Dear Shri Vishnu Deo Sai Ji,

This is the second time I've written to you publicly. Not because I seek attention, nor because I harbour political ambition. I write because I believe in dialogue — honest, open, and, ideally, transformative. And yes, I use the word "transformative" purposely. You may prefer the term "convert," a word that today in India is more likely to trigger suspicion than understanding.

Let's clarify that word. "Convert" — in English — means to change from one form or purpose to another. It can refer to religion, but also to mindset, vision, or direction. My modest aim here is to try and convert your view into mine — not forcibly, not manipulatively, but by appeal to facts, reason, and a shared sense of justice. Whether I succeed or not is secondary. What matters is that I try.

Your state — rich in forests and tribal heritage, home to extraordinary facets of life — has been in the news recently for unfortunate reasons. I refer to the arrest of two Catholic nuns and a tribal youth at Durg railway station. I wish this were a one-off incident. But it seems to be part of a disturbing trend.

The facts, publicly known, are these: Sisters Preethi Mary and Vandana Francis were accompanying three tribal girls, aged 18 to 21 with the right to vote and marry, from Narayanpur district to Agra, where they were to undergo nursing training — a life-changing opportunity.

I have myself helped some girls to get nursing training, and they are now well settled in life. As I write this, three BSc and one GNM nursing students are completing their courses with the support of my friends and relatives. Next year, God willing, I plan to support the education of 10 BSc Nursing students. Yes, I do this to convert their lives.

But at Durg, Bajrang Dal activists intercepted them and raised alarmist accusations of "human trafficking" and "conversion." Two terms that, in today's climate, are often flung about without evidence — mere smokescreens for targeting minorities.

But the real tragedy lay not in the mob's hysteria, but in the state's response — your state's machinery.

The police, whose first duty is protection, stood by as the nuns and the youth were heckled, abused, and even physically handled — while in custody. Even after the girls' own parents confirmed in writing that their daughters were willingly going for vocational training, the police persisted as if a serious crime had been uncovered.

I have seen videos of a hefty woman threatening a nun with dire consequences if she dared to speak. Police officers were present all around, yet none of them lifted a finger against her. Ordinarily, she should have been arrested for taking the law into her own hands.

Then came your tweet — "This appears to be a case of human trafficking under the guise of conversion by luring." Sir, those words — "this appears" — are telling. They imply uncertainty. You did not know. Yet you tweeted, from the highest office in the state, casting aspersions on women whose only "crime" was to help young girls find a better life.

You will find hundreds of Catholic nuns — some of them doctors and nurses — working in some of the most remote and underserved parts of India. They don't seek publicity or recognition; they simply offer their skills, compassion, and energy to the poorest of the poor.

Whether it is tending to leprosy patients in Bihar, running eye camps in rural Odisha, or staffing small mission hospitals in the tribal belts of Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh, these women serve quietly, with discipline and devotion. Their only "agenda" is healing. We Christians have been taught that to serve the poor and the needy is to serve God!

I can never forget a scene I witnessed years ago at the Catholic hospital in Baramulla, nestled close to the India-Pakistan border in Kashmir. A long queue of burqa-clad Muslim women — some heavily pregnant, others cradling infants — waited patiently to consult a highly respected gynaecologist and my dear reader.

She was a Catholic nun whose expertise and kindness had made her a household name in the region. She had helped bring thousands of babies into the world. To those mothers, she was not a Christian, not a foreigner, not a missionary — she was simply Doctor Sister, a saviour in a habit.

I am sorry to say that you tried to legitimise an FIR — which, as any high school civics student knows, is merely the beginning of an inquiry, not a statement of guilt. Anyone can file an FIR against anyone. It is the investigation and the court process that determine truth.

Your tweet didn't just jump the gun. It told the police, the courts, and the public that you had already drawn your conclusions. And in doing so, it undermined the principle of natural justice. When the head of the government pre-judges a case, what hope remains for impartial investigation?

I do not raise these concerns out of sympathy for one faith. I raise them because such behaviour corrodes the very foundation of our Republic. Today, it's Catholic nuns. Tomorrow, it could be social workers, teachers, doctors or journalists. The message is the same: if you serve the poor, especially from a minority background, your motives will be questioned and your work maligned.

I do not know how this case will end. But I know the trauma these women endured will outlive your tweet. The memory of their public humiliation — dragged, interrogated, jailed — will stay longer than any Press note or apology.

As Chief Minister, your oath was not to a party or ideology but to the Constitution of India — to liberty, equality, and justice. What happened in Durg was not justice. It was a travesty. Governance is not easy. I understand that. But leadership demands courage — the courage to stand up to mobs, to protect the weak, and to uphold the law even when it is unpopular.

You still have a chance to correct course. Order an impartial inquiry. Affirm your commitment to the rule of law. And perhaps, if I may suggest, meet the nuns and the girls. Listen to them. Because in that listening, genuine conversion can occur — not of religion, but of understanding.

You speak as though conversion to Christianity is inherently suspicious. But allow me to remind you: the author of our Constitution, Dr BR Ambedkar, chose to convert — not to Christianity, but to Buddhism — along with lakhs of his followers. It was, and remains, one of the largest mass religious conversions in history. Did Ambedkar and his followers become traitors? Of course not.

Today, the Chief Justice of India is a Buddhist. Has anyone questioned his patriotism or loyalty? That is the India we claim to be — secular, inclusive, plural. And yet, your words betray a discomfort — not with criminality, but with Christian identity itself.

You are yourself a tribal, an Adivasi. I say that with respect. Adivasi means "original dweller," not an intruder or latecomer. Your ancestors did not sail in or march across mountains. They have always been here — long before kings and empires.

Yet, those who share your political space rarely call you Adivasi. They prefer "Vanvasi" — someone who dwells in the forest, like a mongoose or a monkey. The intent is subtle but clear: to strip you of historic rootedness, and instead cast you as someone at the margins.

In contrast, consider Mizoram — a tribal, Christian-majority state. It was the first Indian state to achieve full literacy. Begging is virtually unknown. On my visits there, I've seen young tribal women selling fruits with pride and fluency — in Mizo, Hindi, and English. The transformation did not come from coercion. It came from education, community, and faith.

Years ago, during a visit to your state, I asked a local (not a Christian himself) how to identify a Christian tribal. He replied simply: "If two tribal men walk towards you, the one wearing shoes and cleaner clothes — that's the Christian." It was a telling observation. What changed was not their gods but their dignity.

You have implied that Christians are obsessed with converting people. Let me share a real story. In North India, there was a community that begged only on Saturdays. Entire families would live on the alms collected that day. A friend of mine began working with them. No inducement. No cash. Just conversations — about dignity, work, education.

Today, that same community has 400 working men and women — as drivers, carpenters, masons, blacksmiths and housemaids. Their children go to school. They wear uniforms. They pray together, yes. Some would say they were "converted." I would say they were restored to dignity or transformed. Why does this threaten you and your colleagues?

You may think Christians are lesser people. But the data says otherwise. In my fifty years of attending churches across cities — Delhi, Patna, Chandigarh, Bhopal — I've never come across a churchgoer arrested for rioting, robbery, molestation, or vandalism.

In fact, police records show Christians are underrepresented in jails. Not because they are perfect — but because their community places immense value on education, service, and order. In your own state, Christian tribals may be materially poor but are generally more literate and law-abiding.

And yet, they are now being painted as threats. Their schools, their hostels, their healthcare institutions — all at risk of surveillance and suspicion. Harassment replaces gratitude. And those who once served quietly are now forced to justify their presence.

Consider Kandhamal in Odisha. In 2008, a swami was murdered under mysterious circumstances. On that pretext, dozens of Christians were murdered and thousands driven out of their homes. Entire villages destroyed. Churches desecrated. Women assaulted. And yet, not one act of counter-violence was reported.

I asked Archbishop Raphael Cheenath, with whom I stayed for a few days, why the Christians did not resist, even when they outnumbered their attackers. His reply: "We chose to suffer rather than retaliate. It was not weakness — it was strength to hold the moral ground."

That is the strength we should admire — not street rage, but spiritual courage.

And if anyone embodied that strength, it was Jesuit Father Stan Swamy — a man who gave up a comfortable life to live with tribals in Jharkhand, eating what they ate, teaching them their rights, and fighting for their dignity. He could have spent his final years with tea and toast in a Jesuit home. Instead, he chose to struggle. That is why he was falsely accused, imprisoned, denied a straw, and allowed to die in custody.

He will live forever in the hearts of the people he served, unlike those who jailed him — bureaucrats and politicians like the former Vice-President, who, after playing their part, were discarded like curry leaves after flavouring the pot.

These are not isolated stories. They are warnings. They show us which direction we are drifting as a nation — when we treat compassion as conspiracy, and service as sedition.

Shri Sai Ji, you hold power today. But history is not kind to those who misuse it. You have a choice: to join the chorus of suspicion and hate, or to rise above it. If you fear conversions, then outdo the missionaries — with better schools, better hospitals, better justice and better ecumenism. That is how you win people's loyalty — not by hounding nuns at railway stations.

Let me close with this thought: Our Constitution begins with "We the people." Not "We the Hindus," "We the tribals," or "We the majority." If you believe in Ambedkar's vision, then your duty is to protect the right of every citizen to choose their path, speak their language, and worship their God.

So I ask you: What kind of legacy will you leave? One defined by fear and prejudice? Or one rooted in justice and dignity? India is watching. History is taking notes. The India that Ambedkar built — and that Stan Swamy died for — is still calling to your conscience. Will you listen?

Yours etc.,