Yesterday, I hit my breaking point. After my father threatened to shoot my teacher at the airport, I couldn’t stay silent anymore. I called the police. When the officers arrived at our house, I could tell they were biased from the start. Instead of listening to me, they kept reassuring my father, acting like they understood “his” struggles. It was infuriating.
They insisted I go to the police station in my father’s car with my family, which made me deeply uncomfortable. I pushed back, and after some back-and-forth, they agreed to have an officer ride along in the car since no female constable was available.
I gave an FIR application with the police against my father, Ashish Jain, demanding strict action for the abuse and control he’s subjected me to but I never received a copy of it. For all I know, it ended up in a trash bin somewhere. At the station, I laid it all out how my father tied my hands and legs, drugged me to knock me unconscious, and threatened to shoot my teacher. The police said the padlocks on our doors had to come off, my stolen documents needed to be returned, and that my father would face court to determine if he’d be convicted. The police detained my father briefly, claiming he’d face court and charges, but it was all empty promises. By evening, he was back in the house, as if nothing had happened. They told my family to remove the padlocks from the main door – padlocks that have kept me trapped for months – but even after the police’s warning, my parents refused to comply.
Yesterday, I came face-to-face with the ugly truth of living in a small, backward town in India. At the police station, several officers threw outdated ideas at me, saying things like, “You gave your daughter too much education, and this is what happens.” What does that even mean? That she dares to stand up against what’s wrong? One officer went as far as saying, “I’ll only let my daughter study up to the 12th standard after seeing your daughter.” Another added, “I won’t send my daughter away to study after seeing you.” Their words hit hard. In this town, many believe women are property, not people. They think we don’t deserve freedom. If a girl steps out of their narrow “ideal” mold, they try to take everything away from her.
This morning, when the milkman came, I begged my mother to remove the padlocks. She refused. They still haven’t returned my important documents, which they stole from me earlier. I threatened to call the police, but before I could, my father barged into my room without knocking and started threatening me. I told him to leave, but he snatched my phone from my hands. I fought to get it back, but I couldn’t. In desperation, I kicked at him. It didn’t even touch him, but he acted as if he was gravely injured, all while my sister in law Princy recorded me to twist the narrative. He claimed he’d call the police himself but never did.
I was done feeling helpless. I started banging on the house’s doors, slamming the lock as hard as I could. For an hour or two, I pounded, ignoring everyone in the house who tried to stop me. My father threatened to call a mental hospital, and honestly, I was ready for it but, of course, he didn’t follow through. In a moment of rage, I went to the kitchen and smashed the microwave onto the floor. My sister-in-law, standing nearby, tried to save it and accidentally got hurt, her foot swelling up. I swear I didn’t mean to harm her. It was an accident in chaos.
I paused for a bit and lay outside the door, exhausted. In that moment, my parents stole my bag, thinking it contained more of my identity documents. It had my camera and other belongings instead. My mother threatened to lock me in my room again. By evening, I was back at it, banging on the door for another hour until I finally gave up and went to my room. My father took a picture of me sitting on the floor infront of the door of my house which I was not aware of until later.
