“She once said in Parliament, your phone may ring at midnight — but that doesn’t mean you must answer. And in that one sentence, millions silently nodded, because they knew exactly what it felt like to live in a world that never lets you rest.”
That line captures the heart of Supriya Sule — a woman who grew up surrounded by power, yet chose to use her own voice not to command people, but to defend them from the quiet battles they fight every day.
Supriya Sule was born on 30 June 1969 in Pune, into a family deeply rooted in public service. Her father, Sharad Pawar, shaped Maharashtra’s political landscape for decades, but she didn’t step into politics for legacy. She studied microbiology in Mumbai, imagining a simple academic life. But life often calls us where we’re needed the most. For her, that call sounded like the unheard cries of people overwhelmed, overlooked, and overworked.
In 2006, she entered the Rajya Sabha, and by 2009, she became the elected representative of Baramati in the Lok Sabha — a trust that the people continued to give her in 2014, 2019, and 2024. But what made her stand out wasn’t her surname. It was her ability to speak for those who struggle quietly, for those who rarely get space in public conversations.
She wasn’t a politician who shouted to be heard. She was the kind who listened first, then spoke with calm authority. She campaigned against female foeticide, travelling across Maharashtra to remind people that a girl child is not a burden, but a force. She encouraged young women to join public life, forming spaces where they could step forward without fear. She spoke for farmers, students, mothers, gig workers — for people who often get crushed beneath the weight of expectations and systems.
But perhaps her most emotional, relatable, and courageous move came when she introduced the Right to Disconnect Bill. In 2019, she placed it before Parliament for the first time. It was a bill many dismissed as “too idealistic,” yet everyone secretly wished for. And in 2025, she brought it back again — stronger, clearer, and more necessary than ever.
The Bill asks for something simple: once your workday ends, your life begins. Your phone shouldn’t control you. Your boss shouldn’t own your evenings. Your family shouldn’t have to compete with a screen. It proposes clear boundaries: an employee can legally refuse after-hours work communication without fear of punishment. Companies must set rules for emergencies, instead of treating every situation like one.
It sounds small, but in a generation drowning under unread emails, late-night calls, and never-ending digital labour, it could be a revolution. In homes across India, workers sit with dinner turning cold because they’re replying to messages that could have waited. Children tug at their parents’ sleeves while they stare at glowing screens. Relationships crack, sleep disappears, and the mind keeps spinning long after the laptop closes.
Her Bill didn’t just address policy. It addressed pain.
Imagine a young woman in Mumbai, constantly waiting for a late-night Teams message. Imagine a man in Delhi answering office calls while his child takes their first steps. Imagine a mother in Pune whispering to her boss at 10 pm because her baby finally fell asleep. And now imagine telling them: you have the right to stop. You have the right to breathe.
Of course, the Bill faces hurdles. A private member’s bill rarely becomes law overnight. The corporate world will argue. The political world will debate. But there is something powerful about the fact that she dared to bring it up again — at a time when the world is moving faster than our minds can handle. She forced the nation to pause, even if for a moment, and ask: what is the value of a life lived constantly online?
When she finished her speech in Parliament, there wasn’t applause — there was silence. The kind of silence where people think deeply, uncomfortably. Because every person in that room had once felt the burden of a message that arrived too late, too often, too insistently.
Whether the Bill passes tomorrow or ten years from now, Supriya Sule did something rare. She took a feeling that millions carry but never voice — the exhaustion of living in a world that never switches off — and gave it dignity. She made it political. She made it national. She made it real.
And maybe that is where her story leaves its mark. Not in the halls of power, not in campaign posters, not in television debates — but in the quiet moment when someone looks at a late-night notification, takes a breath, and finally decides to put the phone face down.
Because somewhere, someone stood up and said: you deserve to live, not just work.
-Supriya Sule
