On Mother's Day, I, Vinta Nanda, reflect on how my mother’s clarity in a chaotic world, exposed the dangers of modern media and reminded me of the values India was born with. This is about truth in the age of disinformation.  

On this Mother's Day, as India grapples with rising disinformation, polarised news, and sensationalist entertainment, the quiet wisdom of a 92-year-old woman offers a powerful reminder of our true values. From witnessing the horrors of Partition to rebuilding her life through education, and secular ideals, her rejection of toxic news cycles and soap operas in favour of food channels and cricket speaks volumes. In a world dominated by TRP-driven narratives, hate-mongering anchors, and manufactured outrage like the “Love Jihad” hoax or the COVID-19 scapegoating of communities, her moral clarity becomes a compass. As a media professional and storyteller, this personal awakening compels us to reflect on what we are creating—and consuming. Let us honour the mothers who shaped India’s foundational ideals of love, peace, and diversity by choosing truth over noise and empathy over division.

Until just a few weeks ago, my 92-year-old mother was the most informed person I knew. With every sunrise came the rustle of a newspaper in her hand, followed by her voice in mine, urging, "Read this piece. The writer has said something important." For someone who lived through partition, displacement, rebuilding, and resurgence, the newspaper was never just about news—it was a ritual of staying connected to the pulse of the nation she had helped rebuild in spirit.

Then, she fell. What followed were traumatic weeks—an accident, plummeting sodium levels, a nerve-racking stint in the ICU, and slow recovery in a private hospital room. When she returned home, something was different. She had turned off the world. The television, once a source of news and soaps, remained mute. She refused newspapers. When asked why, she simply said, “It’s all too negative.”

The woman who once devoured editorials, followed policy shifts, and discussed geopolitical intricacies with her grandchildren now watched a food channel. “No news,” she told us, “no serials, no loud shows. Just food and sports.”

A Media Specialist’s Wake-Up Call

I’ve spent my life in media—as a writer, filmmaker, producer, and critic of the very systems I operate within. I’ve lamented the collapse of content integrity, spoken up about TRP-driven narratives and the commodification of conflict. But nothing brought the issue home like my mother’s silent rebellion against noise. It wasn't just a personal choice. It was a verdict.

And then came war. The India-Pakistan conflict escalated just four days ago. On cue, television anchors took to their podiums, sirens blared in the background, and panellists screamed over each other. The screen looked like a battleground—every word, every debate, a weapon of chaos. This was not journalism. It was theatre. A grotesque one.  

Soap operas, no better. Today’s popular characters are not aspirational—they are vengeful, manipulative, and emotionally violent. You don’t root for them; you recoil. My mother, who had witnessed the brutality of Partition at age 13, who had lost her home and built a life again, found this culture of rage unbearable. “This is not the India we dreamed of,” she said.

Manufactured Outrage: The Anatomy of Misinformation

This Mother's Day, I sit beside her and think about what media was and what it has become. I think about how mothers like her, who held a nation together with their resolve, are now overwhelmed by the voices that claim to speak for that nation. And I also think of how far we’ve been led astray by deliberate campaigns of disinformation.

Let me give you an example: In 2015, a story went viral in India about how certain communities were deliberately targeting Hindu girls in what came to be infamously known as “Love Jihad.” The story originated from one fabricated video in Muzaffarnagar. Shared widely, the narrative snowballed, leading to mob violence and real-world repercussions. The video was later proven to be doctored, but the damage had been done. Trust was broken, communities divided.

Or more recently, during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, when a single religious congregation—the Tablighi Jamaat gathering—was blamed for the virus's spread. The headlines didn’t say “some attendees broke quarantine.” They said “Muslims are spreading corona jihad.” Entire communities were vilified. It took months before mainstream channels quietly corrected the record. But the fear and suspicion seeded in hearts stayed.

These aren’t accidents. These are tools—tools of division, wielded for power, profit, and populism.

Mothers as Moral Compass

When my mother talks about her days in Lady Irwin School and Miranda House, she doesn’t talk about fear. She talks about aspiration. About the rush of building something new. About classmates who were Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, and Christian—all learning together, healing through education.

They had seen too much blood to want more of it. She tells us that they resolved to become people of peace, to love the land they had come to, and to cherish the memories of the land they had left. “We wanted to be better,” she says. “We wanted to be kind.”

Today, we are losing that kindness. We’re so used to being fed fear—of the neighbour, the protestor, the outsider—that it has numbed our capacity for empathy. But mothers like mine remind us that we were never meant to be this way.

The Business of Hate

Let us not pretend that this descent into division is accidental. Anger sells. Hate sells. Fear sells. Why else would primetime television pit people against each other in shrill debates where nobody listens? Why else would shows feature endless betrayals and revenge, disguised as drama? Why else would algorithms reward the most outrageous, polarising content?

Because unity doesn’t generate ad revenue. Peace doesn’t go viral. And nuance is boring.

But where does that leave us? It leaves us alienated from one another. It leaves us mistrustful, bitter, cynical. It leaves us broken. And for what?

Returning to Our Roots

On this Mother's Day, I offer no grand solution. But I do offer a reminder—from a woman who has seen far more than most of us will.

Wars don’t begin on borders. They begin in minds. And our minds are under siege. When we consume media designed to divide, we become foot soldiers of a war we didn’t choose. The war against truth. Against reason. Against ourselves.

But we can choose differently. We can turn off the channels that amplify hate. We can read before we react. We can talk to people who are not like us. We can honour the legacy of those who rebuilt this nation not with rage, but with resolve.  

My mother still holds hope. In her 92nd year, as she watches chefs stir biryani and batters hit sixes, she teaches me something profound—joy is resistance. Sanity is resistance. Love, above all else, is resistance.

I will continue to believe that my mother taught me right. That peace is strength. That love is not passive. That faith is not fragile. And that truth, even in a world of distortion, can still find a home—in the heart of a woman who lived through history and chose kindness every single day.