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From Silence to Strength: Finding My Voice on the Road to Inclusion

Updated: May 23

[This Blog is part of A Conversation on Inclusivity Series]


On a chilly morning in Jaipur, February 1, 2012, around 6:30 AM, I was riding my Activa when everything changed. At first, the accident felt like a typical fall—some pain, maybe a plaster. But as time passed, the seriousness of my condition began to unfold. My face was turning pale, my body becoming whiter, signs of internal blood loss that chilled more than just my skin.


The first doctor who saw me looked at my mother and said words that shattered her world: “She won’t survive.” It wasn’t necessarily his fault—it was the urgency, the uncertainty, the way my body was responding to trauma. But I survived that day. What followed was not just a recovery, but a rebirth—a four-year-long journey of pain, silence, strength, and rediscovery.


I was bedridden. Eight major surgeries—four in Jaipur and four in Delhi. My days blurred into endless white sheets and hospital walls. Good days were rare. Most days felt like a tunnel with no light. At just 20, I felt robbed of youth, movement, and freedom. I cut everyone off. Not just emotionally, but physically—I refused to look at my leg, as if by ignoring it, I could make the problem disappear. But the problem was real—and not just in my body. It reflected in the eyes of others. Sympathy. Pity. Eyes that reminded me of what I had lost.


I gave all my LL.B. exams in a special room of the Rajasthan University, seated in a wheelchair. My father and uncle would carry me to every exam. The eyes of students and staff bore into me, not in anger, but in discomfort. So, I learned to finish my exams 30 minutes early just to avoid seeing anyone. My mother became my world. She understood my silence, my pain, without needing words. With others, I would have to explain—and I didn’t want to.


I stopped going out. I became an introvert. I feared gatherings, not because of people, but because of the gaze that followed me everywhere.


But slowly, life began to change. I enrolled for my post-graduation at Amity University. It was my first real interaction with the world beyond hospitals. It was terrifying. It took me 30 minutes to walk 200 meters from my hostel to the law block with my supportive footwear. There were no ramps initially, only stairs. But eventually, ramps appeared, perhaps due to a government mandate. They made a difference—not just in access, but in dignity.


On campus, I stayed quiet, watching others laugh, click photos, and bond. One day, while I sat alone with my Kindle, a girl from a lively group came to me and asked, “Why are you sitting alone? Come sit with me.” That simple sentence transformed everything. She introduced me to her friends, who never questioned my disability. They simply adjusted, walking slowly, helping me with bags, lending a hand on the stairs without ever making me feel like a burden.


Today, as an Assistant Professor of Law at UPES Dehradun, I perceive disability not only through the lens of personal experience but also through a legal framework. Law plays a critical role in dismantling both visible and invisible barriers. Landmark legislations such as the Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016, represent a significant step forward in India’s commitment to inclusion. However, the true challenge lies in effective implementation. Legal rights must not remain confined to texts—they must translate into lived realities, visible on every ramp built, every classroom accessed, and every courtroom entered.


Educational institutions and workplaces must go beyond superficial compliance with infrastructural requirements. Inclusivity should be embedded in institutional culture through policies grounded in reasonable accommodation, non-discrimination, and human dignity. International instruments like the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (UNCRPD), to which India is a signatory, further reinforce the obligation to ensure equality, accessibility, and participation for all. But without awareness and active enforcement, even the strongest laws risk becoming symbolic rather than transformative.


Disability rights must not be treated as a marginal issue—they are intrinsic to the broader human rights discourse. As legal educators, we bear a special responsibility to mainstream these principles into the core curriculum, not as afterthoughts or optional subjects. We must cultivate a generation of lawyers, judges, and policymakers who recognise that justice cannot be truly achieved until all citizens can access the law equally, physically, socially, and institutionally.


My journey has taught me that while resilience is personal, inclusion must be systemic. It is through the law and the will to enforce it that we can shift stories like mine from isolated struggles to collective progress.


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Dr. Parineeta Goswami is an Assistant Professor at the School of Law, UPES


{The opinions expressed herein are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the University.}

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