Domestic Violence

The moment anyone reads the phrase "domestic violence," an automated image is generated in the subconscious mind—an image of a man unabashedly using his masculine prowess on his better half, the delicate one in the couple. But though that is the reality for a large chunk of the population, it is only a restricted view. The broader aspect involves unscrupulous violence against the older generation.

Every other day, on social networking sites and in newspapers circulated across the nation, I would come across many such horrendous incidents. But somehow, the impact never lingered—until an akin incident occurred with one of my close acquaintances.

A routine talk with my almost 74-years-old mother took an unexpected turn the day before yesterday. I had dialed her number three to four times, but it was engaged. When she was finally available, she called me back. She said, “I was on call with your late father’s best friend’s widow.”

My father and uncle were childhood friends who had gone to school and college together. They even applied for the same job in the Intelligence Bureau and retired as gazetted officers of the same rank. Only postings in different states kept them physically apart, but even that separation was always temporary. They made sure to return to their hometown at the same time every year. Through thick and thin, happiness and sorrow, they stood by each other like rocks. They were present at every important juncture in each other’s lives.

Both had a name and reputation in society. From childhood to youth to middle age—they grew together. Their friendship was respected and understood by both families. Aunty and my mother became good friends as well.

My father's sudden death due to heart failure at the age of 58 was as much a blow for Uncle as it was for us. For years afterwards, Uncle and Aunty were always available at our beck and call—until Uncle passed away from bone cancer before the age of 65.

Aunty would visit occasionally from her village. We got busy with our lives and, honestly, never gave much thought to that family again. I asked my mother how Aunty was doing. She told me that the last phase of her life was proving to be the toughest. Both her daughters were married, and her only daughter-in-law beat her. Two of her grandchildren also often misbehaved with her.

Mummy was quite infuriated but seemed a bit hopeful as Aunty had finally dared to knock on the door of a police station. I took Aunty's number to call her—my soul felt perturbed. I couldn’t imagine an officer’s widow being ill-treated in her own home.

Aunty picked up my call quickly. She was delighted to hear my voice.

After exchanging greetings, I asked casually about her family. We spoke for almost fifteen minutes. I was hesitant to jump straight to the topic, fearing someone might overhear or that her phone might be on speaker. Gently, I steered the conversation and asked whether she kept her phone on speaker.

Laughing, she replied, “No, my hearing is still good. I never use the speaker.”

I hinted at what Mummy had told me—the brutal treatment she was subjected to. She interrupted softly and said, “The weather isn’t good right now. It might rain any moment.”

I understood instantly—someone was nearby. Not wanting to complicate things for her, I ended the call, requesting her to save my contact number.

I was left feeling sad and emotional. I knew every story had two sides—Aunty could also be a difficult woman. Still, nothing could justify the physical violence she had to endure.

I was sitting idle yesterday when suddenly Aunty's number flashed on my screen. She said, “I’m alone now and thought of ringing you.”

I was all ears. For the next hour, I struggled to hold back tears.

She didn’t blame anyone but her destiny. She spoke about her daughter-in-law, a bossy and dominating woman who worked in a medicine factory. After marriage, she began humiliating her husband for being a farmer and running a grocery store. Unlike his father, he had chosen to focus on agriculture, inheriting a large amount of ancestral land.

Gradually, Aunty said, the ill-bred daughter-in-law began insulting her verbally. Aunty admitted she might not always be right, but that didn't justify the disrespect. Once Uncle passed away, the verbal abuse turned physical. Slapping, pushing, and dragging became routine.

Her son would try to intervene, but his stout wife—heavier than a quintal—was too much for him to handle. All he could do was try to keep his 76-year-old mother out of her path.

“One day,” Aunty recalled, “I was making chapatis for myself when she, enraged by something her ‘spy kids’ told her, banged the heavy kneading bowl on my head before I could even realize what was happening.”

Aunty’s grandchildren reported everything she said or did. If she shared anything with her daughters or siblings, her daughter-in-law would flare up. A few months back, Aunty said she would’ve been strangled to death if her grandson hadn’t freed her from his mother’s python-like grip.

Despite her age, Aunty still did all the household chores—cooking, washing, even working in the fields. She was grateful to receive a good pension from her late husband’s government job, most of which was spent on the house. She had even funded renovations, yet her daughter-in-law seemed permanently irritated with her.

Aunty told me she finally reported the abuse to the police after her daughter-in-law twisted her arm for the second time last week. “My bones are too fragile now,” she said. “I feared a fracture.”

She knew no one would care for her except herself. She didn’t want to live with her daughters either. In her village, houses are scattered and surrounded by fields. The only nearby house was one she was barred from visiting. That family, too, lived in fear of the quarrelsome lady.

When Aunty approached the police station, the elderly station-in-charge gave her a sympathetic ear. He and his team were stunned—how could an IB officer’s widow, with a respectable pension, be mistreated in her own home?

Her teary eyes told the whole story. She admitted she may have been rude sometimes, but never raised her hand on anyone.

The police summoned her son and grandson. Her son apologized for his wife’s behavior but claimed he was powerless to stop her. Still, he promised he’d protect his mother from further harm. Her grandson, on the other hand, tried to malign her image, drawing immediate retorts from the station-in-charge. “If you can yell at your grandmother here, I can imagine how you treat her at home,” he said sternly.

Aunty’s daughter-in-law couldn’t be contacted—she was at work. Aunty didn’t want to create a scene at her workplace. One of the officers saved his number on Aunty’s phone and assured her she could call him anytime, keeping a stern eye on the grandson.

As Aunty left, she told them, “Either arrest her next time she hits me—or put me in prison. At least there, I’ll get peace and two meals a day.”

Nearly an hour and a half had passed, and I could still feel she had more to share. I suggested she move in with one of her daughters.

She flatly refused. “That house was built by my late father-in-law and my husband. I will not leave it till my last breath.”

I asked gently if she wasn’t afraid.

She laughed. “Have you forgotten whose wife I am? My husband served bravely across half of India.”

Concerned, I asked, “Are you eating properly?”

She chuckled. “I have to. I still work in the fields and around the house. That takes energy. My timid son at least ensures I eat enough.”

Though she wanted to talk more, she had to disconnect. Her selfish family—who wanted her pension but not her presence—was about to return back home.

Before hanging up, I asked, “Do you bolt your room from inside at night?”

Her closing words, though laced with laughter, carried the weight of her grim reality: “The door is latched well—from both sides. My son locks it from his end too, because we both know—if she even sits on me by mistake, I’ll be gone.”

Aunty disconnected the call, leaving me in silent prayer, that whatever days were left to her be free from violence, and that she leaves this world without being bedridden. It was clear that there was no one to care for her.