Trigger warning: This article contains references to sexual abuse and suicide. Please use your discretion in deciding if, when, and where to read.
It was U. Deepak’s birthday on January 17. The 42-year-old sales executive, who worked at a garment company, lived with his parents in a two-storey house in Govindapuram, a couple of kilometres from Kozhikode city in Kerala. He had promised his father, Choyi Ullattuthodi, and mother, K. Kanyaka, that he would take them to Guruvayur temple, an ancient Hindu site dedicated to Lord Krishna and popular among pilgrims. For the closely knit family of three, whose lives were rooted in routine, such pilgrimages were not rare, Kanyaka says.
Deepak had instructed his parents to be ready by the afternoon for the journey that would take about 2 hours. He said they would leave once he returned from work. But when he came home, his parents realised that he was not himself.
“He was very upset,” Kanyaka recalls. “He didn’t eat. Without any explanation, he said, ‘Amma, we will go to Guruvayur later’.” Kanyaka kept asking him what had happened, but Deepak did not respond. He shut himself inside his room.
That night, citing incidents of theft in the area, Deepak asked his parents to close their bedroom door. They did as they were told. The next morning, they found Deepak dead in his room.
For Ullattuthodi and Kanyaka, the discovery was shocking especially since they saw no warning and no visible signs of despair. “We couldn’t understand why he took his own life,” says Kanyaka, her voice cracking.
A day earlier, unbeknownst to his parents, Deepak had struggled to process a video in the public domain that featured him. The circumstances surrounding his death have sent shockwaves across Kerala, sparking widespread discussion and outrage. His death highlights the complex intersection of social media, public shaming, sexual abuse, and mental health.
Deepak’s parents, Choyi Ullattuthodi and K. Kanyaka, discovered his body in his room the morning after his birthday.
| Photo Credit:
Ragesh K.
The incident on the bus
The previous day, 35-year-old Shimjitha Musthafa from Vadakara, who describes herself on Instagram as a “trained psychologist”, posted a video. She alleged that Deepak sexually harassed her on a bus in Payyannur, Kannur district. She claimed that Deepak, who had been travelling in the private bus from Payyannur railway station to the bus stand, deliberately elbowed her breast.
The video struck a nerve. Sexual harassment in crowded public transport is a lived reality for countless women across India. The clip went viral, reaching more than 2 million people within a few hours. When some people in the comments section questioned her intent and the framing of the video, Musthafa deleted the clip. Later, she posted a follow-up video. She said that her aim was not to target an individual, but to highlight a “serious social and mental health issue.”
It was Asgar Ali, a friend of Deepak, who informed him about the video. “Deepak was introverted,” Ali says. “He was recovering from the trauma of a divorce. When I spoke to him on the night of his birthday, he was very distressed. He feared public humiliation. He told me he would take legal measures against the woman.”
For Kanyaka, the memory of that night is unbearable. “Though he was 42, he was like a child,” she says. “He was very delicate. He would not do anything without asking me. To take such a step, he must have been broken inside. How much my son must have cried all night….”
Deepak’s cousin, U. Jayaprakash, and his wife Sini are in a state of disbelief. “Nobody who knew Deepak would ever believe that he could sexually harass someone,” says Jayaprakash. “He was very attached to his mother. He must have worried about how such an allegation would affect her.”
The family accused Musthafa of using the video to gain fame and followers. Public anger swelled rapidly. Soon, Deepak’s death was no longer a private tragedy; it became a public flashpoint. While several women’s rights activists urged people to stay calm and not lose sight of the complexity of the issue, many men were angry. A series of videos showed men travelling in buses with cardboard boxes covering their bodies. One of the most widely shared clips featured a bus conductor wearing a cardboard box over his upper body, bearing a message demanding the formation of a men’s commission.
Complaints and inquiries
On January 19, Kanyaka filed a complaint against Musthafa with the Kozhikode City Police Commissioner. The Kozhikode Medical College police registered a case and invoked Section 109 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023. This is a non-bailable offence relating to abetment to suicide. The police arrested Musthafa from her relative’s house in Vadakara and remanded her to judicial custody for 14 days. The State Human Rights Commission directed the police to submit a report within a week.
In its remand report before the Judicial First Class Magistrate Court, Kunnamangalam, the police stated that Deepak had died by suicide due to the humiliation caused by the videos filmed and shared by Musthafa.
The investigation, the police said, included a review of CCTV footage from the bus in which Musthafa and Deepak had travelled. “There was nothing abnormal or objectionable (in it),” they wrote in the remand report. “The footage does not show any inappropriate or unusual behaviour.” Statements from the bus staff and fellow passengers also reportedly confirmed that no incident of harassment or misconduct took place during the journey, the remand report said.
The police also said that Musthafa recorded multiple videos of the alleged sexual harassment in the bus and deleted some of them. Her phone has been sent for forensic analysis. “We have sought police custody of the accused for further questioning,” says a police source.
The police added in the report that Musthafa, who holds a postgraduate degree and is former ward member of the Areacode Grama Panchayat, was aware of the legal requirement to approach the police if she had experienced harassment.
Meanwhile, from Manjeri jail, Musthafa filed a complaint through her brother with the Payyannur police, reiterating that she was sexually harassed on the bus on January 16. The Payyannur police have initiated a preliminary inquiry.
A battleground
As legal processes unfolded, public discourse exploded. Almost overnight, the public perception of Musthafa shifted. Initially seen as a victim of sexual harassment, she came to be seen as an abettor of suicide. Social media turned into a battleground. Many people questioned the authenticity of the video, arguing that the contact between Deepak and her could have been accidental as the bus was crowded. Some influencers and YouTubers branded the video “fake.”
Deepak’s death altered the narrative entirely. What was once a conversation about women’s safety in public transport turned into a bitter debate on false allegations, public shaming, and the destructive power of social media. The case raised uncomfortable questions about accountability, justice, and empathy in the digital age.
Feminists themselves appeared divided. “When a woman says she was sexually harassed and shows video evidence of it, how does that automatically become abetment to suicide,” someone wondered. Some women argued that suicide cannot invalidate an allegation, especially when the woman continues to stand by her claim even after the man’s death. Others asked whether the video should have been made public before an investigation. Should social media influencers assume the role of arbiters of justice? Should public opinion be allowed to determine guilt?
Cyber crime investigator Pattathil Dhanya Menon points to legal grey zones. “Technically speaking, in a public space, you cannot shoot another person without consent,” she says. “If it was recorded as evidence against violence, it should have been submitted to the police. It should not have been edited or tampered with.” She stresses the urgent need for awareness about the use of social media.
As the debate raged on, Musthafa became the target of vicious online abuse. She received rape and murder threats. Ajay Unni, from the Bharatiya Janata Party, who contested the recent Thodupuzha Municipality elections, said women who create such videos should be raped first.
Seeing the firestorm, many women came out in support of Musthafa. They said that there are barely any women who have not experienced harassment in crowded buses or public spaces in India. Detailing their own experiences, women also spoke of how they are routinely shamed and isolated when they speak up.
Data from the National Crime Records Bureau show that India’s crime rate against women increased in 2022 by 4% points compared to 2021. The national average stood at 66.4 cases per lakh women, driven by high rates in Delhi (144.4), Haryana (118.7), and Telangana (117.6). States such as Kerala (82) and Madhya Pradesh (78.8) were closer to the national average.
“School and college students are the most frequent victims,” says Radhika P., a 53-year-old sales staff member in Kozhikode. “My daughter often complains to me. Even at my age, I’m not spared. Women always travel with fear. We have to remain alert in crowded buses.”
Musthafa’s supporters also pointed to the apathy of the police and the judicial system in handling harassment complaints. This, they argued, pushes women to post videos online as a form of self-defence, a way of reclaiming agency and deterring potential perpetrators. They cited the 2023 case of Savad Sha, who was arrested for masturbating inside a Kerala State transport bus while sitting next to a woman. She uploaded a video of the act online. The woman, an actor and model, faced severe attacks online from men’s groups. Some of them even received the accused after he obtained bail. In 2025, Savad Sha was booked again for molesting another woman in another bus, validating the earlier complaint.
“If the promptness shown in arresting Musthafa had been shown in acting on complaints of harassment in buses, things would be different,” says screenwriter and feminist activist Didi Damodharan. “There is hardly a woman who has not had a bad experience in public transport. That is what Musthafa tried to say through her video. Whether this specific case is true or not should be decided by the police and courts.”
She adds, “Mobile phones can be effective tools of self defence. The very awareness that one might be under watch can make public spaces safer for women.” At the same time, she cautions against the oversimplification of Deepak’s suicide. “There may be many reasons behind this death. The video could be one factor, but it may not be the sole reason.”
Damodharan is blunt about how the narrative has been weaponised. “The tears of the mother are being used to attack the women’s liberation movement. Instead of emphasising that suicide is never a solution, all anger has been directed at the woman and the video. There appears to be a deliberate effort to crush even the smallest possibility of women’s empowerment,” she says.
She also points to deeper anxieties at play. “The accessibility of social media and phones for women disrupts power equations in a patriarchal society. That is why the issue is framed as a problem of women using social media,” she says.
Drawing lines
As Musthafa was brought to the Medical College police station, people blocked traffic and shouted abuses. Similar scenes were reported outside Manjeri jail. People posted videos on social media, attacking women and feminist activists. Political parties and their cyber warriors jumped in, each pushing their own agenda.
In the 2017 case involving the abduction and sexual assault of a Malayalam actor, the court took the ages of the accused into account while determining the sentence. In another instance of sexual misconduct, the court showed consideration to the accused, filmmaker P.T. Kunju Muhammed, because of his age. “What, then, is the ‘right’ age for a man to be punished adequately in a case of harassment,” asks Damodharan.
Women activists also point out that the gravity of the allegation against Musthafa is far less severe than crimes such as rape and gang rape. They question the disproportionate response and the intensity of the punitive action in her case.
On the other hand, men’s rights activists claim that Deepak’s death is not an isolated incident. They argue that men are increasingly victims of public humiliation and reputational damage without evidence. Activist Rahul Easwar announced a 24×7 helpline for men facing mental harassment and declared January 17 as ‘Men’s Rights Day’. He gave Deepak’s parents “initial aid” of ₹3.17 lakh.
Psychiatrist Dr. Shaju George, who is from Thrissur and works in Dubai, says, “Ending one’s life is almost normalised as a response to mental trauma. What is tragic is that neither he nor his friends or family sought professional psychological or legal help.”
Deepak’s death has left behind grieving parents, a woman in jail, and a society deeply divided. It is the story not just of one man and one video, but of a social contract stretched thin by technology, patriarchy, fear, and grief. It forces Kerala, a State that has just declared itself 100% digitally literate, to confront an uncomfortable truth: in the age of social media, justice is seen as everyone’s business, delivered in quick, reckless shorts. And the cost is often paid in lives.
Those in distress or having suicidal tendencies could seek help and counselling from Kerala Suicide Prevention Helpline, Disha, at 1056 or 0471-2552056. You can also call any of the other regional helplines found in this link.
