Latest news with #Aruna


India Today
3 days ago
- India Today
Woman cop strangled to death by live-in partner in Gujarat, accused surrenders
Accused CRPF jawan allegedly killed the woman police officer at her home in Kutch on Friday night. (Image for representation) Accused Dilip Dangchia surrendered at Anjar Police Station Couple had heated argument before accused strangled woman Murder case registered against accused, further investigation underway A woman Assistant Sub-Inspector (ASI) posted at a police station in Gujarat's Kutch district was allegedly strangled to death by her live-in partner at her home on Friday night, police said. The matter came to light on Saturday morning after the accused, a Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) jawan named Dilip Dangchia, surrendered at the Anjar Police Station in Kutch, where the woman officer, identified as Aruna Natubhai Jadav, was posted. During the initial investigation, the police learnt that Aruna was originally a resident of Surendranagar and lived in Gangotri Society-2 in Anjar. Late on Friday night, Aruna and Dilip Dagchia had a heated argument at the woman's home over something. Matters went from bad to worse as Dilip lost his cool and allegedly strangled Aruna to death. He surrendered to the police the next morning. According to information, Dilip is a CRPF jawan posted in Manipur and a resident of a village in Aruna's neighbourhood. He came in contact with Aruna on Instagram in 2021 and has been living with her since then, a senior police officer said. Meanwhile, police have registered a murder case under relevant sections of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS) and have launched an investigation. With inputs by Kaushik Kanthecha A woman Assistant Sub-Inspector (ASI) posted at a police station in Gujarat's Kutch district was allegedly strangled to death by her live-in partner at her home on Friday night, police said. The matter came to light on Saturday morning after the accused, a Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) jawan named Dilip Dangchia, surrendered at the Anjar Police Station in Kutch, where the woman officer, identified as Aruna Natubhai Jadav, was posted. During the initial investigation, the police learnt that Aruna was originally a resident of Surendranagar and lived in Gangotri Society-2 in Anjar. Late on Friday night, Aruna and Dilip Dagchia had a heated argument at the woman's home over something. Matters went from bad to worse as Dilip lost his cool and allegedly strangled Aruna to death. He surrendered to the police the next morning. According to information, Dilip is a CRPF jawan posted in Manipur and a resident of a village in Aruna's neighbourhood. He came in contact with Aruna on Instagram in 2021 and has been living with her since then, a senior police officer said. Meanwhile, police have registered a murder case under relevant sections of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS) and have launched an investigation. With inputs by Kaushik Kanthecha Join our WhatsApp Channel


Indian Express
3 days ago
- General
- Indian Express
Holding on and letting go: Reflections on grief and gratitude
One moment you are here, tying your shoelaces for yet another sunrise run through the hills, and the next — you are gone. We lost Aruna in the space of a month. One month. No warning, no gentle slide into frailty, no graceful exit that we could have seen coming. She was fine — more than fine — and then she was gone. My aunt Aruna was the kind of woman you couldn't keep up with even if you tried. In her late seventies, she could lace up her sneakers and pound out twelve, fourteen, even eighteen miles on a crisp San Francisco morning while you were still fumbling for your first coffee. She devoured life the way she devoured ice cream — with unselfconscious joy — and the way she devoured a humble mooli paratha, without airs, without apology. Banker by day, Wordsworth and Ghalib whisperer by night, mother, grandmother, marathoner, Urdu poetry aficionado. And yet, this vibrant woman, this endless woman, this woman who seemed to have quietly conquered time — taken, just like that. It was bacterial meningitis. Hawaii. She had gone to see her daughter and grandchildren. A routine visit. She didn't come back. What are we to do with such suddenness? What are we to do when we find ourselves standing in the wreckage of an ordinary day, trying to make sense of the hole someone's absence tears into the fabric of our lives? We can rage. We can mope. We can cry into our pillows and shake our fists at a God we no longer recognise. And maybe we should, for a while. But then, what? We are given no choice. We have to make our peace. Because life — cruel, beautiful, indifferent — does not wait for us to catch our breath. And so I sit with her absence. I feel it as though she has become a kind of air — everywhere, invisible, necessary. I hear her laughter as I answer calls pacing around my home, trying to get my daily steps in. I feel her with me as I cook and test a recipe destined for a restaurant table somewhere. I sense her presence as I imagine the next novel I will write, the next book I will dare to put into the world. I feel her most acutely as I am grappling with the stubborn traffic of Delhi or Mumbai, trying to get from point A to point B while mourning her quiet passage, feeling the tyres on tarmac connect me to her somehow, absurd as it sounds. I am beginning to understand that our dead do not leave us. Not entirely. They migrate into memory. They take up residence in our dreams, in our thoughts, in our muscle memory, in the strange little phrases and rituals we find ourselves repeating without thinking. They sit quietly in our DNA. They ride with us into the future — the future they can no longer see. And if you listen, really listen, you might hear them cheering you on. Urging you to keep going. Urging you to run that extra mile. To eat the ice cream and the paratha. To love what you have left, harder. Maybe this is how we make peace: by understanding that life is not a straight line but a circle, and that none of us are really gone. We change form. We move planes. As the Vedantic texts have always told us: the soul is eternal, the body merely its garment. Aruna has simply slipped into another garment. When you lose someone you love — truly love — you begin to see life not as a series of separate chapters but as one long continuum. You see that our story together doesn't end because her story here has. I am her, and she is me, and we — all of us — are each other. We are left with gratitude. We are left with the blessing of having shared time, breath, laughter, tears, this earth, this era, together. We are left with memories that glint like gold when the day feels grey. And we are left with a choice. We can wallow. Or we can walk forward — with a deeper reverence for how fragile, fleeting, unpredictable this strange thing called life really is. And it is fragile. It is fleeting. Aunt Aruna taught me that — not just in her life but also in her death. We live, we work, we run, we plan, as though we have been handed some contract guaranteeing us a full eighty, ninety, even a hundred years. As though we have earned the right to tomorrow. But the truth is: tomorrow is not promised. As Kabir sang centuries ago: Jo kaal kare so aaj kar, jo aaj kare so ab. Pal mein pralaya hoyegi, bahuri karega kab? What you plan to do tomorrow, do today. What you plan to do today, do now. In a blink, the world may dissolve — When will you do it, then? That is the only real certainty we have — this moment. This breath. This person next to you. This heartbeat still pulsing in your chest. So do not squander it. Eat dessert first. Call your mother. Take the trip. Write the poem. Forgive that old grudge. Say you're sorry. Say you're proud. Say you love them. We owe it to the dead to keep living as they would have wanted us to. Not timidly. Not half-heartedly. But all in. I sit here, writing this, picturing her. Somewhere on a new shore. Maybe running down some divine trail lined with jasmine and jacaranda. Maybe reciting Faiz to herself. Maybe smiling that quiet smile of hers, knowing we will all catch up soon enough. I wish her peace. I wish her freedom — from this cycle of life and death. And I thank her — for showing me how rich a life can be when you refuse to let fear or age or convention slow you down. The rest of us can only try to keep pace. And so, we pause, but we carry on. That is what we do with the pieces. We pick them up and we keep walking. We walk for them. We walk toward them. We walk with them, even now. Because they are still here — in the spaces between our thoughts, in the quiet of our prayers, in the little choices we make to live better, braver, more fully. And when our time comes, may we go as she did — with a life well-lived behind us, and with loved ones left to remember us not just with tears, but also with gratitude. Life is precious. Life is fleeting. Life is anything but predictable. Squeeze it. Savour it. Say what you need to say now — because only a fool leaves the rest to fate. Pause. But carry on. Run on, Aruna. Run on. We'll see you at the finish line.


India Gazette
11-07-2025
- Entertainment
- India Gazette
Petals in the Wind, Roots in Our Hearts
By Suvir Saran New Delhi [India], July 11 (ANI): Life does not end when the body rests. It does not dim when the breath quiets. For those who've loved, for those who've lived with grace, for those who've given of themselves unstintingly, unflinchingly, unselfishly -- they live on in ways no flame can ever snuff, no night can ever eclipse. When someone like my maa jaisi, my like-a-mother, my Maasi, my Aruna Maasi leaves, she does not leave us smaller -- she leaves us infinitely bigger, infinitely richer, infinitely fuller, even as we grieve. Aruna Lakhwara -- Boo Maasi, Babbu, Boo -- was not just one woman. She was many women in one. A woman who could wear a chiffon sari with the elegance of an empress and slip into a little black dress and look like a million dollars. A woman who could run twelve, fifteen, eighteen miles in a day with the stamina of a champion, and then sit on a park bench and eat salted caramel ice cream like a shy schoolgirl. A woman who could speak softly but think sharply, whose smile could light a room but whose determination could silence one too. She was small in frame but so large in life, so vast in her presence that even now -- hours after she has gone -- she remains omnipresent, humming through our memories, shimmering through our DNA. We all have an aunt like this. Don't we? The one who never seems to age, who dances when others demur, who stays up late when others tire. The one who remembers everyone's birthday and everyone's favorite dish, who tucks away stories and secrets like heirlooms, who knows just how to say the thing that needs saying. The one who stands in the corner of a crowded party and somehow commands the whole room's gaze, just by being herself -- poised, polished, radiant. That was Aruna. She was born into a family of four siblings, my mother being the eldest, then Aruna, then my uncle Sushil, the calm, Buddha-like doctor, and then my uncle Sunil, the August-born CPA, the youngest of them all. Together they were a quartet of love and laughter, of fierce loyalty and mutual pride, always each other's quietest confidants and loudest cheerleaders. Aruna always marveled at my mom's patience -- her ability to endure and endure and endure challenges and traumas without ever crumbling. She would look at me and say, Baba, how does she do it? Where does she find that strength? And she would say, she reminds me of our father, Chaman Lal Bhardwaj. And to my mom, Aruna reminded her of my grandmother Shanti Bhardwaj -- full of spunk, of spark, of unstoppable spirit. These siblings carried their parents forward in them -- my grandfather's grace, my grandmother's grit -- and passed it on to us. Every family has these sibling stories, these links to their parents, to their lineage, to something larger than themselves. That is how we stay connected to the past, how we keep our ancestors alive -- through the ways we laugh together, support each other, send each other off when the time comes. And when her time came, she had her family at her side -- her brother Sunil, her daughter Anjali and her family, her son Vikram. To have her loved ones there at her bedside, holding her hand, must have meant the world to her. She couldn't have asked for a better send-off, a more loving circle around her. How lucky they all were -- and how lucky we were -- to witness that kind of siblinghood. A lesson for all of us, really. That no matter how far we scatter, no matter how many decades pass, we must find each other, we must lift each other, we must show up at the very end, because nothing else really matters more than that. Aruna understood that. She understood that love was not just a word but a practice -- something to be exercised, like her running shoes on San Francisco's rolling hills. Love meant showing up. Love meant planning for others even when you could have chosen ease for yourself. Love meant making mooli methi parathas in advance, filling the freezer because you thought I might visit, because you thought maybe, just maybe, summer would bring me home to you. Love meant not just cooking but consulting, not just hosting but listening, not just attending but dancing -- always dancing -- at every wedding, every party, every gathering where the music called her name. Even in her late seventies, she was as young as a teenager. Her childlike spirit could not be dimmed, not even by pain or fatigue. She would come with Vikram and me to parties full of young people and thumping music, and she would smile, shimmy, sway. Never shy. Never afraid. Always radiant. That was her glory. She traveled the world -- Morocco, India, Vietnam. I can imagine the people in Da Nang, Vietnam, watching this woman in her late seventies touring their streets with the zest of someone half her age, snapping photographs, laughing at herself on a camel, chatting with strangers, hungry for every sight, every sound, every sensation. She left memories behind everywhere she went -- little footprints of joy across continents. She taught people -- even strangers -- through her indefatigable hunger for living, loving, and not missing a moment. Always ready for a selfie, always ready to click a photo to mark a moment, always ready to be a friend to our friends, to smile at a stranger. She was always the youngest in the room -- not by years, but by heart. She gave even the gym at my mother's home in South Extension, Delhi, a workout -- every machine gleamed because she'd used them daily. My mother, my brother Samir and I have never touched them, my sister Seema only occasionally. But Aruna gave them life. Just like she gave life to every place she entered. She noticed things others missed. Every piece of jewelry I wore, every fabric that became an outfit -- she would comment on it. If not in the moment, then later -- with a call saying, That color on you, Baba. That drape on you. That was stunning. She noticed because she cared. She taught me things in her quiet way. That quality mattered more than quantity -- in cookware, in clothing, in company. She introduced me to Le Creuset and showed me why it was better to own a few beautiful things than many poor ones. She lived that lesson -- and taught it in her quiet, insistent way. She gave her love generously -- to her children, Anjali and Vikram, whom she admired and adored in equal measure; to her grandchildren, who were her pride and her joy; to her nieces and nephews, who each have a story of how she made them feel special, remembered, seen. We remember her now in flashes -- in the gleam of her saris, the swish of her dresses, the shine of her smile. In the smell of mooli parathas hot off the griddle, in the feel of crisp Pacific Heights air on an early morning walk. In the shimmer of orchids blooming faithfully year after year on a balcony because she whispered to them as though they could hear. We remember her in the soft notes of a song, in the laughter of a party, in the hush of a moment when we miss her so much it feels like the air itself has been sliced open. And yet -- she's still here. Because life does not end when the body rests -- whether she is cremated or buried, her spirit remains unbound. The connection we share with those we love is not bound by geography or time or flesh. It moves into another plane, another plateau, another form -- subtler, stronger, more profound. She no longer belongs only to San Francisco or Saratoga or New Delhi. She belongs to all of us, everywhere, all at once. Omnipresent in our blood, in our bones, in our breath. That's the thing about love. About loss. They teach you that presence is not a place. It's a feeling. And when we feel her -- when we feel that little urge to dance, that sudden craving for salted caramel, that unexpected admiration for a fine piece of cookware, that rush of joy when the orchids bloom again -- she is right there. With us. Aruna's life -- her music, her movement, her magic -- is not something we bury. It is something we carry. Something we become. Something we pass on. And so we grieve -- yes. We grieve because we loved her that much. But we also glow. Because she made us bigger, not smaller. Because she reminded us what it means to live with grace, to move through the world with style and substance, to wear life like a sari -- wrapped just right, draped in beauty, held up by poise. We all have an aunt like her -- or wish we did. The one who makes us feel younger when she walks into the room. The one who reminds us of who we are when we've forgotten. The one who shows us, even in her absence, that love never leaves. Tonight I think of her, walking those San Francisco hills, the Bay glinting in the distance, the air cool and salty, the music of her footsteps echoing up into the stars. She turns, smiles that knowing smile, and keeps going -- her discipline intact, her spirit unbroken, her presence eternal. Rest, Boo Maasi. Dance. Sing. Walk the skies as you once walked the streets. Run forever through the stars. You are everywhere now. You are everything now. You are us now. And we will never stop feeling you. (ANI/ Suvir Saran) Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.


India Today
10-07-2025
- India Today
14-year-old girl murdered in Bengaluru, police probe rape, one suspect arrested
A 14-year-old girl was found murdered at her home in Bengaluru on Wednesday. The victim, Aruna, was a 6th-grade student who had stayed home from school that parents, daily wage workers from Koppal, were at a construction site when the incident happened. Police said unknown people entered the house in Tavarekere town, and attacked her with sharp objects. Her parents found her dead when they have registered a case under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (POCSO) Act and are investigating if she was sexually assaulted. They suspect a portable cylinder might have been used to cause the injuries. One suspect, Yallappa, has been arrested in the case. 'We have registered the case and the investigation is on. Whether it was a rape will be clear after the postmortem report,' said Ramanagara SP Srinivas teams are collecting evidence, and CCTV footage from nearby areas is being another incident from March this year, a young schoolgirl was sexually assaulted by two minor boys while she was returning home from school in Anekal Taluk in Karnataka's Bengaluru Rural accused, aged 17 and 16, allegedly took the girl to a house while under the influence of marijuana and committed the Bengaluru Superintendent of Police confirmed that both the accused and the victim are minors. Clarifying the nature of the offence, the official stated, 'The crime involved inappropriate touch and not a gang rape. The case is being handled under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (Pocso) Act. We have secured the accused and are investigating further.'- Ends IN THIS STORY#Bengaluru#Karnataka


The Hindu
06-07-2025
- The Hindu
Private school in Bengaluru under scrutiny for making students write SSLC exam as private candidates
The Department of School Education and Literacy (DSEL) has decided to conduct an investigation against a private school in Bengaluru, which admitted around 10 of its students to a government school and had them write the SSLC exam as private candidates this year, as they had received low marks in Class 9. An FIR has been registered against St. Mary's Girls' School on the complaint lodged by parents at the High Grounds police station. 'This is a serious case and I already ordered the concerned Deputy Director of Public Instruction (DDPI) to issue a notice to the school and conduct an investigation. Legal action will be taken against the school based on the DDPI report,' K.V. Trilokchandra, Commissioner of Public Instruction told The Hindu. Not informed It is alleged that the school administration, without informing the students and parents or taking permission of the department, enrolled around 10 students, who had not performed well in Class 9, into the Bruhath Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP) school in Cleveland Town. Later, they were registered as private candidates for the SSLC exam of 2024-25. However, since the students had written the exam as private candidates, the internal marks given by the school were not applicable, and the students failed the SSLC exam. When the school administration was questioned about this, the parents did not get a proper answer and one of them, Aruna, filed a complaint with the police in this regard. An FIR was registered on May 27, 2025. Speaking to The Hindu, Ms. Aruna said, 'My daughter was studying in St. Mary's Girls School from class 4. Last year, I paid a total of ₹20,700 fee for class 10. But without informing us and without our consent, she was enrolled in a BBMP school and registered as a private candidate for the SSLC exam. My daughter failed because internal marks were not given. Even the Block Education Officer (BEO) did not respond to our problem,' she alleged. 'Will move court' Ms. Aruna said that a month had passed since an FIR was filed, but there has been no progress in the investigation. 'The police have not even recorded my statement yet. If my daughter does not get justice, I will move the court against the school, the police and the DSEL,' she warned.