The tragic death of Aqil Akhtar, son of former Punjab DGP Mohammad Mustafa and former minister Razia Sultana, has left more than a family in mourning — it has reignited a painful conversation about drug addiction, mental health, and the society we live in.
Aqil, a 35-year-old advocate, was found dead in his Panchkula home. What followed were allegations, counter-allegations, and an FIR accusing his parents, wife, and sister of murder.
But beneath this swirl of politics and suspicion lies a deeper, more haunting story — of a young man’s long battle with addiction and a family’s slow destruction under its weight.
The Descent Into Addiction
Drug addiction does not strike like lightning; it creeps in quietly, often disguised as relief, rebellion, or curiosity.
For Aqil, it began when he was in school — a boy from a privileged background, slipping into the dark alleys of dependency.
Over 18 years, his parents tried everything — treatments at de-addiction centers, therapy, medical supervision — but addiction has a cruel grip.
When the drug becomes the master, the mind begins to crumble. Addicts live in two worlds — one where the drug whispers promises of peace and another where guilt, paranoia, and loneliness scream.
They see things that don’t exist, imagine threats that aren’t real, and distrust the very hands trying to save them.
At times, during brief flashes of sobriety, reality returns — cruel, painful, and short-lived. In those rare moments, they know what they’ve lost — love, respect, and the normal life that now seems unreachable.
But soon, the mind gives way again to craving, and the cycle begins anew.
Families, meanwhile, walk on glass. Parents oscillate between compassion and despair. Siblings withdraw, ashamed or heartbroken. Home becomes a battlefield — love at war with helplessness.
Mustafa and Sultana’s family, once a picture of public service and stature, became a quiet portrait of sorrow and exhaustion.
When Addiction Becomes a Family’s Prison
As Mustafa recounted, his son’s mind was “psychotic,” his behavior erratic, violent, even self-destructive.
“He had set our house on fire once,” the father said, his words heavy with the fatigue of years of trying.
A decorated police officer who once led Punjab’s Anti-Drug Task Force, Mustafa found himself powerless against the very demon he fought professionally.
There’s a cruel irony here — how even knowledge, power, and access can fail when the enemy is inside your own home. Addiction doesn’t care for rank, religion, or respectability. It eats away at love, dignity, and sanity alike.
The Larger Malaise: A Society in Denial
Yet Aqil’s story is not isolated. It mirrors a silent epidemic that is spreading across India — from cities to small towns, across classes and faiths.
Governments spend millions on advertisements urging youth to “Say No to Drugs.” But how many truly listen?
The truth is, slogans don’t cure addiction — empathy and community do. Society must rise to lovingly educate, engage, and rehabilitate the youth.
Schools, parents, religious institutions, and NGOs must join hands not with judgment but with compassion. The addicted are not criminals — they are patients who have lost their way.
Unfortunately, while we fight one form of addiction, the government seems to be promoting another.
The rapid spread of liquor shops in every city — often within a few hundred yards of homes, schools, and temples — has normalized intoxication.
Markets once known for family-friendly stores now reek of alcohol and disorder. Shopkeepers complain, parents worry, yet new permits keep appearing like weeds after rain.
When easy liquor and cheap cannabis (“bhang and ganja”) are sold openly on streets — even under police noses — what moral ground do we have to tell our youth to stay sober?
The line between legality and legitimacy has blurred, and society pays the price in broken families, ruined futures, and lost souls.
A Call for Change
It’s time for more than police raids and awareness posters. India needs a movement of compassion — where community leaders,
NGOs and educators work hand in hand to bring the lost youth back into the mainstream. Rehabilitation must be a mission, not a token gesture.
Liquor vends should be relocated away from schools, homes, and markets, and illegal drug sales tackled with genuine accountability, not selective blindness.
Addiction kills not just people but peace — peace in homes, in hearts, and in society. Aqil’s tragic story is a grim reminder that we can no longer treat this as someone else’s problem.
It is ours. All of ours.
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