On May 16th, 2024, two women from the Mahila Kalyan Vibhag showed up at my father’s house. This is the Department of Women Welfare under the Government of Uttar Pradesh’s Department of Women and Child Development. Their names were Geeta Sharma and Geeta Kulshreshtha, and they were supposedly there to address my situation.
For context, the Mahila Kalyan Vibhag is a state government body tasked with promoting women’s welfare, empowerment, and social security. You would think their visit would bring some clarity or support, especially given my situation as I’ve been locked in my home for seven months, subjected to physical abuse that left my left eardrum damaged (with medical reports to prove it), and emotionally tortured. But instead of help, I just received judgment.
When I stepped out of my room, my mother was already talking to the two women. They recorded my statement in which I gave details of the abuse and confinement. They handed me a few blank sheets of paper to write my statement. One of the women, Geeta Sharma, came into my room while I was writing and asked to check my back for physical marks of abuse. I complied, but the other woman, Geeta Kulshreshtha flat out refused to believe I had been beaten because there were no visible bruises. Never mind the medical report confirming my hearing loss from a damaged eardrum. Apparently, if abuse doesn’t leave a convenient scar, it didn’t happen.
The absurdity peaked when one of them gestured toward my father, who had silently passed by, and said, “Look how good he is, and she’s accusing him of all this.” I was floored. I couldn’t help but snap back, “You’re judging him by his looks?” It was as if they’d already made up their minds based on a fleeting glance, dismissing my months of suffering in a single sentence.
As they looked around, one of the women remarked, “This is such a nice house, then what is the problem?” A nice house? As if polished walls and a tidy facade could erase the fact that this “nice house” has been my prison for months, a place where I’ve been beaten and abused.
I handed over my written statement, along with a consent form authorizing my teacher to represent me in legal matters. They asked me to sign it and press my right thumbprint on the paper, which I did. But then, the situation spiraled further into chaos. As I stepped out of my room, I was met with a barrage of slander from everyone present, my parents, my uncle, and, shockingly, the two women from the welfare department. They called me “spoilt,” as if my cries for help were some childish tantrum. I was sent back to my room like a scolded child while they continued their discussion without me.
I overheard my father casually threaten to kill my teacher if he ever came to India. You’d expect the representatives of a women’s welfare organization to react to such a statement, right? Wrong. They said nothing. Not a word of condemnation or concern. Instead, one of them recorded a video statement from me, peppering me with more questions, while the other refused my request to speak to my teacher, who I had designated as my representative.
Both women offered vague reassurances that they would help me relocate to Naari Niketan, a women’s hostel, and promised to return in a few days. They gave me their phone numbers (Geeta Kulshreshtha: 8630496897, Geeta Sharma: 9917084799), but their promises felt hollow, like bureaucratic checkboxes rather than genuine care.
The very people tasked with protecting women like me seemed more interested in upholding appearances than addressing reality. Their skepticism, their willingness to overlook a death threat, and their casual slander left me questioning whether “welfare” is just a buzzword. I’m holding onto the faint hope that their promise of Naari Niketan materializes, but after today’s circus, I’m not holding my breath.
If this is what “help” looks like, we need to redefine the word.
