puja kaura

Her name was Ruchika Girhotra. She was 14 years old. A tennis player from Panchkula, Haryana. On August 12 1990, she went to meet S.P.S. Rathore at his office. He was the Inspector General of Police and head of the Haryana Lawn Tennis Association. He had promised her father he would arrange special coaching for her. When her friend stepped out of the room, he molested her. Her family filed a complaint three days later. Rathore had her expelled from school. Her father was suspended from his bank job on false charges. Six cases were filed against her brother Ashu. The family's house was forcibly sold. They fled to the outskirts of Shimla and took up earth filling work to survive. On December 28 1993, days after Ashu was paraded in handcuffs through their neighbourhood, Ruchika consumed poison. She died the next day. She was 17. Rathore threw a party that night. He then refused to release her body to her father unless he signed blank papers. Those papers were later used to forge documents accepting a false autopsy report. Despite a police inquiry recommending an FIR against him, Rathore kept getting promoted. He became the Director General of Police of Haryana in 1999. The case went through 40 adjournments and more than 400 hearings over 19 years. In December 2009 a court convicted him of molestation. He was sentenced to six months' imprisonment and fined Rs 1,000. The sentence was later enhanced to 18 months. The Supreme Court upheld his conviction in 2016 but reduced it to the time already served. He walked free. The judge who tried to add abetment to suicide charges against him was forced into premature retirement. The judge who dismissed those charges was a neighbour of Ruchika's family involved in a property dispute with them. S.P.S. Rathore was later invited as a VIP guest to a Republic Day event in Panchkula. Ruchika Girhotra was 14 when he molested. She was 17 when she died. Follow for stories India deserves to remember.

There was a time when stardom was a fortress. In the 90s, Ruby Bhatia wasn't just a VJ; she was the electric pulse of a new, liberalised India, reportedly commanding Rs 1 lakh per show. Rahul Roy wasn't just an actor; he was the face of a generation’s collective heartbreak, the Aashiqui boy whose silhouette defined romance and whose haircut was the bestseller in every saloon. Govinda? He was—and is—the undisputed king of the masses, a comic genius who could make a cinema hall shake with a single pelvic thrust. Fast forward three decades, and the fortress has been dismantled by the relentless, voyeuristic machinery of social media. Today, these icons find themselves under the harsh, unforgiving glare of a "content-hungry" digital mob that mistakes struggle for failure and evolution for desperation. Recent headlines have taken a perverse pleasure in dissecting Ruby Bhatia’s career shift. Yes, the woman who once defined "cool" is now a life coach charging Rs 3,000 for a six-month program. To the keyboard warriors, this is a "fall from grace." To any sane mind, it is a woman finding meaning after a nervous breakdown, choosing to make mental health accessible to the masses rather than gatekeeping it for the elite. Similarly, Rahul Roy has been subjected to the "cringe" treatment for appearing in social media reels with unknown creators. The internet, in its infinite cruelty, ignores the fact that this man is a brain stroke survivor. He is fighting aphasia, paying off legal debts that predated his illness, and trying to "stay active" and work for as long as he is alive. When he asks his trolls to find him "decent work" instead of mocking his reels, he isn't showing desperation; he is showing a spine of steel that most "influencers" couldn't dream of possessing. Then there is Govinda, the man who once gave the Khans a run for their money, now frequently seen performing at school annual days and weddings. The "dark shadow" of social media brands these "small shows," as if the size of the stage dictates the stature of the legend. Govinda’s response is a masterclass in humility: "I never let my ego influence my work." Whether it’s a Chief Minister’s event or a local school function, the man dances because he is a performer. There is more dignity in one of his "wedding steps" than in the entire collective output of a thousand anonymous trolls. Social media has birthed a generation of spectators who believe that unless you are at the absolute zenith of your power, you should vanish into the shadows. We have become a culture that feeds on the "tragedy" of the legacy act. But here is the truth: There is nothing sad about a veteran getting up and going to work. There is nothing "cringe" about an icon refusing to be defeated by a health crisis or a shifting industry. The desperation doesn't belong to Ruby, Rahul, or Govinda. The desperation belongs to the social media ecosystem that needs to tear down giants just to feel tall.

“The meaning of my work is profound. The meaning of my presence at home is irreplaceable. “ Must read.

Wow 😮 a birthday song to remember 🎁

HEART-WRENCHING 💔 “Call the DM, will k*ll them” This is the father of a young journalist Ranjit Tiwari in Gonda, UP. Ranjit came in contact with a high-tension line over his house. Complained many times to the authorities to remove it but in vain. Now he is NO MORE.

One of the greatest videos EVER 😂😂 She’s standing in protest to support ‘gays of Hormuz’ while ‘straights of Hormuz’ are being targeted. Yes, you read it right. Watch the video 😅

reading books on a phone and reading paperback books are two different things