In the wake of a judgment, society is forced to confront its deepest fears: the decay of trust, the betrayal of love, and the collapse of institutions meant to protect us. But does the verdict truly deliver justice, or does it merely expose the cracks in a broken system? This article plunges into the aftermath of two chilling cases—one a calculated poisoning that turned love into a weapon, the other a betrayal within the very walls that promised safety. As we dissect the court’s decisions, we ask: Can a verdict ever truly heal the wounds inflicted by such horrors? Or does it merely mask the rot that festers beneath, offering society a false sense of closure? Through these judgments, we are forced to face the uncomfortable truth—our collective complicity in allowing such betrayals to unfold. In these cases, justice isn’t just about guilt or innocence; it’s about the soul of a society that demands accountability, yet repeatedly fails to uphold it.
The weight of justice often extends beyond the courtroom walls, stretching into the psyche of society itself. The cases of Greeshma S.S. in Kerala and Sanjay Roy in Kolkata are not just judicial milestones but moral reckonings that force us to confront our deepest fears, biases, and failures. As we dissect these rulings, we must ask ourselves: Are we truly delivering justice, or merely burying our collective guilt under the weight of verdicts?
Justice is meant to be an equilibrium of punishment, rehabilitation, and closure. However, when the nature of a crime defies our sense of morality, the pursuit of justice often veers into a desperate search for absolution. In Greeshma’s case, her calculated betrayal within the intimate sphere of a relationship shocked a society conditioned to see love as pure and sacrosanct. The death penalty handed to her feels like a societal purge, an attempt to rid ourselves of the discomfort her actions have caused.
On the other hand, the life sentence for Sanjay Roy, despite the brutality of his crime, leaves us questioning the uneven application of "rarest of rare" standards. The public outrage surrounding his verdict is less about the legal process and more about our collective frustration with systemic failures. When the sanctity of a space like a hospital—a place synonymous with care—is defiled, the inadequacy of the response feels like an insult to the victim’s memory and society’s moral fabric.
Do such verdicts serve as true justice, or are they society’s way of distancing itself from its own culpability in fostering environments where these crimes can happen?
These cases are not isolated tragedies; they are symptomatic of larger societal issues. Greeshma’s case unveils the toxic pressures that lead individuals to manipulate and betray. It forces us to question how societal expectations, emotional isolation, or personal ambitions can drive someone to meticulously plan the murder of a partner. Sharon Raj’s death is not just the end of a life; it’s the collapse of trust in intimate relationships.
Sanjay Roy’s crime, on the other hand, exposes the vulnerabilities within institutions we rely on for safety. His position as a police volunteer should have represented protection and service, yet it became a facade for violence. This betrayal forces us to confront the systemic cracks that allow individuals to abuse power. It also highlights the grim reality that even places of learning and healing can become stages for humanity’s darkest impulses.
In both cases, society is forced to grapple with the uneasy realization that our collective indifference, lack of preventive measures, and blind faith in social norms often create the perfect conditions for such crimes to occur.
Courtrooms are often depicted as arenas for justice, but they are also battlegrounds for trust and hope. In Greeshma’s case, the prosecution painted her as a cold, calculating individual, while her defense likely tried to humanize her actions as a result of extreme personal pressures. Regardless of the outcome, the courtroom became a place where Sharon’s family relived their trauma, where every argument was a blade that either reopened wounds or sought to heal them with justice.
For Sanjay Roy’s victim and her family, the courtroom was not just a place for justice but a stage where society’s promises were broken again. The verdict of life imprisonment, though legally valid, felt emotionally insufficient. It wasn’t just the life of one woman that was taken—it was a breach of faith in the very structures designed to protect.
These courtrooms are not merely spaces for legal discourse; they are crucibles where societal expectations clash with human failings, leaving behind scars that neither punishment nor forgiveness can easily erase.
The tragic death of Sharon Raj in the Kerala poisoning case is a harrowing tale that dismantles the idealized notion of love as a safe haven. This crime, rooted in manipulation and betrayal, exposes the facade of affection that masked a deeply calculated act of violence. It challenges us to confront the unseen dangers lurking within seemingly loving relationships and raises questions about the fragility of trust.
Sharon Raj’s relationship with Greeshma S.S. appeared outwardly typical—a bond characterized by shared moments, trust, and mutual promises. But behind this seemingly affectionate exterior lay an elaborate and sinister plan. Greeshma’s actions, meticulously premeditated and executed, show how love can be weaponized in the most chilling ways.
Greeshma’s motive stemmed from familial and societal pressures to end the relationship. Instead of resorting to conventional means, she took a darker path, using Sharon’s trust in her to achieve her goal. She laced a herbal concoction with pesticides, disguising death in the garb of care and affection. This betrayal of trust not only ended Sharon’s life but also defiled the sanctity of love, leaving a scar on societal perceptions of relationships.
This case forces us to examine how societal expectations, coupled with personal insecurities, can lead to catastrophic decisions. It also shines a light on the toxic undercurrents in relationships where power dynamics, emotional manipulation, or external pressures go unchecked.
Sharon’s death is not an isolated incident but part of a larger pattern of abuse and betrayal that often remains hidden in relationships. His trust in Greeshma blinded him to the danger she posed, illustrating how love can sometimes make individuals vulnerable to manipulation.
This case serves as a cautionary tale, reminding society of the importance of recognizing red flags in relationships. Greeshma’s calculated demeanor—evident in her ability to maintain a facade of normalcy even as she planned Sharon’s murder—is a chilling example of how emotional bonds can be exploited for personal gain.
The tragedy also underscores the need for open conversations about emotional abuse, manipulation, and the invisible struggles that many individuals face in their personal lives. It reminds us that love, while a powerful force, is not immune to corruption when trust is eroded.
This timeline not only highlights the methodical nature of Greeshma’s betrayal but also underscores the profound vulnerability that Sharon experienced as he unknowingly placed his life in her hands.
Hospitals are meant to be sanctuaries of healing, but the RG Kar Medical College in Kolkata became a chilling site of betrayal and horror in 2024. A 31-year-old postgraduate trainee doctor, driven by dreams of contributing to society, met a tragic and violent end. She was sexually assaulted and murdered in the very environment she trusted—a space intended for care and safety.
The crime, committed by Sanjay Roy, a police volunteer on duty, exposed a grim reality about institutional vulnerabilities. The victim was found in a deserted area of the hospital premises, her life brutally cut short by someone entrusted to protect the community. This heinous act shattered the illusion of security within institutions designed to nurture and safeguard.
The murder raised grave questions about trust and accountability. Roy, who exploited his position, transformed from a protector into a predator. His actions revealed not only a personal moral failure but also systemic gaps in background checks, monitoring, and institutional vigilance.
The broader implications of the crime are staggering. If an educated professional within a reputed institution can fall victim to such violence, what does it say about the safety of others in similar environments? The betrayal was not only of the victim but also of societal trust in institutions.
The trial of Sanjay Roy concluded with a life sentence, sparking widespread debate. The court, while acknowledging the brutality of the crime, did not deem it as falling under the "rarest of the rare" category required for the death penalty. For many, this decision failed to reflect the severity of the crime, leaving the victim’s family and society feeling justice was not fully served.
The West Bengal government has announced its intent to appeal the sentence, seeking capital punishment. This move underscores the broader societal demand for stronger punitive measures in cases that deeply shake collective conscience.
The case of the Kolkata killing demands systemic reforms, especially in institutional safety protocols. Hospitals, like other workplaces, must implement stringent security measures, regular background checks, and mechanisms for reporting and addressing misconduct. Beyond punishment, the focus must shift toward prevention, ensuring that such tragedies do not recur.
The victim’s death is a haunting reminder of how easily trust can be weaponized and the catastrophic consequences of institutional apathy. It forces us to confront a bitter truth: justice is not just about punishment—it is about rebuilding faith in the systems that failed.
The debate surrounding capital punishment in India has always been contentious, but the recent case of Sanjay Roy, who was convicted for the brutal rape and murder of a 31-year-old doctor, has thrown a sharp focus on how the "rarest of the rare" doctrine is applied in practice. The victim, a trainee doctor at R.G. Kar Medical College and Hospital in Kolkata, was found murdered after being sexually assaulted by Roy, a police volunteer, who worked at the hospital. His actions sparked mass public outrage and calls for the death penalty.
However, the judge, in this case, imposed a life sentence, arguing that the crime, while heinous, did not fall within the narrow category of "rarest of the rare" crimes that would justify a death sentence under Indian law. This decision highlights the growing legal and moral debate about how such a weighty and irreversible decision as capital punishment is made, and who exactly gets to determine whether a crime is “rare enough” to warrant death.
The Supreme Court’s interpretation of “rarest of the rare” has evolved over time. While it started with the intention to limit the scope of capital punishment, the criteria remain subjective and often contentious. For instance, in this case, the victim's family and the public believed the crime warranted the harshest penalty, yet the judge concluded that it didn't meet the threshold for death. This illustrates the tension between the emotional response to a crime and the legal standard that must be met for such an extreme punishment to be justified.
The subjective application of this doctrine raises the question: Should the judiciary's discretion be influenced by the severity of public outrage or emotional reaction to the crime, or should it be based strictly on legal parameters, leaving no room for societal pressure?
The decision to impose a life sentence instead of the death penalty in this case highlights a persistent paradox in the criminal justice system: the role of justice in a society clamoring for retribution. When a crime is so horrifically violent and shocking, such as the rape and murder of an innocent woman, it is natural for the public to demand the ultimate punishment. This reflects the desire for retribution, and there is no denying that emotions often run high in such cases.
But the question arises—does a legal system exist to deliver justice impartially, or does it, at times, perform for society by reflecting public sentiment? The public reaction to Roy’s crime—especially in a country where violence against women is a significant concern—clearly shows that many believe the death penalty is the only way to achieve justice for such acts. Yet, the court's decision to impose a life sentence suggests that judicial impartiality is not easily swayed by the public outcry. The judges, bound by the law and legal precedents, made a decision based on legal reasoning rather than emotional pressure.
This creates a tension between what the public views as justice and what the legal system defines as justice. The case, in this context, is a striking example of how the legal system may sometimes be seen as distant from the victims’ families and the larger society's emotions, especially when the law’s conclusions seem out of sync with what people feel is just.
In some ways, the decision can be seen as a balancing act. The court must uphold the rule of law and maintain the integrity of the judicial system by not allowing societal pressures to dictate sentencing. However, it is also crucial that justice be seen to be done, and this brings to the forefront the question of whether a life sentence is sufficient in such a severe case.
One of the most compelling arguments against the death penalty is its irreversible nature. Once a person is executed, there is no turning back, and if there is a miscarriage of justice, it can never be rectified. In India, this is particularly relevant because the country has witnessed several high-profile cases where death sentences were later found to have been wrongly imposed, either due to a lack of evidence or procedural errors.
The case of Sanjay Roy's life sentence instead of the death penalty raises critical questions about irreversible verdicts. Capital punishment has long been justified as a deterrent to heinous crimes, yet in a society as large and diverse as India’s, where systemic corruption, caste biases, and political influences still taint the criminal justice process, there is significant room for error. The risk of executing an innocent person is a moral and legal concern that can never be underestimated.
In Roy’s case, the death penalty was not imposed, not because his crime was less serious, but because the legal framework and the high bar for capital punishment do not allow for a simple, visceral reaction to the crime. While life imprisonment allows for the possibility of reform or rehabilitation, a death sentence closes off any hope for such a possibility. It also acknowledges that while public opinion may demand an eye for an eye, the judicial system cannot afford to be driven purely by that sentiment.
Moreover, given the scale of societal change needed to eradicate systemic issues, such as violence against women or corruption within institutions, the role of the judiciary should not only be to apply laws as they are but also to contribute to a broader societal discussion about punishment, justice, and human rights. Roy’s case has reignited these debates, showing that the legal system must evolve alongside society and be ready to confront the complex moral questions posed by irreversible verdicts.
5. Crimes That Silently Corrode the Social Fabric
Both the Kerala and Kolkata cases demonstrate how crimes do more than just harm the immediate victims—they fracture the very core of societal trust, laying bare the vulnerabilities of both personal and professional environments. These crimes, born out of deep betrayal and concealed motivations, leave behind a legacy of profound emotional and psychological destruction. The judgments, though providing closure, are just one layer in addressing the broader, more insidious issue: the slow corrosion of social bonds and the dangers lurking within.
The Kerala poisoning case was a brutal reminder of how toxic relationships can spiral into dangerous territories. Greeshma SS, driven by a warped sense of control and vengeance, hid her malevolent intentions beneath the guise of affection. Sharon Raj’s death was not an impulsive act of violence, but a calculated, premeditated one. The slow, methodical poisoning over several days was not only an act of betrayal but also an execution of emotional manipulation, culminating in the murder of a young life.
The court's decision to sentence Greeshma to death brought the nation’s attention to the layers of deceit and manipulation that can exist behind closed doors, even in relationships that seem to be built on trust. Sharon’s tragic fate highlights a darker aspect of human relationships—the ability of some individuals to conceal their true intentions, creating environments that are as toxic as they are deadly. This crime wasn't just an act of violence but a profound failure to recognize the warning signs of an unhealthy, controlling relationship. The broader implication lies in how society tends to overlook or misinterpret signs of abuse, whether it’s emotional or physical, often allowing such poison to take root undetected.
The case that shook Kolkata—where a medical student was brutally murdered by an acquaintance within the supposedly safe walls of a hospital—speaks to a different yet equally destructive form of betrayal. Professional spaces, especially those tied to the medical profession, are built on trust and respect for life. Hospitals are where lives are saved, and human dignity is restored, or at least that is the expectation. But when a trusted professional is involved in such a heinous act, it shatters the illusion of safety and trust that is crucial for any functioning society.
Sanjay Roy's crime, committed in the heart of the hospital where he worked, illustrates how the very places meant to heal can harbor the darkest actions. He exploited the power dynamics within a professional environment, taking advantage of the victim’s vulnerability. This case not only points to the failure of the individual who committed the crime but also calls into question the broader institutional neglect that allowed the act to occur in the first place. The response of the institution, and the failure to safeguard those who trust in its walls, speaks to a deep systemic flaw that needs urgent attention.
Both the Kerala poisoning and the Kolkata hospital killing expose how trust is not only violated by individuals but also systematically undermined by environments that either foster or fail to prevent such acts of betrayal. In Kerala, the failure to recognize an abusive relationship led to a slow, suffocating death. In Kolkata, the failure of an institution to protect its own members allowed a heinous crime to unfold in plain sight. These cases illustrate that betrayal can occur not just between individuals but also within systems meant to serve and protect.
The social fabric that holds a community together is built on the foundation of trust—whether it’s in relationships, work environments, or institutions. These crimes reveal how that fabric can unravel when trust is broken, and how, in some cases, it can be poisoned over time, quietly corroding the bonds that should hold us together. These cases demand not just legal retribution but a larger reflection on how society fosters, or fails to recognize, harmful patterns of behavior—patterns that often grow unnoticed until the damage is irreversible.
As these judgments unfold, society must confront the uncomfortable truth that the danger is often not just from the individuals committing these crimes but from the spaces, relationships, and institutions that enable them. If we are to heal from these wounds, we need to address not just the perpetrators but the structures that silently shield them from accountability, often for far too long.
The Kerala poisoning case is not just a story of a tragic loss; it is a turning point in understanding the silent but profound betrayals that fester within human relationships. Greeshma SS’s calculated poisoning of her partner Sharon Raj unraveled a harrowing tale of love turned toxic, trust manipulated, and bonds betrayed. While the court’s decision to deliver the harshest punishment—capital punishment—reflects the gravity of the crime, it also raises questions about whether justice alone can address the deeper cracks in our societal and personal frameworks.
The relationship between Greeshma and Sharon appeared normal on the surface, but it was built on fragile, fractured foundations. The cracks, invisible to the outside world, were the breeding grounds for the disaster that ultimately unfolded. Greeshma’s actions—premeditated and deliberate—expose how manipulation and control can masquerade as love and care.
Such crimes are not born out of sudden rage or impulse; they emerge from sustained emotional decay within a relationship. Greeshma’s decision to poison Sharon over a prolonged period reveals a cold, methodical approach that eroded trust in a space where vulnerability should have been met with compassion. These cracks, often dismissed as mere disagreements or personality conflicts, were warning signs of deeper issues that went unnoticed.
The tragedy forces us to confront an uncomfortable truth: many relationships harbor unspoken tensions, where power dynamics shift quietly and insidiously. Often, these dynamics remain hidden until it is too late, manifesting in acts of betrayal that shock society but have been simmering within the confines of personal spaces for months or even years.
While the judicial system seeks to provide justice, it cannot claim to mend the emotional and psychological devastation left behind. Greeshma’s sentencing might bring legal closure to the case, but for Sharon’s family, the pain of betrayal and loss runs far deeper than any verdict can reach.
Justice, as served by the courts, is inherently retrospective—it punishes the crime after it has occurred. But for Sharon’s family, the betrayal happened long before the fatal act. The poison that took his life was not just chemical but symbolic of a deeper erosion of trust and safety within a relationship. Sharon’s family now faces the daunting task of reconciling the love they once extended to Greeshma with the horror of her actions.
This case also highlights the limitations of the judicial system in addressing the aftermath of such betrayals. Can any verdict truly repair a family’s sense of security, their ability to trust, or their belief in the sanctity of relationships? The answer is often no. The courts can only address the crime, not the void left behind in the lives of the victims' loved ones.
The betrayal in the Kerala poisoning case is not just personal—it is systemic. It reflects the societal failure to recognize and address the quiet cries of emotional abuse, manipulation, and control that often precede such tragedies. These cries are rarely loud enough to be heard, yet their echoes resonate in the devastating outcomes we see in cases like this.
What makes this case particularly alarming is the level of planning and concealment involved. Greeshma’s ability to carry out her plan undetected for so long points to a broader issue: society’s inability to recognize and intervene in toxic relationships. Emotional abuse, manipulation, and controlling behavior are often dismissed as private matters, unworthy of external scrutiny. This leaves victims—and even perpetrators—without the support or intervention that might prevent such tragedies.
Systemic reform is urgently needed to address these underlying issues. Education and awareness about the signs of toxic relationships, emotional abuse, and manipulation should be prioritized. Families, friends, and even workplaces must be equipped to recognize and address the subtle dynamics that can escalate into violence.
The Kerala judgment, while significant, should not be seen as the end of this story. It must serve as a catalyst for broader societal introspection and change. How do we create environments where trust is nurtured and betrayal is less likely to thrive? How do we ensure that those in toxic relationships have the resources and support they need to either seek help or leave before it’s too late?
A hospital is supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where healing and care override all else. But the horrifying case of the rape and murder of a patient at Kolkata’s KPC Medical College by hospital ward boy Sanjay Roy shattered this perception, turning a place of refuge into a crime scene. The court’s decision to sentence Roy to death is a landmark judgment, but it also raises pressing questions: Was justice truly served? Can the wounds inflicted on society by such crimes ever be healed? And most importantly, how do institutions like hospitals, meant to protect the vulnerable, become silent enablers of such brutality?
Sanjoy Roy was not an outsider who invaded the hospital; he was part of the very system designed to provide care. That reality makes this crime all the more unsettling. The victim, a 35-year-old patient, was helpless, completely dependent on the institution meant to safeguard her. Instead, she was subjected to the most unspeakable violation within its walls.
The crime was not just an act of individual depravity but an indictment of the institution that allowed it to happen. How does a hospital, with its rigid hierarchies and constant surveillance, fail to notice—or worse, ignore—the presence of predators within its workforce? Why was there no accountability for the unchecked access given to someone like Roy, who used his position to exploit and brutalize?
This case forces us to question whether hospitals and similar institutions truly prioritize patient safety. If a woman seeking medical care cannot be assured of protection in a hospital bed, then where does safety truly exist?
The court, recognizing the sheer brutality of the crime, awarded Roy the death penalty. But the question lingers—would life imprisonment have been a sufficient punishment? There are those who argue that capital punishment is a necessary response to the rarest of rare cases, serving as both justice and deterrent. Others believe that it is merely a performative act, a symbolic closure that does little to address the larger issue of systemic failures.
Would locking Roy away for life have truly reckoned with the horror of his crime? Or would it have let the institutions that enabled him escape accountability? The debate over the adequacy of punishment extends beyond this case. It forces us to ask whether harsher punishments alone can prevent such acts or if we need deeper structural changes to truly make institutions safe.
The most unsettling aspect of this case is not just the crime itself but the ease with which it happened. Hospitals are not places of lawlessness—there are protocols, checks, and structures designed to ensure safety. And yet, those mechanisms failed. Why?
The truth is, many institutions function on a culture of silence and complicity. Staff may notice red flags—unauthorized access, inappropriate behavior, unchecked power dynamics—but looking away is easier than confrontation. Hierarchies discourage questioning authority, and the fear of backlash often suppresses concerns.
The question is no longer just about one man’s crime; it is about an institution that allowed it. It is about a system where the most vulnerable—patients under sedation, women, those dependent on care—can be preyed upon without detection.
In an age where public perception is shaped by instant news cycles, social media outrage, and sensational headlines, the role of the judiciary is increasingly under scrutiny. High-profile cases like the Kerala poisoning and the Kolkata hospital murder have ignited widespread public anger, amplified by relentless media coverage. But does this collective outcry ensure justice, or does it risk turning the judicial process into a spectacle driven by emotions rather than evidence?
The Kerala and Kolkata cases both saw intense media scrutiny, with round-the-clock coverage, panel discussions dissecting every detail, and social media platforms flooded with demands for the harshest punishments. News channels played videos on loop, showing grieving families, emotional protests, and legal experts weighing in. In many ways, the media played a crucial role in keeping the cases in the public eye, ensuring that they were not quietly buried under bureaucratic delays.
However, media coverage also comes with its own biases. Selective reporting, overemphasis on certain aspects, and the vilification of the accused before a verdict is reached create an atmosphere where due process takes a backseat to public sentiment. The presumption of innocence, a cornerstone of justice, often dissolves under the weight of relentless coverage.
This was evident in both cases, where the suspects were publicly demonized even before court proceedings concluded. While the final verdicts may align with public sentiment, the danger lies in setting a precedent where media narratives shape courtroom outcomes rather than the law itself.
Justice is meant to be blind, objective, and guided by facts. However, in high-profile cases, it is often placed under the microscope of public sentiment. When the masses demand a death penalty, can the courts truly remain impartial? Or does the fear of public backlash subtly influence judicial decisions?
There have been cases where public pressure has led to hasty convictions, later overturned upon deeper review. The Nirbhaya case of 2012, for instance, saw an outpouring of rage that led to stricter laws on sexual crimes. While the intent was to strengthen justice, it also opened up debates on whether the legal system was reacting to outrage rather than carefully considering individual cases.
In the Kolkata case, the brutality of the crime led to an immediate call for capital punishment. But does the system apply the same rigor in less-publicized cases? If a case does not dominate headlines, does it receive the same urgency? The selective intensity of justice—where some cases ignite a national outcry while others fade into legal obscurity—raises fundamental concerns about fairness.
A legal system swayed by emotions rather than facts is a fragile one. The law must function independently, free from both political pressure and the collective force of public outrage. But in a hyper-connected world, where public reactions are instantaneous and overwhelming, can judges truly remain unaffected?
There is also the risk of performative justice—where harsher punishments are awarded in high-profile cases to reassure the public rather than because they are legally necessary. While punishment must be proportionate to the crime, it should not be dictated by social media trends or political expediency.
The line between public engagement and mob justice is dangerously thin. A society that demands justice must also respect the processes that ensure its fairness. If verdicts begin to reflect public fury rather than legal reasoning, the very system meant to protect our rights becomes vulnerable to manipulation.
The Kerala poisoning case is not just a story of murder; it is a grim study of deception, manipulation, and the human capacity for betrayal. The crime was not an impulsive act of rage but a carefully orchestrated plan, carried out over time with chilling precision. It forces us to ask—what drives a person to turn trust into a weapon? How do relationships, built on love and companionship, become breeding grounds for premeditated destruction?
The use of poison in this case speaks volumes about the psychological profile of the perpetrator. Poisoning is a method that requires patience, calculation, and an absence of immediate remorse. Unlike crimes of passion, where rage and impulse take over, poisoning is methodical—it involves planning, deception, and sustained manipulation of the victim and those around them.
The case also highlights a disturbing reality: killers who poison their victims often appear composed and affectionate even as they carry out their crimes. They maintain the facade of normalcy, blending seamlessly into daily life. This is what makes such crimes particularly insidious—while the victim grows weaker, the perpetrator continues to play the role of a loving partner, friend, or caregiver.
The Kerala case raises questions about the motivations behind such acts. Was it purely personal gain? Was it the result of deep-seated resentment? Or was it a dangerous mix of both, intensified by the belief that they could outsmart the system and escape accountability?
One of the most unsettling aspects of this case is how long the crime went unnoticed. The symptoms of poisoning are not always obvious, but the slow deterioration of the victim’s health should have raised alarms. Was it dismissed as mere illness? Or was there a deeper reluctance to question the nature of the relationship?
Society often fails to recognize warning signs, especially when the perpetrator does not fit the typical image of a murderer. If they are outwardly affectionate, if they play the role of a dutiful partner, if they display no overt signs of aggression, their actions remain hidden in plain sight. In the Kerala case, the ability of the accused to manipulate those around them delayed suspicion and prolonged the suffering of the victim.
We tend to believe that danger comes from the outside—from strangers, from the unfamiliar. But crimes like these shatter that illusion. They reveal that the greatest threats can come from those closest to us, the ones we trust without question.
The pressure to conform to societal expectations in relationships can sometimes lead to extreme, even violent, consequences. In many cases, people remain in unhealthy relationships due to societal pressure, fear of judgment, or financial dependence. The Kerala poisoning case underscores how unresolved conflicts, suppressed emotions, and hidden frustrations can fester into something far more dangerous.
Moreover, society often romanticizes perseverance in relationships, urging people to “work through problems” even when red flags are apparent. The stigma around separation and failure in personal relationships can push individuals to resort to extreme measures instead of walking away. In some cases, personal discontent mutates into cold-blooded violence, fueled by the belief that eliminating a person is easier than confronting difficult truths.
The Kerala case is a brutal reminder that love, when twisted by selfish motives, can turn into the most potent weapon. It forces us to rethink the narratives we construct around trust, loyalty, and sacrifice. How do we ensure that relationships do not become silent battlegrounds where manipulation festers unchecked? And how do we learn to recognize the difference between love and possession before it is too late?
The sentencing in the Kerala poisoning case has reignited one of the most polarizing debates in the justice system—does the death penalty truly serve justice, or does it perpetuate the cycle of violence it seeks to end? As society grapples with the enormity of the crime, the verdict forces us to examine whether capital punishment is a necessary deterrent or merely an institutionalized form of retribution.
Supporters of the death penalty argue that certain crimes are so heinous that nothing less than death suffices. In cases like Kerala’s, where the act was deliberate, prolonged, and calculated, the argument for capital punishment gains traction. The suffering of the victim, the betrayal of trust, and the sheer malice involved make it difficult for many to see any alternative as just.
However, opponents of the death penalty question whether it truly delivers justice or merely satisfies a collective thirst for revenge. Does executing a perpetrator genuinely bring closure to the victim’s loved ones, or does it simply allow society to believe that balance has been restored? More importantly, does the death penalty deter future crimes, or does it reinforce the notion that killing is an acceptable form of punishment?
The finality of capital punishment leaves no room for error. In a judicial system that is inherently flawed—where bias, political influence, and legal inconsistencies exist—the risk of wrongful execution is undeniable. The death penalty assumes infallibility, yet history has shown that courts are not immune to mistakes. Once carried out, the sentence cannot be undone.
Beyond the legal risks, there is an ethical dilemma. Can a society that condemns murder justify state-sanctioned execution? While imprisonment removes a criminal from society, execution eliminates them entirely, denying the possibility of reform, redemption, or even the discovery of new evidence. The moral weight of deciding who lives and who dies is a burden that few judicial systems can claim to bear with absolute fairness.
The Kerala poisoning case is a textbook example of why capital punishment remains controversial. The crime itself was cold, calculated, and premeditated—traits often cited in “rarest of the rare” cases that justify the death penalty. However, it also brings into focus the questions that have long surrounded capital punishment in India.
Justice delayed is justice denied—a phrase often repeated but rarely remedied. For victims’ families, the long, grueling wait for a verdict is a wound that refuses to heal, a limbo where grief turns into exhaustion. In a country where cases often drag on for years, the stark contrast between Kerala’s swift judgment and Kolkata’s delayed reckoning highlights the inconsistency in the justice system.
Every unresolved case is a reminder of unfulfilled justice. For families of victims, a prolonged trial means reliving the trauma repeatedly—through police inquiries, court hearings, media speculation, and public scrutiny. Each adjournment, each postponed hearing, is not just a procedural delay but an emotional and psychological burden.
Beyond personal suffering, delayed justice also enables perpetrators to manipulate the system. Witnesses forget details, evidence gets lost, and legal loopholes get exploited. In worst-case scenarios, delays allow the guilty to walk free or receive a diluted sentence. The judicial backlog in India—exceeding 50 million cases—ensures that most victims’ families must navigate a system that prioritizes procedure over resolution.
The Kerala poisoning case stands out as an exception. The verdict was reached in record time, setting a precedent for judicial efficiency. The case had all the elements that often cause delays—complex forensic evidence, premeditated intent, and a web of lies—but the legal system moved with urgency.
Several factors contributed to this rare instance of swift justice:
While this efficiency is commendable, it also raises a difficult question: Should justice be swift only when public attention demands it? If so, what happens to cases that do not make headlines?
In contrast, the Kolkata case became a victim of the justice system itself. Sanjoy Roy, convicted of the brutal rape and murder of a junior doctor at Kolkata’s KPC Medical College, was sentenced to death—but only after a painfully slow judicial process. The crime, committed in 2022, took nearly two years to reach its final verdict. While this may seem like a reasonable timeline compared to India’s broader backlog, it also highlights how the system’s inertia prolongs the suffering of victims’ families.
Key reasons for the delay included:
For the family of the victim, this delay was an extension of their trauma, forcing them to endure years of legal battles before receiving closure. The sluggish nature of the trial also meant that for a significant period, the case faded from public discourse—a stark reminder of how easily crimes against women are buried under the weight of the system.
The disparity between these two cases forces us to ask uncomfortable questions:
A justice system that works selectively is not justice at all. While Kerala’s swift trial stands as a rare beacon of hope, Kolkata’s delay is a sobering reality check. Unless systemic changes are made to ensure efficiency across all cases, justice will remain an elusive promise—delivered to some, denied to many.
Verdicts mark the end of legal battles, but never the end of grief. When a case concludes, society moves on, headlines shift, and public discourse fades. Yet, for the families of victims, justice—no matter how swift or severe—does not bring back what was lost. They are left with an emptiness that no punishment can fill, with memories that remain frozen in time.
The Kerala and Kolkata cases—though vastly different in circumstances—share one common, brutal truth: The real sentences are served not by the perpetrators, but by the families left behind.
For the parents of Sharon Raj, the Kerala poisoning case was more than just a crime—it was a shattering of trust at its most intimate level. The calculated betrayal by Greeshma, someone their son loved and trusted, turned their lives into an unending nightmare.
A legal victory does not mend a mother’s sorrow or a father’s shattered heart. The trial, evidence, and final judgment may have validated their suffering, but it did not remove it. How does a family come to terms with the fact that their child was killed not by an enemy, not by a stranger, but by someone he believed in?
Beyond the personal tragedy, they also face societal expectations. People demand that they find closure, move forward, accept the justice served. But how does one heal when the very concept of trust has been poisoned?
In Kolkata, the parents of the young doctor raped and murdered inside a hospital lost more than just a child—they lost faith in the institutions meant to protect society. Their daughter had dedicated her life to healing others, believing in the sanctity of her profession. Instead, she met the most horrifying end in the very place she served.
Her parents, like Sharon Raj’s family, received a verdict that the law considers just. But justice is not the same as peace. Every time they see a hospital, they are reminded of the place that should have saved their child but became a site of unimaginable horror. Every news report of another crime against women reminds them that their daughter was not an anomaly, but a tragic statistic in a system that fails too many.
Justice is often framed as the resolution of a crime. Society watches, debates, reacts, and then moves on. The families, however, are left in a void where the world expects them to “heal” simply because a court has spoken. But legal justice does not equate to emotional closure.
There is no healing in public scrutiny. These families have had to grieve under the relentless gaze of media trials and public discourse. Every detail of their loved one’s death is analyzed, debated, and dissected, leaving them no space for private mourning.
There is no healing in social isolation. Once the headlines fade, the support often does too. Friends, extended family, and even society at large expect them to “move forward.” But for the families, time does not heal wounds—it simply makes the absence feel heavier.
There is no healing in a justice system that fails others. A verdict may have been delivered in these cases, but new crimes continue to emerge. Other families, other victims, are trapped in the same cycle. For those who have suffered, every similar case is a reminder that justice came too late for their loved one.
Justice is often delivered at the individual level—naming, sentencing, and punishing the perpetrator. But what about the institutions that fail to prevent such crimes? The Kolkata medical college case was not just about one man’s monstrous act; it was about a system that allowed it to happen. The very spaces designed for healing and safety—hospitals, workplaces, and educational institutions—are increasingly becoming sites of violence.
The question is no longer just who committed the crime, but how these institutions let it happen.
A hospital is a place where people seek care, trust professionals, and assume safety. It should be the last place where violence occurs. Yet, the brutal rape and murder of a young doctor inside Kolkata’s KPC Medical College exposed the deep vulnerabilities within institutional safety measures.
It is easy to focus on Sanjoy Roy, the convicted perpetrator. But what about the systemic failures that enabled his crime? Institutions often react to tragedies with performative measures—installing new cameras, increasing patrols, issuing statements. However, these are reactionary steps. True institutional reform demands deep, uncomfortable questions:
The systemic failure is not just in the crime—it is in the culture that allowed it to happen.
If a hospital, a place meant for care and compassion, can become a crime scene, then no workplace is immune. The Kolkata case is not an isolated event—it is a symptom of a larger issue plaguing workplaces across India and beyond.
Institutions Can No Longer Ignore Their Role
The Kolkata case was not just about one crime; it was a public indictment of how fragile workplace safety truly is. The question is, will this case force institutions to change, or will we wait for another tragedy before action is taken?
Some crimes send ripples through society; others strike like a knife to the heart. The Kerala poisoning case was one such tragedy—cold, calculated, and deeply personal. Sharon Raj’s death was not an impulsive act of rage but a methodical betrayal, unfolding over time, hidden beneath the guise of love.
This was not just a crime—it was a revelation of how fragile human bonds can be when manipulated by selfish intent.
When a crime is committed within the sanctity of personal relationships, we must look beyond the individual and examine the environment that fosters such deception. What leads a person to plot the slow, deliberate destruction of someone they once claimed to care for?
In the Kerala case, the poison was not just chemical—it was psychological, emotional, and systemic. It reflected a world where manipulation thrives in the shadows of trust.
Not all violence leaves bruises. Some of the most dangerous battles are fought in silence, where victims do not even realize they are being harmed until it is too late. Sharon’s case is a stark reminder of how unseen dangers can lurk behind seemingly normal relationships.
The reality is that while society teaches people to seek love, it rarely teaches them how to recognize deception.
The most chilling aspect of Sharon’s case was its ordinariness—a relationship that seemed typical, a betrayal that no one saw coming, and a slow descent into an irreversible fate.
It forces us to ask uncomfortable questions:
Justice for Sharon Raj came in the form of a swift verdict, but justice alone cannot erase the brutal reality of his fate. His death is a reminder that the greatest dangers are often the ones we never see coming.
Justice is meant to be the final word, the resolution that allows a society to move forward. But what happens when the very act of delivering justice forces us to confront our deepest fears? The Kerala poisoning and the Kolkata hospital murder were not just crimes; they were fractures in the moral fabric of a nation—reminders of how easily trust can be turned into a weapon.
Do these judgments bring closure, or do they leave us staring into an abyss, questioning the very foundation of safety, love, and institutional responsibility?
Every major crime creates two kinds of victims—the ones directly affected and the society that must reckon with what it says about itself.
Justice, then, is not just about punishment. It is about whether a society can look at its own reflection and see more than just the perpetrators—it must also see the conditions that allowed them to act.
There are crimes so calculated, so deeply personal, that they challenge our very understanding of human nature. What kind of mind can calmly poison a loved one? What kind of environment allows a place of healing to become a place of death? These are not crimes of impulse; they are crimes of intent, of planning, of deliberate cruelty. And when such crimes occur, justice carries a unique moral weight.
The final gavel strike may end a trial, but it does not erase the human cost.
Justice is often spoken of as a balancing scale, but perhaps it is more like a mirror. It reflects not just the crime, but the society that allowed it to happen. The real question is not whether justice has been served, but whether we are ready to face what these cases say about us—and whether we are willing to change.
In an era where public perception is shaped more by social media trends than courtroom evidence, justice is often tried outside the legal system—on television panels, Twitter threads, and viral posts. The Kerala poisoning and the Kolkata hospital murder were not just legal battles; they became spectacles, dissected by news anchors and social media commentators long before the courts delivered their verdicts.
Who controls the truth in such cases? Is it the judiciary, bound by due process, or the media, which thrives on instant judgment? And when narratives are distorted for mass appeal, does justice remain the goal, or does it become entertainment?
The Kerala and Kolkata cases followed a familiar pattern—grim crimes transformed into high-voltage media dramas. But in the rush for exclusives and breaking news, crucial aspects were often ignored or twisted.
News is no longer just about facts—it is about engagement. In a media landscape where outrage drives viewership, the pursuit of truth often takes a backseat to the need for viral content.
When justice becomes a public spectacle, the legal system is forced into a dangerous balancing act—delivering fair judgments while appeasing public sentiment.
In an ideal world, the truth belongs to the courts, determined through evidence, testimony, and legal reasoning. But in today’s world, truth is often shaped by headlines, opinions, and social media debates.
The Kerala poisoning and Kolkata murder cases are closed in the eyes of the law, but they remain open questions in the court of public perception. When narratives are shaped by those outside the legal system, are we truly seeking justice, or are we merely consuming the spectacle?
Justice may have been served in the Kerala and Kolkata cases, but what have we really learned? Tragedies of this magnitude are not isolated events; they are the results of warning signs ignored, patterns overlooked, and societal structures that enable destruction. While courts have delivered their verdicts, the deeper question remains: have we, as a society, changed enough to prevent such horrors from happening again?
In both crimes, the danger was not sudden—it was a storm that had been brewing for a long time. Yet, the signs were either dismissed or normalized.
How often do we hear about troubled relationships and assume things will work themselves out? In Sharon’s case, were there no voices cautioning him, no concerns raised about red flags that now seem obvious in hindsight? In the Kolkata case, did colleagues sense something was wrong but choose to look away? The people closest to the perpetrators and victims often see the first signs of trouble, yet intervention is rare.
What would real change look like? How can we stop being passive observers and start holding individuals and institutions accountable before it’s too late?
The True Cost of Ignoring These Lessons
Both the Kerala and Kolkata cases will be remembered as horrifying examples of human cruelty, but their greatest tragedy would be if they remain just that—memories. The ultimate failure would be if we move on, unchanged, waiting for the next case to shock us once again. Justice is not just about punishing the guilty; it is about ensuring that such crimes never happen again.
We must ask ourselves: How many more warnings will we ignore before we finally learn?
Courtrooms are meant to be spaces of reasoned justice, where facts dictate outcomes and fairness prevails over emotion. Yet, high-profile cases often transform them into arenas of public spectacle, where the demand for retribution can overshadow the pursuit of truth. The Kerala and Kolkata cases—both marked by shocking betrayals—have reignited the debate: Is the justice system serving the principles of law, or is it performing for a restless audience?
The death sentence for Sanjoy Roy and the life imprisonment verdict in Kerala’s case were widely seen as fitting punishments for crimes that shook the public conscience. But were these sentences the result of objective legal scrutiny, or were they shaped by the collective rage that followed the crimes?
Judges must navigate a fine line—ensuring justice for victims while resisting the pressure of mob sentiment. But in an era where social media amplifies every crime into a national debate, can courts remain immune to external influence?
The sentences in both the Kerala and Kolkata cases were meant to provide closure. But do they address the deeper systemic failures that enabled these crimes in the first place?
The Verdicts We Need Beyond the Courtroom
True justice extends beyond courtroom sentences. It lies in the lessons learned, the policies changed, and the protections put in place to ensure such tragedies do not repeat. A judgment may deliver punishment, but only systemic reform can prevent future victims.
Justice must be more than a response to outrage—it must be a commitment to real change.
Every crime of staggering brutality sparks the same questions: How did this happen? Why did no one intervene? But beyond the shock and outrage, there lies an uncomfortable truth—these crimes do not occur in isolation. They are shaped by the indifference, silence, and inaction of the society that surrounds them. The cases in Kerala and Kolkata are not just stories of individual evil; they are reflections of a larger societal failure.
Crimes as heinous as those in Kerala and Kolkata do not unfold overnight. They are the culmination of warning signs ignored, red flags dismissed, and a culture that often prioritizes silence over intervention.
Even when signs of danger are evident, collective inaction is common. Whether it's domestic violence overheard through thin walls, a colleague acting inappropriately, or a friend in a toxic relationship, society has a habit of assuming someone else will step in. But when everyone waits for someone else to act, the result is silence—and in that silence, crimes escalate.
If society wants justice, it must go beyond punishing individuals—it must create systems that prevent these crimes from happening again.
The Hardest Question: What Will Change?
The cases in Kerala and Kolkata have forced society to confront its darkest corners. But will these conversations fade as the headlines disappear? Or will they lead to real, lasting change?
Justice is not just about holding criminals accountable—it is about holding ourselves accountable. If these crimes teach us anything, it is that silence, complacency, and apathy are not neutral. They are complicity.
Courtrooms have delivered their verdicts, justice—at least in a legal sense—has been served. But what remains after the gavel falls? Beyond the individual fates of the accused, these cases have unearthed deeper, more unsettling questions about the systems and mindsets that allowed such crimes to unfold. If these tragedies are to mean anything beyond fleeting outrage, they must serve as catalysts for real, lasting change.
History has shown that public outrage, no matter how intense, is often fleeting. Sensational trials grip the nation, social media fuels debates, protests demand justice—but with time, the momentum fades.
Justice does not end with a court ruling. True justice is measured by whether society evolves in response.
These cases have left scars, not just on the families involved, but on the conscience of a nation. If there is anything to take away, it is this:
The real test of these judgments is not in their severity but in their impact. If the cases in Kerala and Kolkata are remembered only for their brutality, they will have failed to serve as lessons. But if they force us to examine our institutions, our relationships, and our collective responsibility, then maybe—just maybe—justice will echo beyond the courtroom.
The judgments delivered in both the Kerala and Kolkata cases, each in their own way, speak to the unyielding pursuit of justice. Yet, it is crucial to ask: does the finality of these decisions equate to true justice? In Kerala, the death sentence serves as a drastic attempt to offer closure, but is it simply a reflection of a society that yearns for certainty after immense tragedy? The act of condemning an individual to death is far more than an expression of accountability; it forces us to confront the systemic and personal failures that led to such an irreversible loss. The very nature of capital punishment demands careful introspection—can such a verdict ever truly account for the pain it attempts to remedy? On the other hand, the life sentence in Kolkata, while representing a less final punishment, poses its own set of moral and philosophical questions. The weight of the sentence falls heavy on the perpetrator, but is it sufficient to honor the trust that was so brutally violated? The institutions that failed to protect and the community that stood by without intervening also find themselves scrutinized by the same judgment. Here, the question of whether justice truly serves the victims or merely serves as an institutionalized response to a societal crisis remains open. Ultimately, these judgments are a reflection of what our society values—how we choose to balance the need for retribution with the demand for rehabilitation and reform. Both verdicts, although final in their own context, offer us no definitive answers. Instead, they force us to reflect on the justice system’s ability to evolve in the face of increasingly complex crimes. In a world where the lines between justice, morality, and empathy often blur, these judgments ask more than they answer, calling for a reevaluation of how we define fairness in a system that is, at its core, both imperfect and powerful.
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Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of any institutions, legal entities, or organizations mentioned. The content is intended to provide commentary and analysis on the judicial decisions surrounding specific cases and does not serve as a legal opinion. The sensitive topics discussed, including violent crimes and judicial outcomes, are approached with respect for the victims and their families. The article aims to provoke thought and discussion on the complexities of justice, societal values, and legal reforms. Readers are encouraged to critically engage with the content, keeping in mind that the legal system, societal norms, and individual cases may vary across different contexts and jurisdictions.