The children have settled in distant cities. The phone hardly rings anymore. Knees hurt. Memory fades. Loneliness walks in quietly and refuses to leave. This is not the story of a few old people. It is the future of India.

The greatest strength of Indian democracy lies in the fact that whenever the people wish, they can transform their voice into a movement. Sometimes this voice topples governments, sometimes it gives birth to new politics, and sometimes it becomes a demand for systemic reform.

History suggests that revolutions are not born merely from poverty. They emerge when rising aspirations collide with unmet expectations. Political thinkers such as Alexis de Tocqueville, James C Davies, and Samuel P Huntington argued that societies become volatile when people's hopes grow faster than a system's ability to satisfy them. India's freedom movement, as well as the mass protests of the 1960s and 1970s, reflected this dynamic.

How much longer will 80 per cent of the population continue to view itself as weak? How much longer, despite being the majority, will they remain politically fragmented? Was this country truly drifting away from its own foundational society? And the biggest question: was a silent injustice unfolding in the name of "secularism"?

“Congress-free India”; the slogan thunders through today's political arenas, but who truly owns it? Its first murmur stirred in the defiant mind of Dr Ram Manohar Lohia, a restless soul whose birth we mark today, not with mere flowers, but with the grit to face uncomfortable truths. Small in stature, colossal in impact, Lohia reshaped India's rebellion from within.

A few days ago, a young mother, a seemingly ordinary woman in Agra, killed her toddler daughter. Local reports, still unfolding, suggest the motive was not rage or neglect, but a lover. The child, investigators whispered, had become an "obstacle". This case is not an aberration.