20/02/2026
For fifteen years, everyone in the JSPM college area in Wagholi knew Raja.
He wasn’t just a stray dog. He was Raja — the silent guardian of the gates, the lazy afternoon companion under the banyan tree, the gentle soul who wagged his tail at students rushing to exams and security guards starting their night shifts. Generations of students had passed through the campus, but Raja had stayed. He belonged there more than any of them.
People fed him biscuits. Some brought him leftover meals. Others simply bent down to pat his head. For fifteen years, he lived with dignity — not as someone’s pet, but as everyone’s.
Then he fell sick.
It started with weakness. He stopped getting up when students called his name. Soon, wounds appeared. Infection set in. Maggots. Fever. He became bedridden, unable to move even a little. His once-bright eyes grew tired, but they still searched for familiar faces.
I could not let him suffer alone.
Three times a day, I went to him. Morning, afternoon, evening. I cleaned his wounds carefully, removing maggots one by one. I washed the sores, applied ointment and medicinal powder. I gave him prescribed medicines. Doctors visited to administer IV saline. I fed him soft food and water by hand. It was slow, painful work — but he responded. Sometimes he tried to lift his head. Sometimes his tail moved just a little.
On Wednesday morning at 8:30 AM, I went to give him medicine and food. He ate some chicken. He looked weak, but stable. I was planning to take him to a hospital that afternoon for better care.
But while I was gone, someone else made a decision.
When I returned, Raja was gone.
The college staff said he had been “shifted to a safe place.” Some said he had died and been buried somewhere. Their answers didn’t match. Their eyes didn’t meet mine. I insisted on knowing the location. If he was dead, I wanted to see him. If he was alive, I wanted to treat him.
No one came forward.
For hours, we searched. Behind buildings. Near garbage areas. Around shaded corners where he might have been placed.
Then we found him.
At a construction site behind the campus.
He had been thrown among piles of stones, under the harsh afternoon sun. The ground was burning hot. Raja lay there, barely breathing. His tongue was out — dry, swollen — stuck to the heated stones. He could not even lift his head.
He had not been relocated for safety.
He had been discarded.
We rushed him immediately to Mission Possible. Padmini ma’am agreed to admit him without hesitation. He is now critical, under observation, fighting for every breath.
And now the questions burn harder than the sun that scorched him.
If I go to the police, what happens? The college is an educational institution. They can restrict feeders. They can use regulations and cite orders to relocate community dogs. They can ensure that no one feeds them on campus again.
So what are the options left for these voiceless souls?
Option one: Stay in their territory and quietly endure cruelty. Fall sick. Be ignored. Die slowly.
Option two: Be “relocated” to overcrowded municipal shelters, like those run under PMC systems, where survival itself is uncertain — and die there.
It feels like “die here” or “die there.”
For fifteen years, Raja harmed no one. He asked for nothing except a corner to lie down and a little kindness. He trusted the same ground that betrayed him.
And the saddest part is not just his suffering.
It is standing there, watching injustice unfold, knowing the system makes compassion feel like a crime — and cruelty look like procedure.
Raja is still fighting.
But today, the real question is:
In a place meant to educate young minds, what are we truly teaching about humanity?
