A Bullet for Her Freedom, A Temple for His Honor

-By Ayushman Sinha

There are no gods here.

Only men with trembling egos and trembling hands,

who clutch revolvers like divine right

and claim ownership over the breath of their daughters.

Four bullets. Four.

One for each boundary she crossed that bruised his paper-thin pride.

And somewhere in the smoke and blood,

India clapped.

Radhika Yadav is dead.

Not because she harmed, not because she betrayed,

but because she lived in a way that embarrassed a man too weak to be a father

and too cowardly to admit he was never a god.

She dared to breathe—without permission.

And for this, he played executioner.

And now we find ourselves in a country where the father pulls the trigger,

and the grandfather—puffed with antique arrogance—declares with a dead-eyed calm:

“He did nothing wrong.

She was his daughter.

His property.”

And the crowd gathers.

Not with protest.

Not with mourning.

But with celebration.

Property.

Let the word burn.

Let it fester in the mouths of men who mutter izzat as if it were holy.

Let it throb behind every keyboard warrior’s tweet defending her murder.

Property, not person.

Possession, not child.

An extension of a man’s fragile honour,

a flesh-bound vessel to be caged, corrected, or—when needed—destroyed.

This was not a crime of passion.

This was a sacrifice—offered to the altar of patriarchy,

draped in the saffron robes of culture,

with the national anthem humming softly in the background like a lullaby for monsters.

They say, “He gave her life.”

So he could take it.

Is this what we are now?

A nation that believes biology is ownership?

That wombs are contracts?

That fatherhood is a license to kill?

No—this isn’t degeneracy.

This is design.

It is what we have cultivated and watered and preached for centuries.

The slow, methodical conditioning of a people who see daughters as liabilities,

as reputational risks,

as walking threats to a father’s so-called dignity.

But today, it has found new oxygen—online, feral, and flaming.

The gutter of social media now overflows with blood-soaked praise.

Every incel and Hindu Rashtra cosplayer, every shirtless gym-reel alpha

has risen from his sweaty basement to defend the killer as a “real man.”

“Father did what was necessary.”

“She was disrespectful.”

“She was making reels.”

“She was friends with Muslims.”

“She crossed the line.”

She lived. That was the line.

And they crossed it first.

These men—these pixelated prophets of the manosphere—

wouldn’t last five seconds in the presence of a woman with spine.

But they click and clack and howl,

drunk on the steroidal fantasy of control.

They are not fringe.

They are not rare.

They are everywhere now.

Clerks, coders, content creators.

Boys who’ve never held a woman’s gaze,

men who’ve never loved without possession.

Fuelled by influencers with oil-slick tongues and YouTube diplomas in misogyny,

they share Tate quotes between memes,

chant “alpha,”

and ask “where are the good women?”

Good. Obedient. Invisible. Silent.

That is the curriculum.

And religion? Religion has never been more compliant.

Every scripture now twisted to whisper: Obey or burn.

Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian—

each one weaponized,

each one offering a thousand justifications for keeping women on leashes.

We dress this up in ritual and say,

“Culture.”

We lace it with incense and say,

“Faith.”

But it is rot.

Holy rot.

The sacred stench of a civilization that thinks daughters must be dictated or destroyed.

And we let it bloom.

The torchbearers of Hindutva purity,

those hymn-singing patriarchs draped in saffron delusion,

will not call this what it is.

They’ll say, “This is a family matter.”

Or worse, “She was derailing tradition.”

Because what is tradition,

if not a noose dipped in turmeric?

What is culture,

if not a cage carved out of scripture?

Nationalism has always needed bodies.

Now it demands daughters.

They want obedient wombs,

quiet tongues,

unquestioning knees.

Bharat Mata, they chant,

as they murder the real Mata in her own home,

as they rename freedom “filth,”

and fathers who kill their children “heroes.”

But this rot is not only saffron.

It wears suits.

It speaks English.

It votes liberal.

It posts feminist quotes between flights to Bali.

So let’s not stop at politics.

Let’s speak of the polite.

The English-medium elite.

The ones with LinkedIn pages and yoga routines,

who sip turmeric lattes while blaming “Western influence” for female autonomy.

They won’t shoot their daughters.

They will smother them in politeness.

Call them “confused.”

Call them “too modern.”

Call them “lost.”

They’ll never touch a trigger.

They’ll hand over the bullets with a smile.

This society is not broken.

It is well-oiled.

It is functioning exactly as it was designed to.

Our films teach it.

Our textbooks hint at it.

Our elders expect it.

Our religion sanctifies it.

Our nation legalizes it with its silence.

Ask yourself—what will you remember longer?

Her funeral or your phone’s notification?

You’ll forget her name.

You’ll move on.

You’ll retweet a few hashtags and return to scrolling.

But the system remains.

This country is not falling apart.

It is becoming itself more completely.

The venom is not new.

We are simply bottling it now and selling it as masculinity.

Radhika is dead.

Not because she was weak, but because she was brave.

She dared to dream without chains.

She dared to live without shame.

She dared to exist as something more than someone’s daughter.

And for this, she was declared enemy of the state,

enemy of the home,

enemy of the father.

They buried her body, yes.

But they built him a temple—metaphorical, digital, ideological.

They will not remember her.

They will erase her.

They will say she was rebellious.

They will say she dishonoured her lineage.

But we know.

We know.

She was freedom, walking.

And freedom, in this country,

is the most punishable crime.

Let this not be a eulogy, but a verdict.

Not a whisper, but a war cry.

India—you are decomposing.

Your soul is curdling.

Your values are maggots dressed as tradition.

You murder your daughters and crown their murderers.

There is no honour in your honour killings.

No pride in your culture of possession.

No future in your cowardice.

You can burn the girl.

You can bathe the father in applause.

But the blood will not wash clean.

Radhika Yadav was not yours.

She was not property.

She was not shame.

She was not yours to silence

.

And to the trolls, the alphas, the grandfathers, the weak men in saffron cloaks,

you may cheer today.

But know this:

You are not men.

You are mausoleums.

Hollow.

Dead inside.

Decorated with your own delusions.

And soon, even your sons will spit on your shadow.

Because a nation that teaches daughters they must die for living

is not worth saving.

It is not sick.

It is finished.

Now bury it.