It has happened again. This time, in the quiet district of Balasore, Odisha. A 19-year-old woman, a B.Ed student, set herself on fire in the college hostel. She battled for almost three days with 90 per cent burns. She did not survive. Yet again, we are left with the smouldering remains of our conscience.
According to reports, the student had been sexually harassed by a professor, also the head of the department she was affiliated to. A man in authority, trusted to lead and protect young women aspiring to educate others, instead allegedly abused his position of power. The survivor filed a complaint, her statement recorded on her hospital bed, but justice didn’t come knocking. At least not fast enough. Not with the force it should have. As of now, the principal has been arrested and the college authorities have been suspended. But all this happened after she was gone.
Every time a woman speaks out against sexual harassment, she sets herself up for more than just legal battle. She exposes herself to ridicule, character assassination, silence from the institution, and the burden of proof that is rarely matched by sensitivity. The Internal Complaints Committee (ICC), mandated under the law to be a woman’s first line of support in a college or workplace, is either inactive or complicit in many institutions. In this case, what was the ICC doing when the student first voiced her discomfort? Were there mechanisms to hear her out? Why were her complaints met with disbelief and inaction? These are not procedural lapses, they are acts of institutional betrayal.
One must ask how alone, how abandoned, how desperate a young woman must feel to believe that the only way to be heard is by setting herself on fire.
We are told our homes are the safest. But women know that this is a myth. From schools to workplaces, hostels to offices, from families to institutions, women are asked to “adjust”, “ignore”, “stay quiet” for the sake of reputation, marks, jobs, and peace. When she dares to raise her voice, she is warned of “consequences”. When she doesn’t, she is blamed for tolerating it for too long.
How far have we truly come since the laws were amended after Nirbhaya? Section 9 of the Prevention of Sexual Harassment (POSH) Act, 2013, mandates that any woman, including students, can file a complaint within three months of the incident. Section 4 mandates every institution to set up an ICC to inquire into such complaints fairly and confidentially. But how many colleges treat these provisions as sacrosanct, rather than paperwork to be ticked off during inspections?
Let’s be very clear. The failure in Balasore is not one of law, it is of enforcement, empathy, and ethics. It is a failure of the college, its administration, the ICC, the police machinery, and society at large. What stops institutions from ensuring their ICCs are trained, equipped, and functional? What stops them from supporting a complainant instead of shielding a predator?
Each case like this chips away at a parent’s confidence. Every time a daughter leaves home for education, there’s a silent prayer whispered behind her. That she will return safe. That her ambition won’t be her undoing. And yet, we are forced to confront the reality: That the most unsafe place for a woman is often the very place meant to empower her.
As a woman and a lawyer, I say this with deep anguish: The law is not enough if it remains only on paper. Our judiciary, our law enforcement, our institutions — all must learn not just to hear, but to listen. Not just to act, but to act swiftly and justly. When complaints gather dust or are dismissed as exaggerations, the message we send is clear: “We don’t believe you”.
Sexual harassment is not a “misunderstanding”. It is violence. And institutions that ignore it and trivialise it, become complicit. The principal of the Balasore college should face the strictest punishment under the law. But so should those who allowed this culture of silence to fester, every authority figure who dismissed the girl, every system that failed her, every mechanism that lay dormant until it was too late.
A girl should not have to light herself on fire to make people pay attention. But she did. And now, we must carry the weight of her silence. We must ensure no other girl has to choose death over dignity. Justice, delayed or denied, is not just a legal failure, it is a human tragedy.
The writer is senior advocate and former Additional Solicitor General of India
