“A Tribute to Atul Subhash: The Unheard Cry of a Tormented Soul”

In the bustling city of Bangalore, a man named Atul Subhash—a brilliant engineer, a techie, a father—silently bore a weight so heavy that it ultimately crushed him. On the surface, he was one of many—a professional navigating the demands of a competitive world. But beneath this facade, he was fighting a battle no one could see, one that ultimately claimed his life.

Atul’s story is one of unimaginable pain, betrayal, and the failure of a system that is meant to protect. A man who worked tirelessly to build a life of stability and dignity was pushed to his limits, cornered by circumstances that no one deserves to face.

The Price of Love and Betrayal

Atul’s life took a devastating turn when his marriage, once a partnership of dreams, became a nightmare. His wife, the person he once trusted with his heart and his life, allegedly demanded an exorbitant ₹3 crores as alimony—a demand so extreme it defies comprehension. This was not just a financial blow; it was an attack on his very identity as a provider, a father, and a human being.

What broke him further was the denial of the simplest yet most profound human connection—the right to see his own child. The love of a father, the joy of holding his little one, was snatched away from him. He was left with empty hands and a shattered heart, forced to live with a pain that words cannot capture.

The Crushing Weight of Expectations

Atul was more than just an engineer; he was a man with dreams, a person who worked hard to achieve success, and someone who believed in the dignity of relationships. But the societal expectations placed on men, coupled with a system that can be unforgiving, left him with no escape.

He endured relentless harassment—legal, emotional, and social. A father stripped of his rights, a man burdened by demands beyond his capacity, Atul found himself trapped in a vortex of despair. His education, his achievements, and his integrity could not shield him from the injustices that ultimately drove him to take the most tragic step of all.

A Silent Plea for Justice

Atul’s story is not just his own; it is the story of countless men who face similar struggles, silently bearing the weight of expectations, accusations, and injustices. His death is a reminder of the gaps in our system, of the urgent need to reevaluate laws and societal attitudes that can be weaponized to destroy lives.

While laws exist to protect, they must not be blind to the possibility of misuse. Atul’s case reveals a cruel reality: that justice, when skewed, can become a tool of oppression. His life was a plea for fairness, for understanding, and for compassion—pleas that went unheard.

Remembering Atul Subhash

Atul Subhash was a man who deserved better. He deserved a life of dignity, the joy of watching his child grow, and the freedom to live without fear or coercion. He was an engineer, a father, and above all, a human being whose value went beyond the roles society assigned him.

As we reflect on his life, let us remember him not just as a victim, but as a symbol of the need for change. Let his story ignite conversations about fairness and justice, about the importance of listening to the silent struggles of men, and about building a system that does not fail its people—regardless of their gender.

Atul Subhash, your story will not be forgotten. Your pain will not be in vain. Let this tribute stand as a reminder of the humanity we owe to one another, and as a call for a society where no one feels as hopeless and abandoned as you did.

May you find peace, Atul. And may your story inspire the change you deserved.

The Stories Left Behind in Our Clothes

Today started as a routine day—a seasonal ritual, really. I was swapping summer for winter, pulling out cozy sweaters and stashing breezy fabrics into my bed box. But as I packed those bags full of summer clothes, I paused. I looked at them—each bag neatly tucked away, ready to be forgotten for the next few months—and something struck me so deeply that I couldn’t move.

It’s strange how life offers such moments, seemingly out of nowhere. As I stood there, staring at these bags of fabric and thread, my mind drifted to something hauntingly real.

What happens to the clothes of people when they are no longer alive?

It’s a thought we rarely linger on, yet it holds so much weight. After someone dies—when their laughter fades from rooms and their presence becomes memory—what happens to the parts of them they’ve left behind? Their clothes, folded neatly in a closet, smelling faintly like them. The shirt they wore on a sunny Sunday. The sweater they snuggled in during cold winters. The dress that made them feel beautiful.

Do their families gather these clothes the way I was packing mine today? Carefully folding, with trembling hands? Do they press a sleeve to their face, breathing in the scent, as if trying to hold onto a piece of that person one last time?

Maybe some clothes are given away. A favorite jacket, now worn by someone who never knew its original owner. Maybe some are packed into boxes and left in storage—silent, untouched, holding stories no one speaks of anymore. Or perhaps some families cannot bear to part with them, leaving the wardrobe as it is, like a shrine to a life that once filled their home with warmth.

Clothes are so deeply personal, yet we rarely see them as more than things. In reality, they are storytellers. Each piece carries a moment: a vacation, a celebration, a lazy day, a heartbreak. I wonder, do these stories end when a person does? Or do they linger—alive in the folds and seams, waiting to whisper to someone who holds them next?

And what of my own clothes? Someday, who will open my boxes and bags, and what will they see? A collection of fabrics? Or will they see me—the memories, the life, the laughter, the love that I once carried while wearing them?

Life feels fragile in these thoughts. It reminds me of how little we truly own, even when we think we do. Clothes, just like everything else, are temporary companions on this journey. Yet somehow, they hold an essence of permanence. They outlive us, carrying echoes of who we were long after we’re gone.

Today, as I closed the bed box, my heart felt heavy. But it was also full of gratitude—gratitude for the life I get to live and for all the small, beautiful moments my clothes have witnessed. They’ve been with me through seasons of growth, change, and stillness. And while I don’t know what becomes of them once I’m gone, I know they will have held a piece of my story.

Maybe that’s all we can hope for—that the things we leave behind, even something as simple as clothes, will tell someone, somewhere, that we were here. That we lived. That we mattered.

And maybe that’s enough!!!