Hunger For Justice

By Divya Behl

No one noticed when the mid-day meal stopped coming. At first, it was just late. Then smaller. Then gone. In a dusty corner of Uttar Pradesh, at Shyampur Primary School, the children waited for lunch with empty tiffins and hopeful eyes. But hope didn’t feed them. And every time someone asked why the rice sacks or the pulses hadn’t come, they got the same response- “Might be on the way. Will come tomorrow.”The steel plates were quiet again. In the courtyard, flies buzzed where food should have been. Ms. Asha Verma stood at the kitchen door, staring at the shelves- bare, the walls streaked with oil stains. Behind her, Mohan, a grade one student, tugged at her saree. “Ma’am, when will the food come?” She forced a smile. “Soon, Mohan.” But she didn’t believe it anymore. That night, under a dim bulb, she wrote in her notebook: Eighth April. No delivery. Third time this week.

Each word made her heart heavy, not with grief, but with anger. Tomorrow never came. Ms. Asha Verma had seen many things as a government school teacher- broken benches, torn textbooks, forgotten promises. But starving children? That was unacceptable. She started quietly. Notes in a register. Photos of empty storerooms. Dates. Signatures. She compiled everything like a detective preparing her case. And then, she filed an RTI. No one expected it to make a difference. After all, most RTIs gathered dust. But Ms. Asha was meticulous. She phrased every line like a blade- sharp and considerable. What came back wasn’t just shocking- it was like an explosion. According to the official ledger, the school had received full funding for meals every month, without fail. Receipts were attached. Signatures matched. On paper, the children ate like kings! Reality was different. The rice and wheat never came. The money? Gone. Her colleagues warned her, “Don’t get involved. It's too dangerous.” But she had already made up her mind. She sent the RTI documents to the district authorities. Nothing happened. She sent them again. And again. And again.

Until one day, her phone rang. A voice, distorted and unclear, warned her. “Drop it. Or you’ll lose more than just your job.” The line went dead. Asha didn’t sleep that night. She thought of backing off. Thought of her ageing parents, her younger brother still in college, and the rent due next month. She almost gave in. But the next morning, she walked into school with a pen drive full of documents, walked straight to a journalist named Priyansh Chopra, after school, and said only this: “I have proof. And I want the truth to be loud.”

What followed was chaos. A secret operation. A leaked report. A video interview that went viral in a matter of seconds. Villagers marched to the Block Office. The media hovered. And suddenly, names that were feared were printed in bold. The scam exploded. Fake contractors, forged documents, and over two crore rupees vanished across six panchayats.

Within weeks, arrests. The block officer was suspended. The police intervened. Ms. Asha was transferred- not to be punished, but to be protected. Then came the award: National Bravery in Public Service. Lots of cameras, applause, recognition. But when asked how it felt, Asha simply said: “The real reward? Hearing plates clatter again in the school’s kitchen and seeing the smile on the faces of my students. Justice, served with dal and rice.”

By Divya Behl