At IITs, we train students in quantum physics — but not how to ask, ‘Are you okay?’

I don't have words to put it out so i shared the article written by a person who put it out as it has to be . If at the end of day you are not happy then you are a fool.

There’s a kind of silence that hostel rooms never forget. It settles in long after the noise fades. After the roommate goes home for a long weekend. After the last WhatsApp ping. After the mess plate goes untouched. It stays. It thickens. And sometimes, it wins.

A 22-year-old boy died by suicide in MMM Hall, IIT Kharagpur. That sentence should be enough to halt the nation. But it won’t. We’ll glance at the headline, mumble something about pressure, and scroll on. The nation has built up calluses where its conscience should be. I’m an alumnus of the same IIT and lived in Patel Hall. I know those corridors. I know the loneliness that blooms at 2:00 am like mould on ambition. I know the sound of a ceiling fan that suddenly feels too loud. I know how it feels to walk among 9-pointers and feel like a typo in your own story.

The real tragedy? Not that it happened. But that we have a protocol for it now. A student dies. A committee is formed. A condolence email is drafted. A professor says, “He never came to us.” The counselling centre updates its hours. The rest of us move on — with the muscle memory of institutional apathy. Let’s stop pretending this is rare. It isn’t. What’s rare is the boy who did ask for help — and didn’t get branded as “too sensitive”.

The IITs, for all their glory, are emotional deserts dressed up as intellectual oases. We teach calculus, machine learning, quantum physics — but not how to ask, “Are you okay?” Not how to answer it either. You arrive from your hometown — maybe Patna, maybe Coimbatore — where you were your family’s pride, your coaching centre’s poster boy. You step into a room the size of your father’s pantry and are handed the keys to your future. But no one gives you the manual for solitude.

We assume these kids — yes, kids — are equipped. But high IQ is not high EQ. You don’t solve grief with logic. You can’t debug despair. And heaven forbid you show signs of struggle. Because in our culture, vulnerability is a design flaw. Admitting to mental distress is like confessing you’re not built for greatness. And greatness, we’re told, is what your parents mortgaged their dreams for. So we build boys who can write code at 3:00 am but can’t say, “I’m afraid”. We build girls who can lead clubs but can’t admit they feel lost. We raise a generation of high performers and low talkers — fluent in C++, tongue-tied in therapy.

And society watches approvingly, confusing repression for resilience. Ask someone why they didn’t seek help, and you’ll hear it in a hundred versions: What will people say? They’ll think I’m weak. I’ll be the one they whisper about in the mess line. Because in India, mental health is a family scandal. Not a fact of life.

And now? Now there’s a room in MMM Hall that won’t be reassigned for a while. A bed that won’t be remade. A mother who will stare at a phone that no longer rings. A WhatsApp status that will remain “online” long after the boy behind it is gone. This isn’t a tragedy. It’s a verdict. On us. On every warden who thought silence meant strength. On every peer group that didn’t notice a boy disappearing in plain sight. On every institution that taught differential equations but never emotional ones.

And if your throat tightens as you read this — let it. That’s not discomfort. That’s delayed grief. Because he didn’t fail us. We failed him. And the silence that took him is still out there — quiet, patient, and undefeated. Maybe lurking behind codes and caffeine.

PARTHA SINHA 

The writer is an advisory professional and an alumnus of IIT Kharagpur