He mentioned his nephew—Vignesh Shankar—a name I recognised.
A year ago, Vignesh contacted me, hoping to land an internship. It was a last-minute request, and all positions at my workplace were already filled. Still, I told him to email me outlining his interests, and I would try my best.
That email never came.
As his uncle spoke, I assumed he was calling again about an opportunity. But I was wrong.
What he said left me stunned.
The Cruel Twist of Fate
Vignesh had passed away the previous week—collapsing at the gates of his university. He was gone, just like that. No sign, no warning.
As if losing a child wasn’t enough, the family’s grief was compounded by misinformation. Some media outlets mistakenly reported that Vignesh had died by suicide.
The confusion arose because, on the same day, another student from Ashoka University, Dhruvajyoti Sahu, had taken his own life—two brilliant young minds—both gone within hours of each other.
One due to a silent, unexpected cardiac arrest. The other—a battle unknown to the world.
Two grieving families, both robbed of futures filled with promise.
Vignesh was pursuing a Bachelor’s degree at Ashoka University, majoring in English Literature and Media Studies. He wanted to be a journalist.
“I am very passionate about the press’s power and necessity. I hope to make my living improving the lives of the general public, and I see few better ways than to find work as a journalist,” he had told me during our brief conversation.
And yet, strangely, it was a section of the press that had misreported the cause of his death. I contacted the publications to correct the error.
Later that evening, while driving home from work, I couldn’t stop thinking about Vignesh's parents, Dhruv’s parents, and all parents who outlive their children. How do they wake up the following day, week and month, knowing the child they raised, loved, and dreamt for will never walk through the door again?
Grief That Time Can’t Heal
Loss is painful. But the loss of a child—it’s an ache that never really softens.
I was young when my cousin drowned. He was just 16. Decades have passed, but his absence lingers in our family like an unspoken grief.
Last month, his parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. Their youngest son organised an elaborate ceremony, recreating their wedding day. The extended family gathered, laughing, taking pictures, and reliving old memories.
And yet, through it all, there was a shadow. A silence in the noise. A missing presence in every picture.
Thirty-five years later, his absence was still felt.
The Weight of Unfinished Conversations
In the days following Vignesh and Dhruv’s passing, their professor shared a brief exchange between them. Vignesh had responded to an essay Dhruv had written about John Milton’s Paradise Lost. His words, in hindsight, felt haunting:
“Individuals can weather any storm so long as they are not alone. And have love.”
These were the last words Vignesh wrote to Dhruv. And now, both are gone.
What We Can Do
We may not be able to bring them back, but we can honour them.
If you know your worth, you don’t have to prove it. If you don’t, no amount of proving will ever feel enough.
A Simple Shift in Perspective
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We can be more present for the people we love. Don’t postpone that call, and don’t assume there will be time later.
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By choosing kindness, always. You never know what battles someone else is fighting.
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By remembering that no one should suffer alone. If something seems off, reach out. If you need help, ask for it.
To Vignesh and Dhruv’s families: We may never fully understand your grief, but we stand with you.
To my dear readers: Please send a prayer, a thought, or even a moment of reflection for these young souls.
And if you take away just one thing from this, let it be this—love fiercely, hold your people close, and never leave words unsaid.
About Me
I am a thinker at all times. I see, I think. I hear, I think. I read, I think. Every weekend I write. I would love to know what you think.