Rafia Sailani
On a wintry morning at boarding gate 44 of New Delhi airport, two unknown women bumped into each other with their kids tagging along. They didn’t have much in common, but what instantly connected them was the physical and emotional abuse they had both been facing at the hands of their husbands. Like countless women across the country, they were fleeing to their respective maternal homes for safety and solace.
At that moment, one among them realised that her lawyer’s degree and years of practice at the J&K High Court hadn’t saved her from the ugly wrath of her male counterpart. It began, as these stories often do, with something trivial — a domestic disagreement. Something that in healthy relationships would end with silence, space, or conversation. But in homes where anger is power and control is currency, trivial disagreements become weapons. The night before, inside her own home in Delhi, she found herself being physically assaulted by the man she had married two years ago.
Despite her repeated attempts to calm the situation, the aggression did not stop. Words turned into force. Force turned into blows. And in that moment, the degrees, the profession, the legal knowledge — none of it shielded her from pain. When she finally called the police, it was not an impulsive act; it was the act of someone who understood that silence enables violence. Being an advocate, she advised people about their rights, the remedies, and the protections under statutes and constitutional guarantees. She had stood in courtrooms speaking about justice, dignity, and the rule of law.
Recent government reports have indicated a 121 per cent rise in registered domestic violence cases in Jammu and Kashmir in 2024-25, with nearly 2,000 cases reported in one year through support centres. Nationally, the National Family Health Survey (NFHS) reveals that around 29-32 per cent of married women have faced physical, sexual, or emotional violence in their lifetime—often from those who promised to protect them. Studies suggest that domestic violence is heartbreakingly common, a shadow that falls across homes regardless of status or education.
In the lawyer lady’s case, this was not the first time there had been a conflict. There had been earlier disputes. There had even been mediation. A compromise had been recorded. Like many women, she chose to believe that things could improve. Those apologies meant change. That settlement meant safety. But compromise without accountability is merely a pause before repetition. As a lawyer, she knew the provisions of the law. She knew the remedies available under criminal statutes and under domestic violence legislation. But law on paper and safety in reality are two different things.
What happened to her is not an isolated incident. It is part of a larger, quieter crisis unfolding inside countless homes across India. Domestic violence does not discriminate between financially independent and dependent, between urban and rural. It lives in apartments, in houses, in gated communities, in silence.
We often ask women why they didn’t leave. Why didn’t she speak earlier? Why did she compromise? But what we rarely ask them is why violence is normalised? Why is male anger excused? Why is a woman’s endurance praised more than her resistance?
The hardest part of reporting violence is not the legal process. It is breaking the internal conditioning that tells women to adjust, to tolerate, to preserve the marriage at any cost. There is a particular irony in being a woman who knows the law and still becomes a victim of violence. But perhaps that irony reveals something deeper — that domestic abuse is not about ignorance. It is about power.
Violence within marriage is not a “private matter.” It is not a “domestic issue”. It is a violation of dignity, bodily integrity, and constitutional morality. Marriage does not grant immunity from accountability. If an advocate can hesitate before speaking up, imagine the hesitation of a woman who has no legal training, no financial independence, no social backing.
To every woman who has normalised raised voices, intimidation, or physical force in her life—please understand: it is not normal. It is not love. It is not marriage.
It is violence.
And to society at large, we must stop treating domestic abuse as a family “embarrassment” and start recognising it as a structural injustice.
The night she called the police, she chose the law over silence. Not because she is fearless — but because fear should not be the price of marriage. Her journey home was an emotional volcano that had just ruptured. Her father’s friends and relatives gathered around, listening to her story with tears in their eyes. They hugged her, cried with her, and offered the warmth and care she had craved for so long. In their arms, she felt truly seen, truly safe for the first time in years.
However, what tormented her was the cruelty which she had to endure from her husband’s family. Even though the family is very reputable in the Valley, highly educated as well, they still were alright with the pain inflicted on her. The orphanage they run, where they showcase their compassion and goodness, hasn’t embodied any such feeling or gesture towards their own daughter-in-law or towards their grandchild. A family which protects the vulnerable but still engages in this behaviour shatters every facade beneath which lurks the dark reality of society. Cruelty hides behind masks of respectability, education, and charity.
The lawyer shared her story to break the silence rather than for pity. No woman should feel trapped, voiceless, or unworthy of kindness. If you’re enduring this pain, reach out to the police, helplines, family, or anyone who will listen. Her escape came from one desperate prayer and the courage to act. Yours can too. You are not alone, and your life—your child’s life—matters more than any facade of family honour.
