I could hardly believe the headline when I first read it: a law student allegedly gang-raped—inside her own college campus in Kolkata. The accused? Two fellow law students and a practising lawyer who was working there on contract. It wasn’t just a story of violence; it was a betrayal, unfolding within the very heart of a space meant to shape the custodians of justice.
For someone like me, who has spent years around law and legal education, this struck a raw nerve. Law schools are supposed to be hallowed grounds—where students learn not only the black letter of the law, but the ethics, values, and compassion that underpin it. That such a crime could be perpetrated within its walls is chilling. That those accused had been studying or practising law makes it infinitely worse.
As the details emerged, I learned that the sessions court had remanded the three accused—Zaib Ahmed, Pramit Mukhopadhyay, and Manojit Mishra—to four days in police custody. The police believe that one of them committed the rape, while the other two abetted the crime. The court accepted the need for custodial interrogation to uncover the full sequence of events and possibly identify others who may have known or enabled this.
Of course, we must remember that in our legal system, the presumption of innocence stands tall until proven otherwise. But even in these early stages, the shadow of guilt and trauma hangs heavy. For the survivor, the violation wasn’t just physical—it was symbolic. She was wronged in the very space where the law was supposed to be her shield.
And what has the institution done in response? Almost nothing publicly. That silence is deafening. In moments like this, colleges need to act—swiftly and transparently. The fact that a contractual staff member is among the accused only deepens the questions: What vetting mechanisms are in place? Who was accountable for monitoring staff conduct? What safety measures exist for students—especially women?
The campus, we are reminded, is not automatically a safe space. It must be made safe, actively and consistently. And when that trust is broken, as it has been here, institutions owe the survivor—and the entire student community—a clear and honest reckoning.
The outrage that followed, particularly from women’s rights organizations and student groups, was powerful and necessary. Social media lit up with anger, demands for justice, and calls for reform. But these voices should not fade with time. Their anger must become policy. Their demands must shape safeguards—through gender sensitization, proper functioning of Internal Complaints Committees, and security systems that deter predators.
I was relieved to learn that the West Bengal State Commission for Women took suo motu cognizance of the incident. Oversight bodies like these have an important role—not only in seeking justice but in compelling institutions to confront uncomfortable truths.
This is not just another crime story. It is a mirror held up to our legal and educational systems. What kind of legal professionals are we nurturing? What messages are we sending about power, consent, and silence?
Justice, in this case, must go beyond conviction. The system must show the survivor that her pain is acknowledged, that her courage in speaking up was not in vain. It must assure every student that their college is not a courtroom of fear, but a sanctuary of law, learning, and respect.
