Pankaj Suneja

When we sit with a plant and we say mean things to it or simply ignore it, it gradually dies. It only comes alive when we give it attention and nourishment. This death may appear to be a suicide, but in truth, it is the people and systems around the plant who have killed it. Similarly, in a forest, if most trees turn against one tree, that tree slowly begins to collapse. This collapse is seen as a suicide, but is it? Who is the accuser?

This question is at the heart of the tragedy of student suicides in India, where every year, thousands of young lives are lost. As a psychotherapist, I witness these tragedies up close, and they fill me with despair, sorrow, and rage. They unleash a collective anxiety that communities attempt to cope with in many different ways. Some people grieve openly, others become overly active and busy, and some use dark humor to alleviate the pain. We see a spectrum of responses, from the empathetic to the sadistic. Yet, it feels as if most of us have become numb to this immense loss.

This numbness is unsettling. In my practice, a student grappling with the suicide of a distant friend confided that the deaths of women and children in Gaza affect her more deeply. This raises a crucial question: do we choose our suffering based on what society legitimizes as “real” suffering? If the world tells us a particular tragedy is suffering, we feel sympathy for the idea of it, but we may not genuinely feel the loss. It makes me wonder what validates suffering in our time. We have become so numb and apathetic that we struggle to recognize injustice and loss in our everyday lives, whether it’s the death of five sewer cleaners in Narnaul, Haryana, or a student in a nearby hostel.

This emotional void is felt acutely by those closest to the tragedy. The best friend of a suicide victim shared that she can no longer function. She has lost her “other half”—the person she walked, sat, and ate with. She is in a state of deep grief, feeling an internal void and emptiness. What she finds most difficult are the “half-hearted concerns of sympathy” from others. She longs to return to her everyday life, but it has become unbearable.

The speed with which communities attempt to forget and move on is astonishing. There is a powerful desire to suppress the loss due to shame. Colleges and coaching centers, such as those in Kota, may launch a flurry of “preventative” events to show they are taking action. But this often leads to burnout, exhaustion, and little time for actual healing from trauma. This divided response breaks the hearts of those who are grieving. There is a strong, collective attempt to hide and minimize conversations about suicide, to pretend that life is going on as usual. Perhaps this is a symptom of a world that cannot stop; a sign of late stage capitalism, we are almost breaking down, but we keep going, seeking instant pleasures and addictions to escape our pain.

This psychic state also manifests in the media. Journalism, once a pillar of democratic values and a protector of people’s safety, has become a tool of exploitation. Media outlets sensationalize suicide news, sharing explicit images and details without regard for the identity, privacy, or dignity of the person who died, their family, or their community. This lack of morality is another immense loss for our country. This sadism can also be seen in the students themselves who, perhaps as a form of denial, mock suicide, imitate the act, and post videos for attention. It feels like they are identifying with the “accuser”—the external force that killed the person.

This brings us back to the central question: in suicide, who is the accuser? I believe the answer is in the collective. We can see this in the powerful character of Shutu in the film Death in the Gunj. A shy, introverted young man, Shutu goes on a family vacation, and the series of incidents that befall him lead to his death. He carries the wounds of failing his exams, grieving the recent loss of his father, and taking on the responsibility of caring for his mother. His toxic, cold older brother humiliates and invalidates him. His uncle is entirely self-absorbed. The bullying from his brother’s friend turns violent, and a casual sexual encounter with his sister-in-law’s sister leads to cold rejection when he seeks deeper intimacy. Finally, even his young niece, whom he was close to, abandons him. Shutu’s death is not simply a suicide. It is a profound psychic collapse after being repeatedly betrayed, humiliated, ignored, and dehumanized.

Similarly, other characters in film—such as Amina in Garam Hawa, Mumtaz in Joyland, and Neil Perry in Dead Poet’s Society—force us to confront this same question. Were they mere suicides, or were they killed by our betrayals, our humiliation, our insensitive and inhumane treatment, and our ability to ignore and invisibilize others? Our education system focuses on rote learning and superficial examinations, failing to attend to the whole person. Our families are often ill-prepared to care for their children’s emotional needs, forcing them to “re-parent” themselves. Our collective loss and trauma are normalized and denied.

Paths Toward Healing

There are two essential responses we must embrace. The first is to look honestly at our ways and our systems. We must ask: Can we be more empathetic to each other? If someone could genuinely talk to the person in pain, understand their suffering, and offer them love and affection, they would grow, heal, and come to feel their own pain without being consumed by it. Empathetic attunement is healing.

As a psychotherapist, my main work is to emotionally “re-parent” individuals. My conscience finds rest knowing that I am on a side where I am attending to the pain in the world. I am caring for broken souls and helping them realize their gifts. As I heal my own soul and work through the defenses that prevent me from feeling pain, I also facilitate this process for others. I believe that as individuals heal in consciousness, a shift occurs in the collective consciousness as well. In this way, I have a high regard for all psychotherapists and caregivers who are working to close this psychic gap, bit by bit.

The second part of the healing process is how we engage with our lives after a suicide has happened. How do communities grieve? In rural parts of Rajasthan, a professional mourner, or rudali, would be hired to perform a theatrical display of grief—wailing, beating their chest, and singing songs of lament. This public, communal expression served as a substitute for the community’s repressed feelings of shame and numbness, allowing for a collective healing.  This practice reminds us that grieving is not just an individual act; it is a vital communal ritual that modern society has, to its detriment, largely abandoned.

We must remember that the death of one person affects us all. By turning toward the pain of others instead of away from it, we can begin to create a world where everyone feels seen, cared for, and truly alive.