By Lyzander Sohkhlet
It is easy to tell a story with villains. It is harder to tell one with the truth.
The name of our state, Meghalaya has been in headlines across the country. But not in the way it deserves to be. Not for our cliffs of cloud, or our bridges of living root, or our extraordinary people, but as a backdrop to a tragedy that has been carelessly labeled a “Meghalaya honeymoon murder.” Those words sting. Not just because they oversimplify, but because they imply something sinister about the land and its people. And that, I must say plainly, is not only unfair, it is false. Yes, a terrible crime occurred. A young man, Raja Raghuvanshi, came here on what was meant to be a celebration of love and union. He left behind a body, and now, a grieving family. And we in Meghalaya grieve with them. But this was not “a Meghalaya murder.” This was not a tale of local violence. This was a tragedy imported, not born from our soil, nor rooted in our people. The police investigation has been thorough and clear: this was a murder planned in Indore, executed by contract killers allegedly brought here by someone he trusted most. Meghalaya was the stage, not the reason.
And yet, from the moment the story broke, sections of the national media have been quick to cast shadows. “Dangerous hills,” “crime-prone destinations,” “unsafe terrain” these are not just careless words. They do harm. They distort the truth. They hurt communities who depend on tourism for their daily bread, their children’s fees, their mothers’ medicines. Words have weight, and some headlines have crushed more than just reputations, they’ve insulted generations of hospitality.
But Meghalaya has not responded with anger. It has responded with grace.
In Sohra, that ancient town of rain and stone, locals gathered not in defense of their image, but in mourning for a man they never met. A candlelight vigil was held on the cliffs, in a clearing overlooking the mist-soaked valleys that Raja might have seen. Dozens of villagers stood silently, holding candles in cupped palms, their faces dimly lit by flame and cloud. Khasi men and women, elders and children, tourists and officers, all stood still as a prayer was spoken for his soul. A moment of silence, pierced only by the steady rhythm of the rain and sun. Some wiped away tears. Some whispered hymns. All felt the weight of a young life lost too soon.
There were no cameras staged for effect. No political slogans. But the press did come. Videos of the vigil were aired across the country, and in them, you could see what this place is really made of, empathy, dignity, and unshakable solidarity..They won’t tell you that the villagers here felt it deeply, that a guest had died in their land.And they certainly won’t tell you that it hurt them to know that the world now saw this not as a moment of shared loss, but as a stain on the name of Meghalaya.
This is why I had to write again.
When the news first broke, that the couple from Indore had gone missing, our hearts clenched in collective worry. Police, villagers, special teams, everyone searched, day and night. We hoped. We prayed. And then, the unthinkable truth emerged, it was not an accident. It was not the terrain. It was a betrayal written in blood.And still, even then, we did not turn cold. As they held a candlelight vigil for Raja Raghuvanshi. No fanfare. Just people, locals, guides, elders, schoolchildren, holding flickering flames against the dusk. Some didn’t know his name a week ago. But they came, because it felt right. Because in these hills, we are taught that the guest is sacred, and that grief, even when it is not ours, deserves to be carried. The sky had cleared just enough for the vigil to begin. A soft drizzle hung in the air like breath held in sorrow. A line of candles stretched along flowers. Khasi women in jainkyrshas wrapped shawls tighter as they stepped forward to place wildflowers under the banner of a young man most had never met. A few locals read short prayers. One elder simply said, “He came in trust. Let him leave in peace.”
It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t meant to be. It was human.
And yet, even as these small acts of mourning unfolded, headlines elsewhere had already moved on to sensationalism. “Honeymoon Murder in Meghalaya.” “Bride Turned Killer in the Hills.” Clicks, not context. Labels, not listening.
But let me say it again, clearly: this was not a Meghalaya murder. Meghalaya did not kill this man. Meghalaya tried to save him. And when it could not, Meghalaya mourned him like he was one of our own.
It is easy, too easy, to write places off in the heat of horror. To project a single act of evil onto an entire people. But if you had stood where I stood, you’d understand: these are not crime-prone hills. These are caring hills. Heartbroken hills. Hills that still believe, even in the shadow of betrayal, in the sanctity of the guest. There was no intended publicity about the vigil. No hashtags. Just love. Just regret. Just a community trying to hold dignity in its hands as the world tried to call it something else.
Our leaders did not remain silent. they came forward, not with defensiveness, but with dignity, refusing to let careless narratives tarnish the soul of our state. They reminded the nation, firmly, publicly, and calmly, that what happened was not born of Meghalaya’s spirit, but in spite of it. Their voice became the voice of the hills that evening. Clear. Unshaken. Honest. SP Vivek Syiem and the Meghalaya Police never once backed down from the responsibility thrust upon them. They worked with urgency, with precision, and most of all, with compassion. Day after day, they coordinated efforts across unforgiving terrain, brought in drone surveillance, tracked calls, traced footsteps, and in the end, pieced together the fragments of a tragedy with professionalism and integrity. The police here did not retreat. They led, in spite of the hateful criticism. Because when a moment like this comes, when a single act of horror threatens to define a people, it takes courage to speak back. Not just emotionally, but officially. Not just from the heart, but from the frontlines. And our representatives did that. It would have been easy for them to offer condolences and step away. But they didn’t. They stood between Meghalaya and misrepresentation. And that matters.
To those who read headlines and think they know a place, pause. Ask what else happened, not just to the victim, but around him. Ask how people responded. Ask who stayed behind to search, who prayed in silence, who lit candles in the rain. To those who thought that this would break us, it has united us even more
Meghalaya still has its arms open. But make no mistake, it also has a heart. And this week, it beat heavy with sorrow for Raja.
Let this not be a story of crime alone. Let it be a story of how even in the midst of horror, kindness flickered quietly in the hills.