By Maga Neru

There are moments in research when the researcher is no longer merely an observer but a witness to someone's grief, especially when the research is based on crime and seeks to understand the impact of crime. There are moments when an interview stops being a collection of questions and answers and becomes an encounter with another human being's grief, so deep that it becomes difficult to maintain the emotional distance that academic research often demands.

I experienced one such moment while transcribing the interview of the father of late Techi Meena Lishi. I had listened to the interview before. I knew, in broad terms, what the case was about. I knew that Meena was allegedly murdered in 2019 and that she was seven months pregnant at the time of her murder. I knew that her husband and other individuals had been accused in connection with the case. But listening to the recording repeatedly while transcribing every word was different.

The written transcript does not capture the trembling voice, the pauses, the silence between sentences, or the moments when a father struggles to speak because the memory itself is unbearable. On top of that, while transcribing, I found myself crying. I was no longer simply typing the words spoken by a respondent. I was listening to a father remembering his daughter. And I felt helpless.

"Will Our History Reflect Somewhere?"

One of the first things late Meena's father asked during the interview was whether their history would ever be recorded somewhere. He asked whether someone would write about their story so that people would know what happened to their family. He explained that they were not highly literate and expressed the hope that his daughter's name and story would not disappear without being heard.

That question stayed with me. As a researcher, I went to him to collect data. But he seemed to see something more in me. Perhaps he saw someone who could carry his daughter's story beyond the walls of the courtroom. Perhaps he hoped that by telling me what happened, somebody outside the family would finally listen. And that created an unexpected burden.

What does a researcher do when a respondent places hope in her? And what does one say to a father who has lost his daughter and who believes that telling her story may help her memory survive?

I had no promise to offer him. I am not a judge. I am not a lawyer. I cannot deliver a verdict. I cannot reopen a case. I cannot guarantee justice. I can only listen. I can document. I can write. And sometimes, that feels painfully insufficient.

A Daughter, a Mother and an Unborn Child

According to the account provided by Meena's father, his daughter had married after both families had given their consent. He described how the relationship began during her years of study and how the two families eventually came together for the marriage. He spoke of his daughter as a loved child and remembered the way she had grown up in their family.

His narrative then moved into the conflicts, the extramarital relationship, and repeated attempts by Meena's family to persuade her to leave the relationship. The family stated that Meena continued to hope that her marriage could be saved.

Then came the part of the interview that was hardest for me to transcribe. The father recalled visiting his daughter approximately a week before her death. She was seven months pregnant. He remembered that a driver had recently been hired to assist her in case of a medical emergency. He spoke about bringing local fish for his pregnant daughter. She never got to eat it.

The father broke down while remembering that the same fish he had brought for his daughter was later eaten by people attending her funeral. His grief was not expressed through polished words. It came through pauses, crying and broken sentences. He said that his daughter and her unborn child had been killed.

There are certain sentences that a researcher can transcribe but cannot emotionally distance herself from-this was one of them.

Six Years of Waiting: Still Waiting

When I conducted and transcribed this interview in 2025, the family described themselves as still waiting for justice since 2019. Six years is a long time for a family mourning a daughter and sister.

Meena's father described the economic consequences of the case with particular pain, especially the higher court (SC/HC) proceedings. He described the unequal financial capacity between his family and the accused side as one of the major difficulties confronting them.

Justice, in such circumstances, becomes more than a legal question. It becomes a question of endurance. How long can an ordinary family continue to fight? How much debt can a family carry? How many journeys to court can a grieving parent make? How many times can a father see the people accused in his daughter's death sitting in court while he continues to wait for closure?

He described the psychological consequences of the case and said that he sometimes felt numb while driving because thoughts of his daughter and her murder would return. He also described the emotional suffering experienced by his wife, who, according to him, cried during the night for several years after their daughter's death.

This is where crime extends beyond the immediate victim. The person who dies is not the only person affected. A murder can create a circle of victims. Parents lose a daughter. Siblings lose a sister. Children lose a mother. Families lose economic security. And sometimes, the legal process itself becomes another source of exhaustion.

A Sister Who Became a Fighter

Meena's elder sister told me about another dimension of the tragedy. She described being repeatedly expected to appear in court and give testimony. At times, she said, the emotional exhaustion became so overwhelming that she had to send her father in her place.

Her words reveal something important about prolonged exposure to the justice system. People who enter the legal system as victims' families often do not understand its procedures at the beginning.

They learn by suffering.

They learn by attending hearings.

They learn by speaking to lawyers.

They learn about bail.

They learn about appeals.

They learn about delays.

They learn the language of law because their loved one's death has forced them to.

What happens to a child when the person she has lost is her mother and the person accused in connection with that death is her own father?

Perhaps the most heartbreaking part of the interview concerned Meena's daughter. At the time of the crime, she was only six years old. This raises a question that goes beyond the courtroom: A legal case may eventually end, but childhood cannot be paused until the verdict arrives.

The child continues to grow. She goes to school. She celebrates birthdays. She learns about the world. And somewhere inside that growing child remains a mother whose absence she must learn to live with.

The Researcher's Dilemma

This case has also forced me to confront something I had not fully anticipated when I began my research. We are taught to maintain objectivity and distance; researchers must listen without becoming emotionally involved.

But what happens when the voice coming through the recording belongs to a father crying for his murdered daughter? What happens when a respondent looks at you and asks whether his daughter's story will ever be written? What happens when you transcribe the same sentence several times because you cannot type through your tears?

I have asked myself whether I am failing as a researcher because I became emotional. Perhaps I am not; perhaps there are moments when emotion is not the opposite of research. Perhaps emotion reminds us why research matters.

Statistics can tell us how many crimes occur. Tables can classify victims. Court records can list names and dates. But interviews remind us that every number represents a human life.

Meena was not a statistic; she was someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's mother. And she was also carrying an unborn child.

What Can Research Actually Do?

I cannot promise Meena's father that my writing will bring justice. I cannot promise his family that their suffering will end. I cannot promise that a published article will change the outcome of a legal case.

But I can ensure that his question-"Will our history reflect somewhere?"-does not disappear unheard.

Research can preserve memory.

Research can bring marginalised voices into academic and public conversations. Research can document the social consequences of crime beyond the immediate incident. And research can ask uncomfortable questions about justice, inequality, family structures, gender relations, economic vulnerability and the experiences of victims' families within the criminal justice system.

This case has shown me that the consequences of crime do not end when the body is buried. They continue in courtrooms, they continue in homes, they continue in children's lives, they continue in parents who cannot sleep, they continue in siblings who are afraid, they continue through debts accumulated in the pursuit of justice, and they continue in the memories of those who loved the person who was taken from them.

A Family Still Waiting

Late Meena's father and her sister described the emotional and economic burden of repeatedly attending court. Their account also reflects their continuing concerns about the legal process and the bail granted to accused persons. These are the family's perceptions and experiences, and the allegations remain matters for determination through the appropriate judicial process.

Yet one fact cannot be disputed: A family lost a daughter, a little girl lost her mother, a sister lost her younger sister, parents lost their child and unborn grandchild, and an unborn child never had the opportunity to enter the world.

The family continues to wait-perhaps that is the most painful part of this story.

A Father's Final Appeal: Let Meena's Death Be a Lesson

For Meena's father, his daughter's death is not only a personal tragedy but also a warning he hopes society will remember. He expressed the hope that the circumstances surrounding his daughter's death would serve as a lesson to men and women against the consequences of extramarital relationships and polygamous practices.

He appealed to men to respect the sanctity of marriage and to refrain from becoming involved in relationships outside marriage, while also appealing to women not to become involved with married men and thereby contribute to the destruction of another family.

For him, Meena's death should not become just another case remembered in court records; it should become a painful lesson for society about the human consequences of betrayal, broken families and marital conflict.

His appeal is ultimately rooted in a father's wish that no other family should have to experience the loss, suffering and prolonged struggle for justice that his family has endured since Meena's death.

I Am Writing Because He Asked Me To

When I finished transcribing the interview, I remained silent for some time. I had heard the father's voice, I had heard his crying, I had heard the pauses, I had heard a parent trying to make sense of the death of his child. And I understood why he asked whether his history would be written somewhere.

So, I am writing not because I can promise justice, not because I can change the verdict, not because I can speak for a family whose pain belongs to them. I am writing because someone asked that their daughter's story not disappear.

I am writing because victims and their families deserve to be heard. I am writing because behind every criminal case there are people who continue to live with its consequences long after the headlines disappear. And I am writing because, sometimes, the only thing a researcher can offer a grieving family is the dignity of listening carefully, documenting faithfully and refusing to let their story become invisible.

Somewhere between the courtroom, the memories and the long years of waiting, a simple question remains-when will justice finally reach the family that has spent years searching for it?

(The contributor is a Research Scholar, Department of Sociology, Rajiv Gandhi University, Doimukh, Arunachal Pradesh. She can be reached at maganeru44@gmail.com.)