‘A woman has to be beaten up to be able to use the PWDVA’: A survivor’s reckoning with promises the law offers

Curator’s Note: 

This month, we publish the account of a survivor. There are many survivors, but few who are willing to write or speak about their experiences. For that, we are grateful. The PWDVA was itself shaped by the experiences of survivors and women litigants, and these contributions may have a role in informing the agenda going forward. If others would like to send in short pieces about their own experiences, we would be glad to include them in our living archive. This piece is published anonymously at the author’s request. 

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I WOULD LIKE to recount a conversation. I have had several such conversations, but I will focus on this one. 

I was in the drawing room of a lawyer, a young man well-established in the profession. I was offered a glass of orange juice and requested to tell my story. 

My story was more than ten years old; the first hurdle I would face when recounting it was its age. Why hadn’t I acted earlier? Every time I had to explain that I couldn’t because of a number of reasons. My husband had left years ago, when my daughter was three; I had just had a huge surgery, which had me with severe physical restrictions and mental trauma and had drained me financially; I had a demanding job; and I had to take care of a parent, who was extremely ill. I could not act immediately because I did not have the mental space or financial strength or time to start a legal battle. 

What I could not tell a lawyer usually, and I had met many of them, was that I was heartbroken. I think before the cool gaze of a lawyer, I would feel silly to even bring it up. Honestly that was the main reason. I had felt paralysed for the initial years following  my husband’s exit because I could not bear to revisit anything associated with him. I would experience a little mental breakdown with every memory. Anything could trigger me; memories rushed at me, lashed at me, laughed at me, mocked me, did me in. They would tell me that I was an ugly, boring, disgusting person, who could be just discarded. I would feel that all that I had felt previously about the relationship was a lie. I doubted my intelligence and felt that I had no self-worth. 

I could not pick myself up. For a very long time. 

But now I had to tell my story, stating the facts. 

I finished telling it: my husband’s numerous affairs, the fact that he was severely addicted, the money he spent entirely on himself, contributing almost nothing to the household.. He did not contribute towards the fees for our daughter’s school. He would parade his girlfriend in public, in my presence. When I confronted him, he said our marriage was over, he was leaving for another city, leaving his job, and leaving me and our daughter to live with his girlfriend, which he did not say, but which was obvious  and became evident, also on social media, from the day he left. 

Since then, he had not contributed a paisa towards us, or towards our daughter’s upkeep. I wanted a case filed against him under the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005 (‘PWDVA’). I had studied it again, especially for the grounds on which my case could be built, and I wanted to charge my husband with having harmed my mental well-being, and having caused verbal abuse, emotional abuse and economic abuse. 

The economic abuse was ongoing; ten years had passed, our daughter was growing up, expenses were mounting, and the lack of contribution from him was making my circumstances extremely difficult. Fortunately, I had maintained all records, including the financial ones, in an organised way for all these years. Every bank transaction during the period was available, and so were all my other statements. I also had proof of the other charges that I would make. I thought that I had a pretty strong case. 

I wanted maintenance for myself and my daughter and financial compensation for all the years past. 

The lawyer had listened impassively to my account. He said, as expected, that I should have moved court earlier, as it would be difficult to explain the delay. To this I said that the violence was still continuing: after renewed promises, my husband had not contributed anything towards my expenses, and this was proving hard. 

The lawyer said because of the delay, Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code, 1860 (now Section 85 of Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023) would not be applicable in my case. I would only be able to use the PWDVA. (That, I felt, should not be the reason for my choosing PWDVA. I felt that it addressed my concerns more, in the way it had elaborated its provisions. In addition, this was civil law, not a criminal one, unlike 498A. I wanted justice for myself, not just punishment for my husband. And in any case, the time limit should not be a consideration with either 498A or PWDVA: “the last act of cruelty” starts the clock for filing a complaint.)

The lawyer asked the name of the police station under which my residence was located. When I mentioned it, he said that that one was tough.

“We will get the police complaint in place, but you must understand,” he said. “You may have to pay a considerable amount of money.” 

I asked why I would have to file a police complaint. He said as evidence of physical abuse. I told him that there had been no physical abuse. My husband ticked all the boxes, except physical abuse. 

The lawyer looked incredulous. “How do you think you can file a domestic violence case without physical abuse?” he asked. 

I was stunned. When PWDVA came into force in 2006, one of its most inspiring features was the emphasis it placed on psychological abuse and economic violence. I think the language in which PWDVA was written was also reassuring; it identified with precision the factors that could contribute to each kind of abuse the Act mentioned. 

I pointed out to the lawyer that I want to use PWDVA especially because I thought it addressed my situation so well. I added that the first thing it mentions is “mental well-being” and goes on to dwell in detail on “verbal and emotional abuse” and “economic abuse”. 

The lawyer was annoyed. “Where does the law say this?” he challenged me.

I brought out my phone, keyed in PWDVA, and began to read out, from the very first paragraph of the definition of “domestic violence”: “For the purposes of this Act, any act, omission or commission or conduct of the respondent shall constitute domestic violence in case it— 

(a) harms or injures or endangers the health, safety, life, limb or well-being, whether mental or physical, of the aggrieved person or tends to do so and includes causing physical abuse, sexual abuse, verbal and emotional abuse and economic abuse…” 

I verbally underlined all the right words, “mental”, “verbal”, “emotional” and “economic”. In my mind they had formed four pillars of support, defined distinctly but related to each other. 

The lawyer now looked offended. He leaned forward and began to address me in a voice of authority. 

“You have to understand something,” he said. “All that may be written there,” he said, “but in the court, the situation is very different. Do you think that the judge will have the time to go through all the things that make up verbal and emotional abuse? No.” 

What only means anything, in a court in a domestic violence case, he said, was the evidence of physical violence. 

“He never hit you? Or even pushed you?” the lawyer asked. 

No, he actually did not. 

“Nothing ever happened between you, any altercation that threatened to blow up and it looked like he could have hit you? We could build on that,” the lawyer persisted. 

No, nothing like that had happened. And I would not lie.