By Robert Clements
Influencing, Reels, and a Life Lost..!
She should’ve been swinging a racquet on court. Not ducking bullets in her own home.
She should’ve been serving aces, not getting served death.
But that’s exactly what happened to Radhika Yadav, a young, brilliant state-level tennis player—shot dead by her own father.
Why?
Because she made reels. Because she dared to want something more than just quietly obeying.
Because she dreamed of becoming an influencer. Ah, that word—influencer!
It’s thrown around more casually these days than wedding confetti. No longer do children say they want to be astronauts or IAS officers. Ask a teen today what they want to be and more often than not, the reply is, “I want to be an influencer, uncle,”—eyes gleaming like ring lights, confidence bouncing off their selfie sticks.
And what does that mean?
That they want to walk in slow motion with wind blowing their hair like they’ve stepped out of a shampoo commercial. Or dance in parking lots while random strangers reverse their cars in confusion. Or perhaps sell makeup, do ab crunches, or give life advice… before they’ve even lived a quarter of one.
But before we roll our eyes and mutter something about “this generation,” let’s pause.
Let’s look beyond the lipstick and the filters. Because many of them are not just chasing vanity.
They are chasing visibility.
In a world that only claps for toppers and tolerates the quiet ones, these reels are the kids screaming out: “Look at me!”
“I matter!”
“I’m more than my board exam marks!”
“I’m not just your daughter, I’m my own person!”
And that is precisely what terrified Radhika’s father.
It wasn’t the internet. It wasn’t Instagram. It was the voice. Her voice.
A woman with a voice is still a threat in this country. A woman with a following, even more so.
She may have been a tennis champion in her school, her state—but in her home, she had no court, no game, and certainly no point. Her father didn’t see a young achiever; he saw an uprising.Her reels were rebellion. Her phone, a loaded gun (ironically not the one that killed her). Her dreams, threats to a fragile patriarchal ego. And so, he did what so many frightened men in power do—he silenced her.
But let’s not mistake the enemy here. The villain isn’t Instagram or ring lights. It’s not social media or ambition. The villain is control. The villain is fear masquerading as culture.
And let’s be honest—it’s not the first time. We’ve burnt women for loving too loudly. We’ve silenced them for laughing too freely. We’ve killed them for dancing too happily.
Oh yes, in this great land of ours where we bow to goddesses during festivals, we’re quick to kill their earthly versions if they dare to shine beyond our approval.
Why are we so afraid of women excelling? Why does a confident woman unsettle so many? Is our masculinity so brittle that a daughter’s confidence makes us reach for a gun?
Oh, and to the young girls and boys reading this: Yes, make your reels.
Dance your dances. Speak your truth. But let your influence go beyond algorithm and applause.
Let it be rooted in something deeper. Let the real influencer in you be someone whose life carries:
A stillness that unsettles chaos. A peace that disarms anger. A love that bridges chasms.
Because in a world of noise, it’s the quietly anchored soul that stands tallest.
You don’t need to go viral to make a difference. Jesus never made a single reel. But He built a following that spans millennia.
He didn’t endorse a brand or dance on rooftops—but people followed Him because His presence brought healing, clarity, hope. He pointed not to Himself, but to something higher.
That’s the kind of influencer this world still needs.
So go ahead, young one—light up the lens, but also light up hearts. Smile not just for the camera, but for the broken soul next to you. Dance not just to go viral, but to free others from fear.
And when someone asks, “What’s your secret?”
You smile and say, “It’s the God above.”
Because a reel may get you followers. But it’s love that transforms lives.
And to the rest of us—fathers, brothers, uncles, grandfathers, even those loud WhatsApp group administrators—let’s get something straight: The world doesn’t fall apart because women get loud.
It falls apart when men can’t listen. It collapses when power feels threatened by possibility.
So instead of locking our daughters in metaphorical (or literal) cages, let’s raise them with wings.
Instead of fearing their phones, let’s fear our silence.
Instead of policing their dreams, let’s protect them. Because for every Radhika we bury,
We bury not just a daughter, But a hope, A future, A voice that could’ve changed the world.
And if you’re still afraid of women becoming influencers, Let me tell you something more terrifying—
They already are.
Whether you like it or not. And thank God for that.
So next time you see your daughter dancing on the terrace, Don’t pull her down.
Join her. Or at least applaud her.
And tell her what her father should’ve said: “You matter.” “You shine.” “And I’m proud of you.”
Because true strength lies not in control, But in cheering from the sidelines—
As your daughter, wife, sister, mother or even your grandmother win…!
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