When Indian Women Choose Themselves, Society Calls It Divorce
Riya Kumari | Aug 07, 2025, 23:50 IST
( Image credit : Unsplash )
Let me guess. You blinked, took off your mangalsutra, and suddenly the world went, "Acha, so she couldn’t adjust?" Yes, Priya. She couldn’t “adjust.” Because fun fact: she’s a person, not a pressure cooker. Here’s the thing. In India, the moment a woman gets married, she transforms. No, not into a butterfly. Into an unpaid therapist, personal chef, live-in maid, emotional sponge, and occasionally, a decorative lamp during Diwali. All this while being told she’s lucky she found a man who “lets her” breathe.
There is a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from betrayal or cheating. It comes from repetition. From being talked over, ignored, dismissed, every single day, until your silence starts to feel like your personality. It comes from living a life where you’re never quite enough, but always expected to give more. From being a wife, a mother, a daughter-in-law, a cook, a cleaner, but never quite… a woman. Not in your own right. No one talks about that kind of ache. Because it’s not loud. It doesn’t scream. It just settles, into your bones, your routines, your reasons for staying.
It starts quietly. Like all tragedies do.
At first, it’s small. The missed birthdays. The “we’ll go out next week” that never comes. The lack of eye contact. The absence of warmth. The way your name starts to sound like a task, not a person. You serve dinner. You fold his clothes. You keep the child’s lunch ready. You smile at his parents when they pass remarks about your cooking, your body, your “modern thinking.”
And he? He watches. Quiet. Passive. Like it’s not his responsibility to protect you from the very people you serve tea to. You tell yourself: “This is just marriage.” You repeat it like a mantra, even as something inside you wilts just a little more each day.
You keep waiting. For a change. For a gesture. For a flicker.
You think maybe he’ll take you out on a date. Maybe he’ll sit beside you without scrolling through his phone. Maybe he’ll ask how your day was, not because he needs something, but because he cares. But nothing changes. The house runs. The chores are done. The child is fed. And you… you’re functioning. Efficient. Present.
But not alive. He doesn’t raise his hand. He doesn’t shout. So the world calls him a “nice guy.” But you know what it feels like to live with someone who forgot how to see you.
What you call “adjustment” is often just erosion.
The worst part? You stop fighting. Because what’s the point? The same argument, again and again, leading nowhere. He says you’re overreacting. His mother says you’re too sensitive. And you… you start wondering if maybe you are. You make peace with loneliness. You learn to cry quietly, without waking the child.
You tell your friends everything is fine. Because what would you say? “I feel invisible”? “I’m tired of being everyone's maid with no pay and no respect”? No one wants to hear that. Especially not when you’re the good girl who got the well-settled husband.
You almost left. So many times.
When he humiliated you in front of his parents and laughed. When he forgot your anniversary but remembered the house EMI. When he came home, ate the food you made, and didn’t look up even once to say thank you. When he said, “You should be grateful. I don’t stop you from working.” As if freedom was his to give. And worst of all, When he saw you breaking, Saw the dullness in your eyes, Saw how quiet you had become… And just walked past.
But then there’s the child. And society.
How do you explain to your five-year-old that you left because you felt dead inside? How do you explain to your parents that the son-in-law they pray for every day is a stranger to your soul? How do you face the neighbours? The aunties? The judgment that drips like venom disguised as concern?
“She must be difficult.”
“She got too modern.”
“Poor man, what did he do to deserve this?”
No one asks what you endured. They only notice that you left.
So one day, you do.
You pack your truths in a suitcase. You kiss your child goodnight and promise them a better morning. And you walk away. Not from marriage. But from a life where you were tolerated instead of loved. Where your time, your body, your soul were taken for granted like they were part of the furniture. You walk away, not because you gave up, but because you remembered you are still a person. Not a role. Not a robot. Not a martyr.
And suddenly, you’re a “divorcee.” That word carries so much weight, doesn’t it? As if it erases every reason that led you here. As if your leaving says more about your failure than his indifference. But you know what? Let them talk. Because for the first time, you are not explaining. You are not justifying. You are not waiting for someone to make space for your voice. You are the space. You are the voice. And if that makes you a divorcee, then maybe…that’s the first time you’ve ever been free.
It starts quietly. Like all tragedies do.
Cry
( Image credit : Unsplash )
At first, it’s small. The missed birthdays. The “we’ll go out next week” that never comes. The lack of eye contact. The absence of warmth. The way your name starts to sound like a task, not a person. You serve dinner. You fold his clothes. You keep the child’s lunch ready. You smile at his parents when they pass remarks about your cooking, your body, your “modern thinking.”
And he? He watches. Quiet. Passive. Like it’s not his responsibility to protect you from the very people you serve tea to. You tell yourself: “This is just marriage.” You repeat it like a mantra, even as something inside you wilts just a little more each day.
You keep waiting. For a change. For a gesture. For a flicker.
Dining
( Image credit : Unsplash )
You think maybe he’ll take you out on a date. Maybe he’ll sit beside you without scrolling through his phone. Maybe he’ll ask how your day was, not because he needs something, but because he cares. But nothing changes. The house runs. The chores are done. The child is fed. And you… you’re functioning. Efficient. Present.
But not alive. He doesn’t raise his hand. He doesn’t shout. So the world calls him a “nice guy.” But you know what it feels like to live with someone who forgot how to see you.
What you call “adjustment” is often just erosion.
Clean
( Image credit : Unsplash )
The worst part? You stop fighting. Because what’s the point? The same argument, again and again, leading nowhere. He says you’re overreacting. His mother says you’re too sensitive. And you… you start wondering if maybe you are. You make peace with loneliness. You learn to cry quietly, without waking the child.
You tell your friends everything is fine. Because what would you say? “I feel invisible”? “I’m tired of being everyone's maid with no pay and no respect”? No one wants to hear that. Especially not when you’re the good girl who got the well-settled husband.
You almost left. So many times.
TV
( Image credit : Unsplash )
When he humiliated you in front of his parents and laughed. When he forgot your anniversary but remembered the house EMI. When he came home, ate the food you made, and didn’t look up even once to say thank you. When he said, “You should be grateful. I don’t stop you from working.” As if freedom was his to give. And worst of all, When he saw you breaking, Saw the dullness in your eyes, Saw how quiet you had become… And just walked past.
But then there’s the child. And society.
Mother
( Image credit : Unsplash )
How do you explain to your five-year-old that you left because you felt dead inside? How do you explain to your parents that the son-in-law they pray for every day is a stranger to your soul? How do you face the neighbours? The aunties? The judgment that drips like venom disguised as concern?
“She must be difficult.”
“She got too modern.”
“Poor man, what did he do to deserve this?”
No one asks what you endured. They only notice that you left.
So one day, you do.
And suddenly, you’re a “divorcee.” That word carries so much weight, doesn’t it? As if it erases every reason that led you here. As if your leaving says more about your failure than his indifference. But you know what? Let them talk. Because for the first time, you are not explaining. You are not justifying. You are not waiting for someone to make space for your voice. You are the space. You are the voice. And if that makes you a divorcee, then maybe…that’s the first time you’ve ever been free.