



A year ago, I received a series of missed calls from my friend Rachel*. When I called her back five minutes later, she was hiding inside her house behind three sets of locks. Her husband was banging on the door.



Her voice was shaking. “He said he’s going to kill me.”

“Don’t move,” I said.

I dove into the car and made the 30-minute journey to her South Bombay home, staying on the phone with her the whole time. Between trying to reassure her and texting anyone who might have a contact at the local police thana, I pieced together the story.

Rachel is an English woman in her mid-forties, and she met her husband, Sunil*, several years ago when she was visiting India. Their relationship started off like most: full of promise, love, and hope. He was sweet and attentive, and took her out dancing and enthusiastically photographed their romantic getaways. All the makings of a Bollywood ending.

But after a couple of honeymoon years, she began to realise that things weren’t going all that well. Sunil was from a wealthy, powerful Indian family, yet the money they spent always seemed to be hers. He started to demean her in small ways, making thinly veiled insults about her body, and frequently laughing at her worries. Over the past few months, things had escalated. He yelled more. Swore heavily. Threatened her.

And finally, he hit her across the face.

When I reached her apartment, he was nowhere in sight. She was leaning against the doorframe, bleeding from the nose.

Half an hour later, we sat in front of two sub-inspectors, shaking with rage and fear. They looked at us, looked at each other, and shrugged. And in a language Rachel couldn’t understand, they said, “Hum kya karein? Yeh toh family matter hai.”

She may not have understood their words. But everyone understood that shrug.