What’s really going on at Juhu Beach says a lot about all of us

I came across an article yesterday, a man at Juhu beach-Prithvi Raj Bohra charging Rs 250 for “small problems” and Rs 500 for “bigger ones.” and Rs 1000 to sit with you and cry. Strange, right? At first glance, it almost feels absurd. But then the question that stays is, why is it working for him? Maybe it’s because it’s easier to open up to strangers. There’s no history, no judgment, no baggage. Just a temporary space where you can be heard.

Or maybe it comes from a deeper sense of helplessness. The kind we feel when things around us, like mangroves being cut or systems failing, are clearly wrong, yet completely out of our control. In those moments, even if nothing changes, just having someone listen feels like relief. Especially when the people who should be listening… aren’t.

And then there’s the practicality of it. He’s at Juhu beach, a place with constant footfall, a mix of people, and accessibility. His pricing is affordable compared to therapy, making it approachable for many who might never otherwise consider speaking to someone.

But beyond this one man, there’s a larger, more uncomfortable question, what does this say about the era we live in?
Who exactly is he catering to?
Why do we have this need in the first place?
And how did we get here?

I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this, suicide rates in cities have been fluctuating. Multiple reports suggest they increased post-Covid and have remained a wavy, uncertain line since. If nothing else, that tells us one thing clearly-we are emotionally starving.

We are more connected than ever, constantly online, always available, yet somehow, real connection feels like it’s slipping away. We scroll, we react, we share… but do we really listen? If you have someone you can speak to when you’re down — hold onto that. That’s rare, and it’s real.

I remember watching 13 Reasons Why on Netflix. It’s about a girl who records 13 reasons explaining why she chose to end her life, leaving those tapes behind. And all I could think was, what if someone had truly heard her before she reached that point? That thought stayed with me.

It made me reconnect with a childhood friend I had lost touch with. I didn’t overthink it, I just felt like I should be there for her. And now, it feels like those years of silence never even existed. More recently, I reconnected with another friend, someone I hadn’t spoken to for a year because life got busy, schedules took over, and “adulting” happened.

But the moment we spoke again, it felt familiar. Easy. Like we picked up right where we left off. And honestly, it felt good.

So, if you’ve read this far, here’s something simple, get real. Connect. Reconnect. Go beyond reels and surface-level interactions. Because maybe, just maybe, if we show up for each other a little more, we won’t end up needing to pay Rs 250 to feel heard by a stranger at a beach.