violent incidents. In 173 mob attacks, 25 Muslim men died. Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Maharashtra were particularly sensitive. Maharashtra saw 101 hate speeches, with 178 by BJP-linked leaders, including the Prime Minister, Chief Ministers, MPs, and others. Of 947 hate crimes, only 81 (13%) led to FIRs, and no political leaders faced action. These are just recorded cases—unreported ones are unknown. The data shows hate is being normalized, a worrying trend.
Mental health discussions for families affected by riots, violence, and hate speech often focus on post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), noting symptoms like depression, insomnia, or lack of focus. But the broader societal impact is ignored. The “social othering” from religious divides and its mental toll are overlooked. Mental health can’t be separated from daily life’s small and big struggles. Bebaak Collective’s report, Social Suffering in a World without Support: Report on Mental Health of Indian Muslims, highlights this. Researcher and founder Hasina Khan says, “Studying religious and social hatred, we realized Indian Muslims’ mental health reflects political oppression and societal hate. Talking to victims of hate crimes and riots, we saw that discussing emotions, habits, and relationships reveals how communalism changes Muslim lives. Mental health studies can’t stop at PTSD or depression. Violence affects daily life, so we must understand its impact on future aspirations, financial security, and health. Muslim mental health isn’t just about communalism—it underscores everyday exclusion. Some faced physical effects: one family member had a heart attack, another victim’s mother lost her sanity. Women’s mobility is restricted, they grow isolated, neighbors drift away, friends from their own and other communities shrink back. Youth face future anxiety, leading to depression. Activists feel fear and despair, grappling with helplessness and stress. Constant vigilance in public spaces harms mental health, yet it’s rarely discussed.” Mental health expert Shamima Asgar adds, “Clinical mental health approaches are individual-focused, addressing personal pain and trauma but not the root causes of violence. Instead, the focus is on coping with its effects, implying the violence will persist, and you must adapt.” In short, addressing the problem requires tackling its roots, viewing Muslim mental health as social suffering.
Hasina’s point is key: religiously motivated violence and inflammatory speeches are politically driven, a tool of oppression. When such attacks come from institutions, who takes responsibility? The institutions themselves should, as Muslims are citizens under their care. Preventing injustices, mob deaths, and attacks is their duty, as is supporting victims afterward. Otherwise, how will affected families and women stand again? Trauma needs support. Women whose lives are upended by religious hatred need space to express their pain freely and a chance to move forward. Samreen sees her busy life as healing. Mental health taboos often stop women from seeking counselling or therapy, so it should be offered at a government level. Ayesha was encouraged by Satara’s rural police superintendent to try therapy. She says, “I had no idea about counselling or therapy. I thought I was strong. The way I handled things, spoke, and acted made me think I was fine. But therapy showed me I was bottling up my pain. I didn’t even know how much I’d suppressed. I had headaches, irritability, and despair. Sometimes, I felt nothing, like I was numb. The world talked about my tragedy, but I seemed strong on the outside. Therapy taught me I hadn’t moved past the shock. It helped me accept it slowly. Five or six months later, I cried openly for the first time. My heart felt lighter. I realized I needed to think about what’s next, how to live. The stress is temporary. What’s permanent? My daughter. She’s, my anchor.” Ayesha got help, but not from the government.
Improving mental health requires concrete steps at social, political, and legal levels. Rehana Mursal and Hasina Khan suggest permanent peace committees and administrative systems in every district to prevent violence and promote unity. Civil groups should monitor justice systems, support victims, and pressure authorities to act against perpetrators. The National Human Rights Commission (NHRC) and Minority Commission (NMC) should investigate alongside police to ensure justice. State governments should compensate victims of hate crimes. Local groups, women’s collectives, and organizations should offer emotional support and safe spaces. Counselling and trauma care should be available in Muslim-majority areas. Health workers need training to handle hate crime victims sensitively. Mental health experts should study the impact of class, caste, and religion on health, and mental health laws must be actively enforced.
Reflecting on Hasina’s words, we can’t ignore changes in emotions, behaviour, and relationships. How do we fix or undo them? When Samreen’s daughter asks when her father will return, what can she say? “We had our routine,” she said, hinting at the joy it brought. Yet, when she called her mother-in-law to stay with her, their avoidance hurt her. How do you compensate for the time needed to process this? Still, Samreen says, “I’ve accepted he’s not coming back. I live for my daughter.” Ayesha echoed this: “Even after marriage, I wasn’t very mature. I was a silly, carefree girl, always laughing, lost in dreams. Nurul let me be that way. Then this mountain of tragedy hit. It made me serious, wiped out my carefree nature. I struggled to accept that change, but now I have. My daughter matters most.” Should we call it good or bad that the daughters these mothers strive for are shielded from reality? Just then, Ashnoor grabbed Ayesha’s phone, pointing at her father’s photo, calling him “Abbu.” She recognizes him, but what will she think when she learns why he’s gone? Unknowingly, the system has made her part of this social suffering. What should she and other children like her do with this pain? In a society where religion overshadows humanity, it feels like we’re all casting shadows of hate. If we can, let’s pull our hands back.
Related:
Muslims, victims of targeted violence in Pusesavali, Satara: Fact-finding report
Why no action against hate monger, BJP leader, Vikram Pawaskar asks Bombay HC
CJP flags 8 incidents of hate crime including lynchings to National Commission for Minorities