Ramakant’s Story: From a Samosa Stall to a Fight for Justice
The crowd at the railway station was busy with its own chaos. On platform number three, a small cart was frying samosas. The man’s hands were marked with burns from hot oil, his kurta was soaked in sweat, and deep lines of worry were visible on his forehead. His name was Ramakant.
Once, he was an ordinary but hardworking man who had spent all his savings on his wife’s education. Life had now brought him to a point where he was compelled to sell samosas at the station. Yet he never complained. He was content with the little he had.
That day too, he stood by his cart and called out, “Hot samosas! Three for ten rupees!” Suddenly there was commotion at the station. The station master came running, the guards were alert, and some people stood in line with folded hands. A gleaming government vehicle drove right onto the platform. Behind it were two more cars. A silence fell all around.
A woman stepped out of the car. She wore a green silk saree, black sunglasses, and a stern expression. She was DM Shalini Verma. Several security officers accompanied her. Her walk was brisk, her eyes sharp with authority, and a cold arrogance was clearly visible on her face. She walked straight ahead, as if acknowledging anyone was beneath her status.
Behind the cart, Ramakant stood staring at her. For a moment, his hands stopped moving. Shalini too turned back once. Their eyes met. For a second, time seemed to freeze. Then Shalini walked on without saying a word, as if she had never known Ramakant. Ramakant stood motionless, unable to speak or react. The shock hit him from within.
People around him began to stare. Some laughed, others whispered. Someone said, “Is this samosa seller really the DM’s husband? Why would madam remember a man like him now?” These words burned him with humiliation. Then two policemen arrived.
One asked, “Are you Ramakant?”
Ramakant quietly nodded.
The policemen said, “Come with us. There’s a complaint against you—for selling at the station without permission, spreading dirt, and creating disturbance in front of an officer.”
Ramakant was confused. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said, but no one listened. The police dragged him to the station house.
At the police station, they made him sit on the floor. An inspector shouted, “So, you’re the DM’s husband? Madam herself said to teach you a lesson.” Ramakant’s eyes widened in shock. “I am Shalini’s husband. What have I done?” he asked, but before he could finish, a stick struck his back. Everyone laughed. Someone said, “Listen to this—this samosa seller says he’s the DM’s husband!” They mocked him. “Look at your face! You, the DM’s husband? Unbelievable!”
Abuse, beating, humiliation—everything came at once. But Ramakant stayed quiet. There were no tears now, just deep silence filled with pain, humiliation, and burning anger. The next morning, without filing any case, they released him.
Ramakant went straight to the collectorate office. Security guards stood at the gate. “I want to meet Shalini. She is my wife,” he said. The guards laughed. “You again? We told you yesterday—no jokes here.” Just then an officer came out. He looked at Ramakant’s condition and said angrily, “Throw him out! How dare he? Who is Shalini? Who is husband?”
The guards pushed Ramakant out. But this time, he did not stay silent.
He filled out an RTI form. The question he wrote was: “Is District Magistrate Shalini Verma married? If yes, what is the name of her husband?”
Within days, the file reached Shalini’s office.
An officer hesitantly approached her. “Ma’am, this RTI has come. We need to respond.”
Shalini read it, grew furious, and tore the form. “Find whoever sent this and teach him a lesson. This must not get out.”
The officer whispered nervously, “Ma’am, legally we have to reply… otherwise the matter may go to court.”
Shalini said coldly, “Then let it go to court. We will not reply. Keep this quiet and stop it from reaching the media.”
But this time Ramakant didn’t back down.
A local journalist found him. On camera, Ramakant said, “I am Shalini’s husband. I educated her. I mortgaged my land for her coaching. Today she is a DM, but she refuses to recognize me.”
The video went viral. Local channels ran headlines: “Is the samosa seller really the DM’s husband? DM refuses to recognize her husband at the station.”
The case was no longer confined to the police or office—it was now public and in the media spotlight.
Ramakant filed a case in district court. “I am DM Shalini’s husband. I have proof—marriage certificate, photos, witnesses, and documents. If any officer calls this a lie, it insults my identity and dignity.”
The court set a hearing date. The news spread quickly. The DM office’s reputation was at stake. Ramakant began receiving threats. Someone even destroyed his samosa cart. But he filed no complaint. He waited for court day.
On the first hearing, the court was packed. Shalini’s side had four lawyers in suits carrying thick files. Ramakant stood alone with an old folder, some papers, and wedding photos.
The judge asked, “On what grounds do you claim to be Shalini Verma’s husband?”
Ramakant quietly placed the wedding photos before the judge. Then he showed the marriage registration papers, the village head’s certificate, and a letter written by Shalini during her coaching days: “Ramakant, if I achieve anything, it will only be because of you.”
Shalini’s lawyers tried to call the evidence fake, saying even if a wedding happened, this man might just be an acquaintance. But when the court called witnesses—the village head, Ramakant’s old school teacher, and the coaching center director—the truth began to surface. They all confirmed that Shalini and Ramakant were indeed married and that Ramakant had sacrificed everything for her education.
The judge said nothing but looked visibly surprised. Another date was set.
On the next hearing, media crowded the entrance. When Shalini arrived in her official vehicle, cameras turned toward her. Tension was clear on her face.
Ramakant entered in a worn shirt and old slippers, but now his face showed no fear. His steps were steady.
In court, Shalini again said, “I do not know Ramakant.”
Ramakant then took out an old diary. Inside was a letter in Shalini’s handwriting: “Ramakant, I am going for my interview today. You are the reason I’ve come this far. Pray that I pass.”
Silence fell in the courtroom. Shalini’s eyes dropped. The judge reserved the judgment.
On the judgment day, the courtroom was packed. The judge declared that Shalini and Ramakant were indeed married, and Shalini had intentionally concealed her husband’s identity.
That evening, Ramakant returned to his old samosa stall. He fried samosas just like before. But this time, his face showed no sadness or shock. No guards, no official vehicles, no officers—just the same old pan, the same cart, and the same railway platform.
But now, something had changed.
People looked at Ramakant with respect.
A man approached him and said softly, “Ramakant bhaiya, people like you are the ones who can truly fight the system.”
Ramakant said nothing. He simply smiled, placed a samosa on the plate, and said, “It’s hot—eat carefully.”