Your silence that kills.

A landlord raises the rent without warning.

Next door, a family packs decades into cardboard boxes.

Their children stare at the stairs they’ll never climb again.

We hold the door, avoid their eyes, murmur about traffic.

And later, alone, we tell ourselves

“There was nothing I could say that would change it.”

A man is beaten in a video we scroll past twice.

The caption says perhaps it was for his name, his prayer, his rumor.

We lower the volume but not our gaze,

like watching surgery through a window.

The timeline refreshes with cats and cricket scores.

We wonder when it became easier than facing the mirror.

In a random group chat, a joke cuts someone down

by caste, by body, by the way they love.

Laughter floods the screen in yellow faces,

piling up like evidence we pretend not to see.

Our fingers hover over the keyboard, paralyzed.

Learning how heavy three letters—“hey”—can feel.

The boss crosses a line in the meeting room

that makes a woman go quiet as ghosts.

His laugh fills the silence like smoke.

We sip our coffee, check our phones for nothing,

pretend we didn’t hear the way her voice cracked.

And call it all “staying professional.”

A protest marches past with hungry hands

holding signs we can’t—or won’t—quite read.

Their chants bounce off shuttered shopfronts.

We cross to the other side, quicken our pace,

tell the friend on the phone we’re “just on time.”

Our footsteps louder than our conscience.

So when did your silence become a vote?

When the harm was in front of you, what did you choose not to say?

Was it fear, convenience, or just habit?

How many windows did you close, how many jokes let stand?

When the room got heavy, did you feel your own weight?

What sound does your quiet make when no one’s listening? WRITTEN BY, R MAHIMA RAM